“I’m going to be there for him,” I said. “If it makes me broke and ruins my career, that’s the deal. And I’m not taking a dime from you or anyone else. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with him when he comes around.”

“You’re a real pain in the ass.”

“Can I have a roll call?” I leaned on the foot of the empty bed.

“Theresa’s calling but she can’t come in. Deirdre’s in chapel. Leanne is here but running off to some Asia backwater in three minutes. Fiona’s in and out with her entourage. Sheila’s ripping paper. Carrie’s still not coming.”

“And your mother?”

“Fully medicated. I spoke to her.”

I nodded. Margie and her mother had a sisterly relationship from what I could see, considering the elder Drazen was only fifteen and a half years older. “I spoke to her” meant Margie had reprimanded her own mother over her treatment of me, which included stone cold silences, saccharine kindness and blatant disregard when she was tired.

“Will she ever say more than two words to me?”

“She and Deirdre love Jessica. That’s not going to change.”

“I don’t expect it to.”

“Good. There’s something else.” She glanced to the door as if making sure it was still closed. “Jonathan hasn’t spoken to our father in fifteen years. He’s here. You might not see him, he and Mom are on the outs, but he’s in the building. If he meets you, whatever he tells you, grain of salt, okay?”

“I don’t know what he’d have to lie to me about.”

“He’d say something just to see how you react. My brother thinks it’s evil. I think it’s just a shitty hobby.”

“Can we go?” I collected my things and stood up straight, ready for the door.

“I’m not done. About the money.”

“You’re done.”

JONATHAN

When I first felt like I was dying, I stood in a doorway at the LA Mod for half an hour, trying to get control of the tightness in my chest. I focused on my breathing, sat down, tried to think about anything else, but it kept getting worse, and I kept sitting there, thinking I had to get to Monica before my father did, and I really started panicking.

It all tumbled down from there, to that ridiculously long hospital stay, to getting wheeled into an operating room for surgery at 32. When I woke up, I had the feeling something had gone terribly wrong.

I swam to consciousness feeling like I was being choked. I panicked the same panic I felt in that doorway. I couldn’t control anything, my sensations, my body, my thoughts. I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t move my arms. I was bound like a prisoner. My voice was dead. My face itched. Was I warned it would feel like this?

Or was I dead and in the hell of everything I’ve ever done to every woman I’ve tied down and fucked? I thought of Dante, his hells being the excess of our desires, and in the deepest circles, the pain of our victims. Here I was. Fuck. I was terrified, and for eternity, I didn’t think I could stand it. This blackness. The crippling paralysis. No control. Utter submission to emptiness. And my throat. I was breathing, but the pressure on my throat was enormous. I’d never choked a sex partner, because I never believed I’d be able to control the results. How could my hell include this? I never believed life was fair, but was God this unjust?

“Jonathan.”

A voice. Female. I recognized it as Sheila’s. She always had a way about her, like she gave birth to the world and loved it to maturity, even when her words cut deep and rage twisted her mouth.

I realized I could open my eyes if I chose to. The whisper and beep of machines broke the silence of my anxiety.

Okay. Not hell. Not dead. But the choking feeling was real, and I started to panic again.

Sheila’s face blocked out the light. “You’re intubated. The machine is breathing for you. Keep still. It’s okay.”

I chose to believe her. And I waited. It was five minutes to three. I couldn’t speak to ask her to unbind my wrists, so I stared at the clock for five minutes, and when the hands met, I closed my eyes and imagined I could lift my arm and touch my lips.

MONICA

Three pm came unexpectedly. I figured it would, since I was supposed to be in the studio, so I’d set my phone alarm to remind me. It dinged in my ear as I listened to Eddie launch into a diatribe. I closed my eyes, shut out Eddie’s aggravation, and touched my lips, thinking of nothing but Jonathan. The warmth in my chest and the smile on my face didn’t last.

“Are you fucking with me?” his voice was tight enough to shatter my reverie.

“He’s your friend too. It’s not like you can pretend to think I’m lying.” I was in the third floor stairwell, avoiding the mob scene in the waiting room. It was nice that Jonathan had so many family members care about him, it was also so overwhelming I took a phone call on the emergency stairs.

“We got the contract signed in a week,” he said.

“I know.”

The fourth floor door smacked open and Leanne Drazen tore down the stairs. Theresa’s Irish twin, she was two years and ten months older than Jonathan, but she looked and acted like she was in her mid twenties. A tote bag flew behind her, and her red cowboy boots clopped down the steps. She was otherwise tattered and slovenly, strawberry blonde hair falling out of a ponytail and her bag open.

“That’s fucking unheard of,” Eddie said. “And we had to send twenty-two people home. Do you know what we paid to get them in there on two day’s notice?”

“No.”

Leanne grabbed the bannister and swung around, inertia and centripetal force taking her to the top of the next set of stairs. She grabbed my shoulders and said, “he’s out!”

I put my hand over the receiver.

“A fucking lot,” Eddie said into my ear.

“How does he look?” I whispered to Leanne.

She put her thumb up and smiled, then took off down the stairs with a wave. Sweet girl. Too bad she was never around.

“I have to be here, Ed,” I said as I bounded up to the fourth floor.

“I’m not saying I don’t understand. I was at the show. I saw it. What I’m saying is, I don’t know if I can herd these cats again.”

“Tell me what hoop I have to jump through to get a reschedule and I’ll jump it.” I strode through the waiting room, past two sisters and a mother. Margie indicated a room at the end and I went in. Sheila was with him, the most vulnerable-seeming of the bunch. With wild wheaten hair and four children born close together, she was the one most visibly upset about her brother.

“When can you do it?”

Margie yanked me into a recovery room that looked like all the others. Jonathan was there, lying on his back arms on top of the blankets and tubes everywhere.

“Next week. I think he’s going to be better.”

“I need a guarantee.”

I touched his arm, and he opened his eyes. When he saw me, he winked.

“Guaranteed,” I said and hung up the phone.

“Well?” I said to Sheila, “It went okay?”

“Yeah. They just pulled a tube out of his throat and unstrapped him.”

Jonathan picked his hand up and flicked his fingers to Sheila. The international sign for shoo. She started to object but Margie grabbed her arm. “Come on. The kids need you.”

“Onna has them.”

Margie pulled her out, but Eileen, Jonathan’s mother strode in.

“Ma,” Margie said. “You were just here.” But Eileen ignored her.

“Jon,” she said, standing over him. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

“Should we go?” She put her hand on my arm, as if I was going out with her.

“Yes. I mean, let me talk to Monica for a minute.”

She smiled, the biggest, fakest thing I have ever seen in my life. “Of course.”

“Oh, ma?”

“Yes?”

“Spot for Christmas Eve.” He pointed to me. “Okay? Don’t forget.”