Change of Heart (20 page)

She slept for two hours without moving, her face so still that Brian watched carefully to make sure she was breathing. Finally she stirred and opened her eyes.

She never seemed surprised to see him there beside her when she awoke, even after anesthesia or a long period of lying unconscious. As usual, she started talking as if they were in mid-conversation.

“I love you with all his heart,” she said solemnly.

He laughed, and leaned down to kiss her.

She held his head near her face. “What was that lecture you got from Diller after the ceremony?”

“He said I shouldn't let the operation stand in the way of a normal sex life,” Brian answered. “To be unintimidated, unabashed, unrestrained, et cetera, et cetera. That the only thing to fear was fear itself.”

“How come he didn't tell
me
that?”

“Because you're the sweet young virgin bride.”

“Uh huh,” she said, pulling him down for another kiss. After a moment she extricated herself from underneath him and disappeared into the bathroom. Suddenly Brian heard her cry out.

“Sharlie?” he called. She didn't respond, so he got up and opened the bathroom door. She was standing in front of the mirror in only her bikini pants, her dress in a heap around her ankles. She was sobbing into her hands, and when he tried to pry them away from her face, she held them there as tightly as she could, refusing to look at him.

After several minutes of gentle but unsuccessful prodding, he finally almost shouted at her. “Now cut it out and tell me what's the matter.”

She dropped her arms and lifted her anguished face to him. “Look at me,” she said, and her voice rose to a scream. “Look what they did to me!” She held her arms out. The livid scar sliced from her throat down to her abdomen.

Brian reached for her. “Honey …” he said softly, but she fell in a crouch to the floor, doubling over to hide her disfigurement. He stroked her back until she was quiet.

“Haven't you ever seen yourself before?”

She shook her head, face hidden.

“Well,
I've
seen you,” he said. “More than once.”

“I look like the Bride of Frankenstein,” she said in a muffled voice.

He ran his finger down her spine. “Your battle scar is indelibly etched into my most tantalizing sexual fantasies.”

He heard her choke. She muttered, “Don't make me laugh. I don't feel like laughing.” Then she sniffed and said, “Hand me some toilet paper, will you? My nose is dripping on the floor.”

“Postnasal drip does not qualify as a tantalizing sexual fantasy,” he said, handing her the tissue.

She wiped her nose and looked up at him with a red face, eyelashes matted together with tears. “I think I'm stuck,” she said, trying to unbend. Brian stood behind her and lifted her by the arms. She was very light.

“Okay. Let's look.” He turned her around to face the mirror, and she stared at herself with revulsion. Then she pulled away from him and went into the bedroom to wrap herself up in a bathrobe.

In the middle of the night she woke him, talking in her sleep. She was thrashing back and forth and hit him sharply in the shoulder with her fist.

“How come they always, they always, always …” she was murmuring. Finally Brian shook her arm gently. For once, she woke up disoriented. She stared blankly at him in the dim light, and he could see the confusion in her eyes. The shadows made them look haunted and wild.

“Do you remember what it was?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Not exactly. But it was about …” She hesitated. “Brian, would you mind turning on the light for a minute?”

He leaned over her and flicked on the lamp. They both blinked in the sudden glare, but some of the fright passed away from her face, and her rigid body began to relax under his hand.

“About what?” he asked again.

“Just crazy nightmares. It's probably the drugs.”

Brian held her next to him. Her body was soft, and he began to run his hands along her back. He kissed her but she was stiff and unresponsive.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Sharlie …” he began, then stopped, trying to silence his frustration.

“I'm not the same person I was before,” she said.

“I'm telling you that you are the same. Exactly. Except that you've got warm feet and a ribbon down your front. And a future.”

She had turned her face away. After a moment he said, “Goddammit,” and got up to go to the bathroom. When he came back, the light was off, and she was curled into a little ball with her back to his side of the bed.

The next morning Sharlie woke up early. Last night's nightmare seemed unimportant now, and she was relaxed and drowsy and delighted to begin the morning in a nonhospital bed next to Brian. His hand moved against her breast in his sleep. She took his palm and moved it gently back and forth, feeling her nipples stiffen. Then she got out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and swallow her six
A.M.
medication.

