Chapter 14
“Yes, I hear you, and I like where this is going,” Dee said into her cellphone as she hoisted her monogrammed Louis Vuitton Keepall Bandouliere duffel bag into the first-class overhead compartment.
She was talking to the owner of SpaceFly, a Dallas-based start-up that wanted FitFams to be the first fitness studio on the moon.
Her call waiting beeped. “Listen,” she said, as she sat down in her window seat. “Ping my assistant, Sheldon, and we’ll sort out the details. But I like how big you think.”
She clicked over to the other call. It was Sirius XM, asking whether her team had reviewed the proposal for “Dee Bradley Speaks,” a radio show that focused on fitness, beauty, finance, music, relationships, and “living your truth.”
“I think this will be an awesome addition to my public persona,” Dee said, buckling in and raising the shade, then whispering to the flight attendant for some Pellegrino with a straw. “I mean, I’m already in talks for getting my own magazine, like OWN. I’m working on my autobiography with Jessica Simpson’s ghostwriter. Yeah, no, she did not write that thing by herself. So anyway, yeah — a radio show would fit into my plans.”
Dee bit her fingernail, then silently scolded herself. The Sirius executive went on and on, almost apoplectic at the thought of getting to work with her. He promised to send over the particulars in the morning. She drummed her fingers on the armrest.
“Great,” Dee said, then clicked off the call, and spit the little piece of fingernail onto the floor.
She held up her phone and took a selfie while making the A-Town Down hand gesture, then posted it to Instagram with the words, “Thanks, ATL! You showed me the true meaning of Southern hospitality. Welcome to the first day of your best life! #fitfams #fitfamsatl”
Truthfully, Dee was glad to get out of that shithole. It unnerved her that, while dancing and watching the mature strippers on Saturday night at the Clermont Lounge with Tara and Jem, a profoundly drunk woman stepped on Dee’s foot and stopped, leaned in to her face, and apologized. Profusely. Like, who does that? Dee preferred New York City’s no-nonsense approach to manners and personal space.
She then switched over to one of her finstagram accounts, where she used the name “fitfamsforeverbitch” to like and comment with anonymity. She hit the heart button on her own post. Then she checked her texts — there were six, sent in rapid succession, from the investors in Mesa, Arizona, wanting more information on just how Dee expected to fund such a fast expansion of FitFams. Another three texts were from the silent partner in Washington state, asking why she hadn’t returned his calls. One message was a bunch of emojis from Madonna.
“Here’s your sparkling water with a straw, miss,” the flight attendant said. “And I don’t know if you heard the captain, but it’s time to put your electronic device in airplane mode and stow it in your carry-on.”
Dee sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Are we still pretending that cellphones cause problems for flight systems?” she asked.
“It’s not pretend, ma’am,” the flight attendant said. “It’s an FCC regulation. Please stow your phone.”
“Fine,” Dee huffed. “Remind me to fly private next time.”
She tucked her cellphone into her Louis Vuitton Cheche Bohemian Handbag and retrieved an SK-II Facial Treatment Mask and a pink cashmere blanket, which she draped over herself from chest to knees, covering up her abs. She patted the serum-soaked cloth on her face, not caring that she looked like Hannibal Lechter, and closed her eyes. It was only at times like these, with half a Xanax in her system, that Dee could even begin to approach a state of relaxation. She even stopped contracting her abdominals, a change that was imperceptible to the naked eye but felt, to Dee, like popping off a “Bridgerton” corset.
For the first time in days her mind seemed to loosen its grip on business ideas, studio bookings, coach training, investor meetings, grand openings, and the exhausting job of being Dee Bradley. Being perfect. It all floated into a treasure chest at the left side of her mind while Beyoncé — wearing the FitFams x Ivy Park hoodie — sang, “to the left, to the left, everything you own in a box to the left.”
In her mind, Dee saw a huge expanse of white. She shaded it a calming pale pink.
Per the teachings of her Peruvian shaman, Jeff, she tried to maintain that space in her mind and not let in any thoughts, questions, regrets, or memories. She breathed deeply — in for seven, hold for four, out for eight — and silently repeated her mantra: I am good, I am enough, I am good enough, I have God.
When the image of Scrooge McDuck diving into a pool of gold coins invaded the space in her mind, she smiled a little, then pushed the thought to the left. She tried another mantra: “Abundance in all things. Love is yours. Let God. Let go.”
Soon, another image crept in. A person had appeared in the big pink room.
It was a little girl, about six years old, dressed in green corduroy overalls, a yellow puffed-sleeve T-shirt, and scuffed-up brown sandals with white ankle socks. She was cute and chubby. There was a small gap between her front teeth. Her eyelashes were long and light. There were knots in her hair.
Dee, in her mind, asked the girl to leave. Can’t you see I’m meditating here? I don’t have time for you right now. But the girl did not move. She couldn’t.
She was padlocked inside a dog’s crate.