Deeper Illusions Page 5

  I continued. “I cut myself, and the physical pain took away the mental pain. The emotional pain. It felt – liberating. Freeing. For that period of time when the physical pain was excruciating, I forgot about how bad I felt inside. It became an addiction.”

  Finally, he spoke. “How did you end up in the hospital?”

  “I, uh, slashed my wrists in my bathtub. My roommate found me when I was near death. I ended up in the hospital, of course, and I had all these other marks on me. There were cut marks everywhere on my body – fresh ones, older ones. Burns, too. I flicked Bic lighters on my skin.”

  Ryan’s face remained impassive, although I saw a flicker of pain flash through his eyes. I could tell that he was trying very hard to conceal his emotions.

  Taking another gulp of the Pinot, I continued. “The doctors wanted to know about all of these marks, of course. It wasn’t like I could claim that I was accident-prone. And I couldn’t very well claim that somebody else was hurting me – that would have gotten an innocent person in trouble. So, I told them what I was doing.”

  “Did you get help?”

  “No, actually. I was a poor college student without insurance. Nobody wanted to bother with me. So, I was discharged after my suicide attempt without any help for me at all.”

  Ryan looked away. He looked angry.

  I furled my brows. “What's wrong?” I asked.

  Shaking his head, he said “That’s such bullshit, how people are treated in this country. If you don’t have money, you don’t exist. I just can’t believe that nobody tried to help you, even when you obviously desperately needed it.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I paused. “Anyhow, I kept cutting and was hospitalized for it two more times. The other times were not suicide attempts, but I was hospitalized because it just got so bad that my roommates had no choice but to take me in.”

  “What finally changed? How did you stop?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t really know. It just got to the point where I didn’t really want to do it anymore. I never got over my issues, I just stopped physically destroying myself.”

  He nodded. He looked pensive, sipping his wine. He wasn’t looking at me, but was staring at the coffee table across the room. I stroked his cheek. “What are you thinking?” I felt worried. He now knew that he was with a total loser. I faked my way into his life with just enough air of confidence that he could not imagine just how much of a misfit I was. Now he knew. Would he stay?

  He looked at me. Those eyes….

  “I don’t want you to think that I feel one iota differently about you because of what you just told me. If anything, I love you more than ever.” At that, I realized that I was holding my breath, because I let out a long tendril of air after he told me that.

  What was I worried about?

  He continued. “I just wish that you had the confidence in my feelings for you to have told me about this. I wish that it didn’t take a news anchor to get you to open up to me.” He looked hurt.

  “I know,” I said. “All that time, with you at Beverly Hills, and confessing to me all of your secrets, and I never said anything.” I looked at him for a long time, then continued – “I just didn’t want you to know how much of an outcast I am. I was afraid that you wouldn’t love me if you knew.”

  I couldn’t read those eyes. There were too many mixed emotions hidden behind them – anger, disappointment, hurt, mixed in with love and respect. They all seemed jumbled up, so I couldn’t tell how he was feeling.

  Finally, he sighed. “I guess I'll never convince you the depths of my feelings for you. Even now, after we're married. You never opened your heart to me, except now, when you’re forced to. And that’s what hurts.”

  I looked at my wine glass. “I suppose you want an annulment now.”

  He looked horrified. “What? Why would you ever, ever, ever, ever, ever think that?” His face changed to horror and then to pure mystification.

  “Well, you know me, now. You know that I'm not good enough.”

  “Oh, hell no. Hell to the fucking no. You're not going to go back to that. I won’t let you. That's bullshit, and you know that it's bullshit. I don’t give a rat’s ass about your social standing. All that I know is that you are a beautiful, intelligent, fun and kind woman with compassionate depths that I could only dream of with my previous girlfriends, and wife. You aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

  “But, honey, everybody now knows that you’re married to a self-mutilator who attempted suicide.”

  “And everybody now knows that you're married to a bisexual drug addict who was forced to participate in sex parties at the age of 13. As I see it, you have the shorter end of the stick here.”

  We sat in silence for awhile, both of us drinking our wine. Could we possibly see the humor in all of this? Maybe after awhile, but, for now, we were simply too much in shock to say much of anything.

  Finally, I spoke “Yeah, but you have money and beauty. Society will give you a pass much more than they will me.”

  “Don’t be so sure. It’s schadenfreude to bring people like me to heel. No, trust me, the media will be harder on me.”

  I brooded a little about this. He was right, of course. People like Ryan – wealthy, handsome, educated –were the very people who the media always sought to bring down. They wouldn’t give a frog’s fat ass about me, except that I had the standing of being his wife.

  However, I knew that both of us would be in for this humiliation. We already were. Maybe the public, as a whole, would care more about the titillating details of Ryan’s background, but the people I knew were sure to be snickering at me, and gossiping about me, behind my back.

  It would be high school, writ large.

  That night, we didn't make love. We didn’t even sleep naked. Both of us put on formal pajamas before getting into bed. However, I did seek his body in the bed, as I moved towards him to snuggle with him. He reciprocated by taking my arm, and holding against his body.

  I felt his warmth, and this was what I needed right then.

