Ella James - Unmaking Marchant

We sit on some stones by the pond and I tell her about my first few years as a brothel owner, how I started with the Strip location but wanted something more exclusive, something less stereotypical and more high-end. I tell her about how I met each of the girls—and guys. I tell her about the first escorts who worked for me, about the brothel manager who embezzled almost a million dollars from me when I was still green and didn’t know to keep a sharp eye on my managers. I even tell her about how my cheesy, framed “first dollar” burned. And she listens. I can tell she listens, and she doesn’t judge me even though she’s not a fan of sex-for-pay.

About that time Juniper walks by, wearing a black sports bra and hot pink leopard printed tights. She’s holding hand weights with little snoopy pictures on the sides. We both laugh.

“Hello,” she calls.

“Hello.” I smile and Suri waves.

“Whatever works,” I say as Juniper passes.

“You know…” Suri sits her apple core on a stone beside her, “when Lizzy said people here were like family, and I scoffed at her. But it seems to be true.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are we converting you?”

“Maybe,” she says coyly—but she can’t keep the grin off her face. She trails her bare foot over the water’s edge and looks around. “Who designed your maze?”

“I did actually.”

“Really.” I nod. “I’m impressed.”

I stand up and offer her a hand, which she takes after sliding her sandal back on. I pull her up. “Want to go?”

“Maze walking?” She smiles a little. “I got lost there the other night.”

I’m still holding onto her hand. I tuck it closer to me. “If we get lost this time, it’ll be because we want to.”

We start off over the plush grass, toward the maze, and after a few steps I can tell something is wrong. Our earlier banter and easy conversation is gone. Suri is quiet; her face looks tight, and her hand in mine is still and almost stiff.

I can’t think straight knowing something’s bothering her, so I give in. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

She glances up at me from underneath her long eyelashes. “I was just thinking of before the fire. I was planning on going back to California the next morning.”

“Oh yeah?”

She nods. “One of the reasons was you.”

My chest aches. I guess because she takes me off guard. “It was?”

She nods.

I’ve still got her hand. Impulsively, I squeeze it. She squeezes back, proving—as if I needed proof—she’s the kindest, most perfect woman alive. Regret spills through me, dark and messy. “I was an asshole, right? When was it? At the hospital in El Paso?” Everything from around that time is hazy—probably due more to the mania than the ECT that followed—but I definitely remember pressing her against the wall of a hallway. I don’t know what I said, but I remember discharging my anger.

I feel ashamed, now.

She doesn’t look at me as we step into the maze. Now that we’re surrounded by walls of ruthlessly manicured bushes all around us, I fantasize about lying her down face-first on the little pale pebbles, lifting up her skirt and having her here, under the afternoon sky, but the fantasy loses a considerable amount of appeal when I see the tension tugging at her mouth.

I decide in a heartbeat that I want to give her something. Not the truth—that would cost me too much—but something close to it. I want to get as close as I can to honesty with her. I’m not sure why, but I want to.

I squeeze her hand once more and take the plunge: “You know…you’re the only one who knows about my…problem. Besides Rachelle,” I say. “And she only knows because they called her. From the…facility.”

She looks up at me, wide-eyed, and I push my chicken-shit self forward. “I’ve been this way since college,” I say slowly. And I’m not sure how to follow-up that particular confession without lying big time or telling her what really happened. But I open my mouth and find that words roll out. They’re quiet words—hard words. Maybe it’s her soft, cool fingers, stroking the back of my hand that makes them easier to say.

“We had a memorial ceremony for my parents on a Sunday. It was spring break Sunday. They died the first Sunday of Spring Break, and this was the last—the day before school started back. My little sister Riker was only twelve. My dad’s parents had her. They’re the ones who ended up rearing her.” I feel a lumpy knot in my throat, because Riker had wanted to live with me—but I couldn’t. “I couldn’t take her because…” I shake my head and look ahead, at the bush-framed path that turns left in a few more steps.

“I couldn’t take her because I was…unfit,” I confess. From this point on, I fix my eyes on the path ahead.

“It happened for the first time when I was flying back to school. From Santa Monica to New Orleans. I just…fucking snapped. My parents weren’t perfect, but they had always been there.” Mom had bouts of mania and also depression, but it was mostly managed, and she and dad had always seemed like they loved each other, and us. “And then one day, I get a call at the frat house—fucking kitchen phone; we had been playing whiffle ball—and some fucking stranger tells me they’re gone. Their plane went down in the Ecuadorian Andes. My mom was flying. She crashed into a mountain.”

I tug in a deep breath and shock myself by hoarsely adding, “She was bipolar.”

MARCHANT

Shit.

I look down at Beauty, and she’s nodding gently. She doesn’t look shocked or disgusted, so that’s good. If anything, her face is softer.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly; my head is still spinning with the shock of saying this aloud. “My mom was bipolar. She had been going through…a rough patch. And she was flying that day. The flight logs say the weather was clear.” I pause because I’m having trouble swallowing. “The plane looked okay, too,” I rasp. “What was left of it… I think that’s the worst thing,” I whisper. “I don’t know for sure if it was…her.”

“Are you saying you don’t know if your mom…crashed on purpose?”

“She had tried it before,” I choke out. I can’t even look at her. It’s been so long since I talked about this; I forgot how hard it is.

I drop Suri’s hand and fix my eyes on the top of the hedges, where they’re trimmed into a perfectly level plane.

Why did I tell her this?

I have only a second to wonder before she wraps her arms around my waist and lays her cheek against my chest.

“Marchant, I’m so sorry.”

She looks up at me, and there’s so much sympathy in her eyes, the shit is fucking brutal. And suddenly I don’t want to see it there. I don’t know if I can bear her understanding.

I don’t return her hug, but she doesn’t let go.

I close my eyes and see Marissa’s face, smiling. She’s sitting beside me on a white porch swing in front of the sorority house on a humid Sunday afternoon. She grabs my hand and looks into my eyes, still wearing her church dress.

“Marchant, I have something to tell you. But you’ve gotta promise not to freak, okay?”

I imagine my dad trusted my mom in much the same way Marissa trusted me. And like my mom, I can’t be trusted. Because I’m not a normal person. I don’t have a right to a relationship.

I step back, prompting Suri to let go of me. My chest feels tight, my head on fire.

“I guess that’s why I turned to drugs,” I lie. I’ve been avoiding outright lying until this point, but now I need it so she doesn’t start drawing conclusions.

“I can understand that that would be really hard to deal with,” Suri says. Then she shakes her head. “Actually I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to be honest. I’m not sure how I would ever deal with that.”