When she crawled back into the warm spot beside him, he was beginning to wake up. She pressed herself to him, kissing him until he reached out an arm and encircled her.

“You smell wide awake,” he murmured.

“Pepsodent,” she said, pushing her tongue between his teeth.

He yawned. “I'd better go brush mine if I'm going to kiss you.”

“No,” she said, holding him down with a leg draped across his knees. He stroked her body, first along the hip and down the outside of her thigh, and then, gently prodding with his hand, felt the softness between her legs. The hair was silky and fine, like the hair on her head, but a paler color, ashy gray. He felt her flesh grow damp and swollen under his fingers, and her legs fell apart now without urging. She arched her back, reaching toward his hand with her hips. For a moment she opened her eyes to look at him. He smiled at her, and she whispered, “Oh, my goodness,” and closed her eyes again.

Her breathing grew rapid, and Brian held his hand still, frightened by her gasps. But she moved against him and murmured, “Don't stop.” Suddenly her body shuddered, and she cried out, “Bri …” never completing his name. She reached for him, curling against his chest in exhaustion. He stroked her hair, and after a while she said matter-of-factly, “Well, I'm not dead.”

“No,” he said fervently.

“Now I'm supposed to say I can give it all up and pass uncomplainingly into the great beyond. Now that I've had this experience.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said.

“I think I'd just as soon stick around and try it again.”

He laughed. Her knee rubbed up against his penis. It was hard, and she touched it tentatively with her fingers.

“There's somebody else in here with us,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“He's taking up practically the whole bed,” she said, holding him in her hand.

“Flatterer,” he said.

“You know, it's funny.” She propped herself up on one elbow to look at his penis curiously. “I felt inside like you look outside. Do women get erections?”

“Hmm?” he said dreamily.

“Oh, do come in,” she said, letting go of him and hooking her leg around his hips.

He swung around, holding himself over her with his arms for fear of crushing her. He entered her gently, watching her face. She seemed to grimace, so he stopped instantly.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” She shifted her hips and grimaced again.

“You sure?”

“It's not pain. It's …” Her eyes began to fill with tears, and she smiled up at him. “Together. I'm so happy.” She urged him further inside with her legs.

“Oh, God, Sharlie,” he said softly, and found that he was crying, too, as they pressed against each other over and over again until they lay exhausted and sticky on the rumpled bed.

Diller had insisted that the honeymoon be local and brief and that Sharlie check back into the hospital in three days. By the time Tuesday morning arrived, both Brian and Sharlie were secretly ready for a respite from each other. Brian delivered her to the nurse's station on the eighth floor, and she gave him a kiss.

“Come and get me at dinnertime.”

“You sure you don't want me to wait around?” he asked.

She shoved him toward the elevator. “Go,” she said. “You'll find something to do.”

Brian turned around just before he stepped into the elevator. She was watching him. She made a face, and the doors closed.

On his way down to the lobby Brian decided that the worst thing to do was analyze the situation. What's one weekend in a hotel room three thousand miles from home with somebody who just got out of the hospital? Hardly representative of his future married years. He had stared at Sharlie so intensely these past three days that now he could hardly imagine her face—like back in high school when he'd replayed a favorite record over and over again until eventually it became so ingrained that it lost its impact. He'd listened the song into meaninglessness just as he'd stared Sharlie into a mosaic of memorized lifeless features.

Some people stay married for fifty years. He'd thought of that this morning as he gazed at her sleeping face on the pillow. Was she going to be with him
all the time
?

He thought he'd seen relief on her face, too, when he dropped her off. Maybe it was like this at first for everybody.

He pulled the car out of the hospital lot and turned toward the beach road, figuring he'd spend the whole day as far from people and as close to the sea as he possibly could. Water and sky. Space.

What must she be feeling? She seemed preoccupied so much of the time, and he almost felt that she was listening to a voice he couldn't hear. He'd urge her to talk to Dr. Rosen.