  The week that we spent in our prison was tense like this. We couldn’t go outside, because the media was surrounding us. It seemed that, with every passing day, more and more people descended on our street. We would never give them the satisfaction of a shot of us, not even a shot of us stating that we had “no comment” as we passed through the phalanx of reporters and paparazzi who were camped out. I used to think that those people who muttered “no comment” felt like they were pretty cool. After all, they were getting media attention.

  I didn't think that anymore.

  Chapter Seven

  Finally, at long last, Giovanni was ready to fly to New York. John, the helicopter pilot that Ryan knew, landed on the roof of Nick’s estate, and we got in. As we ascended above the clouds, I couldn’t help but give those reporters the bird. They were on the ground, hundreds of them, watching us fly away, as helplessly as the Vietnamese who watched when the last chopper from Saigon flew away from the American Embassy. I could see them down there, and I got some satisfaction in their helpless expressions.

  They deserved not to get the story, if they were going to ruin our honeymoon by making us prisoners.

  The chopper landed at the Malpensa airport in Milan, and it was there that we met Giovanni. Giovanni was a slight man, about 5’7”, with tightly wound curly black hair and an olive complexion. He grinned as we approached.

  “Ryan, my boy!” he shouted exuberantly. “How have you been?” His English was accented but otherwise perfect.

  He and Ryan embraced. “Well, Giovanni, to be honest, I've been better. But I have my Iris with me, so nothing can ever be all that bad.”

  Giovanni looked at him sympathetically. “Yes, I heard all about the story. It's all over the news here.”

  “Yeah, Giovanni, I'm afraid that we are embroiled in some intrigue here.”

  Giovanni raised his eyebrows. “That true about you? That you like the boys?”

  “No, that
's not true. I like one particular boy, but I do not like ‘the boys.’”

  Giovanni lightly punched Ryan on the arm. “Well, you know, it's no big deal.”

  “I know, it shouldn’t be a big deal, but, somehow it is. I mean, who cares? I really don’t know why this is even a story.”

  “Well, you know,” Giovanni said. “You are one of the beautiful people. People are fascinated by people like you.”

  I was standing aside, feeling uncomfortable. I was the one who the story focused upon – it was my kidnapping, my assault, my false imprisonment at the hands of a very unbalanced woman. Yet Ryan was the one whose name was being dragged through the mud, because he was the one who had the most to lose.

  It didn’t seem fair.

  “Anyhow,” Giovanni said. “Welcome to my plane. Where's yours, by the way? I forgot to ask.”

  “It's here, and that's where it'll stay for now. I'd imagine that the paparazzi are swarming that plane, just like they were swarming Nick's home for the past week or so.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, welcome aboard.”

  Giovanni’s plane was nice, but not as nice as Ryan’s. It was about half the size, and did not have the same luxurious appointments. Nevertheless, I was happy to be on the aircraft, because it would mean that I would be getting out of the hell-hole.

  We spent the next 8 hours chatting. Giovanni did not pilot the plane, of course, so he was able to converse with us in the back. I snoozed part of the way there. And, it could be just my imagination, but Giovanni seemed rather intrigued with Ryan. He was downright flirtatious, but Ryan showed no interest. I long knew that Ryan’s bisexual leanings only extended towards Nick, which made me think that most of the reason why Ryan was interested in Nick was because Nick helped him so much in so many ways. I supposed that it was true all over, that it was the person that bisexuals were interested in, not the sex. In this case, Ryan was in love with me, and with Nick. In different ways, of course. But any guy is not going to interest him, anymore than just any woman would interest him.

  So Giovanni was wasting his time

  Three movies, and one long snooze later, we arrived at La Guardia airport. I half expected the pap to be there, waiting for us, but they weren’t. I was relieved.

  Nate was the only person there to greet us.

  “Buddy! Just couldn’t stay away, huh?” Nate said, taking my luggage.

  Ryan rolled his eyes. “Trust me, Nate, I wish that we didn’t have to meet like this.”

  “Man, you guys are really in it, huh? The media has been on this story like flies on shit.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know. Iris and I have refused to watch the rags on TV.”

  “Well, let’s just say that they think that this has become a major story.”

  I piped up – “How can that be? Nobody died here.”

  “No, but you got that cray cray bitch out there making both of you look like you are just this side of being committed to the nut house. I feel for both of you.”

  I just bet you do. Why was I feeling this way about Nate? I liked him so much the first time I met him at the ice skating rink. Now he was just annoying me with his glib comments.

  We got to Nate and Nat’s place on the Upper West Side. Their apartment was a pre-war four bedroom place, with 20-foot-tall ceilings, crown molding, huge arched windows, hardwood floors, and a beautiful view of Central Park. I knew something about real estate in Manhattan in general, and the Upper West Side in particular, and figured that his place was worth about $4 million.

  “Where's Nat?” Ryan asked, looking around the apartment.

  “Working. She'll be home soon enough to see her great love.”

  I sighed. Nat was in love with Ryan, and everyone, unfortunately, knew this. I wondered if there was going to be a problem with that while we were here. I hoped not.

  Nat did return home around midnight, after working late at her job as an investment banker at Goldman’s. Her eyes got wide upon seeing Ryan and me. She made a beeline for Ryan. “Oh, honey, I heard about what's happening to you guys. I'm so sorry.”

  “Not a prob, Nat. I just am glad that you guys are letting us crash here while we figure out our next move.”

  She looked at me. I looked down. I could almost feel what she was thinking. To my surprise, she grabbed my hand, and stroked it tenderly. “Iris, let’s talk a little in the den, ok?”

  I nodded, and she led me into the den.

  She lit a fire in the fireplace. “Sit down,” she said, patting the floor next to her.

  I hesitantly took a seat next to her. Was she hitting on me?

  “Uh, Iris, I heard about your, uh, problems. I wanted to see if there was anything that I could do to help you.”

  I looked at her quizzically. What could she do?

  “That’s all in the past. I'm better now.”

  She shook her head. “I know what it's like to self-destruct. I never hurt myself with a knife or anything like that, but I hurt myself in other ways.” Then she mimed putting two fingers down her throat and nodded.

  Nat was a bulimic? But why? She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

  “Why were you a bulimic?”

  “For the same reason you cut yourself, I would imagine. I didn’t like myself very much.”

  At that, I felt completely dumbfounded. Nat was indescribably gorgeous, Harvard educated, intelligent and sweet. Why was she filled with self-loathing?

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My sister died when I was 14. My parents always made me feel that they wanted it to be me, not her. She was so perfect – athletic, musical, always got straight As. She was always the good daughter. I never quite measured up to that.”

  “In what way did you not measure up?”

  “I was rebellious, kinda a Goth kid when I was 14. Black eyeliner, black nail polish, black clothing, black hair. Everything was just – black. Not her, though. She was blonde, petite and perfect. Never caused trouble.”

  “Uh, how did she die?”

  “Leukemia.” She had little tears in her eyes. “When she died, I felt that my parents looked at me and found me lacking. I was far from perfect. I was smoking pot, getting drunk, and sleeping with boys. So, I always felt that my parents thought that the wrong daughter died.” She shrugged. “I was filled with self-loathing, so I puked my way through middle school and high school. Nobody ever knew except my dentist.” She looked at me. “So, I guess I'm saying that I know from self-loathing. If there is anything I could do to help you, I would love that.”

  I put my hand on hers sympathetically. Yet I couldn’t open to her like she had just opened up to me. I admired her for being able to tell me these things. I wished that I could be an open book as well, but I had always been pretty closed-off. That was probably a lot of my problem.

  Nat continued. “Nate doesn’t know about this. Ryan neither. So, please don’t say anything to the boys. I'm only telling you this because I see a kindred spirit.”

  “Ryan has been through a lot, too, in his life. He used to also self-destruct. He would probably understand what you were going through.”

  She kept quiet for a bit. Then she finally said “Yes, but I never want Ryan to see me in that light.”

  The words that she said left words also unspoken. The unspoken words were that she was still in love with Ryan, and she never wanted him to see her as anything but perfect.

  It occurred to me that this house was a vortex of dysfunction, three of us recovering from destructive tendencies. Me a recovering self-mutilator, Nat a recovering bulimic and Ryan a recovering drug addict. I couldn’t help but wonder if Nate had a similar dark secret.

  I smiled. “Well, we certainly are a group of people in this apartment, huh?”

  Nat laughed. “It seems that way.”

  I once again was reminded of the need to get beyond the façade of beauty and wealth. You pull it back, and they are more vulnerable than anybody else. More vulnerable because they are expected by society to upho
ld their end of the bargain, as it were – they are given much, so they should be almost god-like. Then, when they fall, people like to pounce. Schadenfreude as Ryan says – that is what drives the media coverage about the beautiful people doing bad things. It’s like the famous F. Scott Fitzgerald quote, where he said that he had never been able to forgive the rich for being rich. This was how society looked at the rich, a lot of times, and this was why people like Ryan and Natalie were vulnerable.

  Ryan presently came into the den. “Honey, Nate and I have been talking. We can stay here for as long as we need to. I don’t think that the media is going to figure out that we’re here. But I want to get in touch with Nick back home, to see how he’s holding up. I’d imagine that he’s getting it as much as we are. Alexis, too.”

  “Call him, and put him on speaker phone, if you don’t mind,” I said.

  So, he did.

  “Buddy,” Ryan said when Nick answered the phone.

  “It’s about fucking time. Where the hell are you?” Nick asked.

  “I’m so sorry about all this.”

  “What the hell? What’s going on? My phone has been blowing up, and I have media people camped out on my doorstep, trying to get information about you two.”

  “What do you tell them?”

  “No comment, of course. They won’t go away, though.”

  “What about Alexis? You heard from her?”

  “Of course. She’s been calling non-stop, because she can’t get ahold of you guys. She’s pretty sick of her private life blowing up on TV as well.”

  Ryan sighed. “The chickens have finally come home to roost. I knew that they would, eventually. Now they have.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I really don’t know why your job puts up with your constant absences.” Nick seemed incredulous about this.

  “Never mind about that. I have to figure out how to address this.”