The rest of the way to the beach he thought about the legal complexities of the Los Angeles case. He was supposed to go to L.A. at the end of the week for settlement discussions. Maybe he'd make the trip on his own. Oh, hell, he thought. Four days married, and I'm already plotting to run away.

He parked the car and slid down a rocky embankment to the narrow strip of beach. He would lie by the water and stare into the future so that whatever happened, he'd be prepared, or resigned, or maybe even pleased.

He took off his shoes and socks, burrowed his back into the warm sand, and stared up at the pale-aqua sky. And planned. He visualized the possibilities in outline form—cool, measured, logical:

A.
Sharlie is pronounced well. Thus:
1. They would proceed to Los Angeles on Thursday. He would appear in court on Friday morning.
2. They would mess around L.A. on Saturday (maybe Disneyland; she'd like that).
3. Back to New York on Sunday. Unbelievable.

or:

B.
Sharlie is pronounced unwell.

And here there were several ramifications, depending on the degree of unwell. Either (1) He would wait until she was better and got herself released; (2) He would return to New York without her, she to follow later; or (3) Unmentionable, ungraphable, except in the most shadowy fashion. Too many subcategories, too many overlapping emotional responses exploded by even the hint of it.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to enumerate: (1) unspeakable grief; (2) exhausted relief; (3) guilt; (4) freedom; (5) a future forever loveless.

He picked up a fistful of sand, letting it slowly dribble out onto the beach. Bullshit, he thought. Anticipating his response to her death was like trying to determine the intentions of God. Or what was beyond the end of the universe. Not to be found in the current
New York Civil Practice Law and Rules.

The sun made him drowsy, and the sound of water washing against the shore was soothing. Soon his mind drifted to fantasies of Sharlie sharing his apartment on Third Avenue. He imagined her hairbrush on his dresser and was touched—tangible evidence of their future intimacy. Her underwear, her clothes, her toothpaste, all the assorted oddments of her daily routine tumbling into his lonely space like the brightly colored jewels of sunshine he glimpsed through the filter of his eyelashes.

And the thing was, if he were to express this to her, she'd understand—smile, take his hand. There would be no hint of contempt for his sentimentality, not from Sharlie. She ridiculed only her own feelings—the more intense the emotion, the more flippant her attack on herself. But
his
feelings she took very seriously.

Oh, God, he thought, stretching in the soft sand. What do I need the sun for when I've got Sharlie Converse Morgan?

Sharlie stared at the viewer in Diller's office and marveled at the contours of her new heart. Before the operation she'd shuddered at her X rays, her heart's flabby bulges expanding malevolently with each new set of pictures until it seemed as though there could be no room left for any other vital organs. Udstrom's streamlined heart, no bigger than Walter's clenched fist, nestled comfortably in its compact niche.

Diller lifted the corners of his mouth just perceptibly, and Sharlie reminded herself that he was smiling.

“Marriage must agree with you. You're fine.”

“Can I go?”

He nodded.

“How long?”

“Indefinitely.”

“You mean I don't have to come back? Ever?”

“Make your reservations for New York.”

She exhaled slowly, a long, trembling sigh.

“If it weren't for Saint Joe's, we'd never release you this early,” he said.

“I know.”

“You must check in twice a week without fail. They're all set up for you in Coronary.”

She nodded.

“You have your medications?”

“All sixty-three of them.”

“You're clear on the urine and stool measurements?”

“I've been carefully coached.”

“Don't miss even one day of medication, or you'll end up right back in the hospital.”

“I know, Doctor Diller.” She smiled, recognizing his reluctance to let her go. “Are you coming back to New York?”

“Soon,” he said.

“Well,” she began, then shook her head helplessly and whispered, “Thanks.” She held out her hand, and he grasped it briefly. His palm felt very soft. Sharlie's eyes were beginning to sting, so she turned and walked quickly out of the office.

Walter and Margaret had been waiting for her and approached her eagerly when she emerged.

“Well?” Margaret asked.

“I'm sprung.”

“Marvelous.” Her mother gave her a restrained hug.

“I don't see why we couldn't come in there with you,” Walter grumbled.

“I just wanted to hear the verdict by myself,” Sharlie said.

“Well, I knew you were okay. I can tell by looking at you. Your temperature is ninety-seven point eight or point nine, and your blood pressure is a hundred and ten over seventy.”

Sharlie said, “Aren't you going to congratulate me?”

“Congratulations,” he said irritably.

Sharlie glared at him and said, “Let's go.” She led the way down the hall.

“Well, what's the matter with you, young lady?” Walter asked, catching up with her.

“You know something, Daddy?” Sharlie said, her voice quavering. “Sometimes I think you don't give a damn about
me.
All you care about was that I didn't let you come in with me and monopolize everything.”

Walter gave Margaret an exasperated look, but she just shook her head at him as if to say, don't look at me—
I
don't know what's the matter with her.

Walter put his hand on Sharlie's elbow to bring her to a halt. “Keep your voice down,” he said, nodding toward the nurse's station. A young couple stood nearby, watching them curiously.

Sharlie's voice rose another notch. “I'm not a piece of office equipment you've taken a lot of time and money to fix.”

“Oh, Sharlie,” Margaret said reproachfully.

Walter looked wounded. “So what do we do, your mother and I? We drive out to the airport and hop on a plane, and you'll call us once in a while, is that right?”

“Something like that,” Sharlie said.

“Oh, I'll just pay the bills. Or should I send them to your husband now that you're no longer my responsibility?”

“That's …
awful,”
Sharlie retorted. “You know he can't come up with that kind of money.”

Walter prodded her into the elevator, grateful that for once, there was no one else inside. He looked at Margaret briefly, then took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I'm sorry. I don't know how we got into this.”

“Well,
I
do—” Sharlie began.

He interrupted hurriedly. “… but let's drop it for now. You just walked out of Diller's office, and I just said, ‘Hey, honey, that's great news.'” He tried to smile. “Okay?”

She dropped her eyes for fear he'd see the triumph there. “Okay,” she said.

The elevator stopped at the ground floor, and Walter put his arm around his daughter. “I'll go get things straight with Admissions. Is that all right?”

Sharlie nodded, but found that she was unable to speak through the confusion of her conflicting emotions.

“We'll see you in New York, dear,” Margaret said, giving Sharlie a kiss on the cheek.

“Mrs. Morgan,” Walter said, patting her arm awkwardly.

For a moment Sharlie's eyes welled up, but then she said formally, “Have a good time in San Francisco.” She raised her hand in a stiff wave good-bye and went outside to wait for Brian.

Walter and Margaret walked down the hallway in silence. Finally Margaret said, “I don't know, Walter. She's baffling.”

“She wants me to butt out, I'll butt out” His face was furious and hurt in just about equal parts.

Margaret put her hand on his arm. “Look, we've all been through a lot.”

He snorted.

“Once we get back home, we can start living like a normal family again,” she continued.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Margaret. She's married. We're not going to
have
a family anymore.”

“Now, don't hurt
my
feelings, Walter. I'm family, too, you know.”

He ran his hand across his forehead wearily. “Let's finish up and get the hell out of this godforsaken place.”

When Brian pulled up by the gate, Sharlie was perched on the cement column by the entranceway.

“Going my way, lady?” he asked, leaning out the window.

She nodded and slid into the car. Her face was flushed, almost feverish.

“So?” he said.

“So let's pack.”

He slammed the car into “Park” and grabbed her. Then he held her away from him so that he could look at her face. His eyes were puzzled.

“I just had a fight with my father,” she explained. She held out her hand to show him the trembling fingers. “I'm an awful ungrateful daughter, but sometimes … sometimes he's like the bully in the advertisements who runs around kicking sand at the skinny, runty guy.”

“What was it all about?”

“It's not like me at all,” she went on shakily. “I don't do this sort of thing.” Brian smiled. “I mean I
didn't,”
she said.

“I'm sure he deserved it,” Brian remarked.

“Did
you?
The day I threw the newspaper at you? What is happening to me?”

Brian took her hand between his. “There is nothing wrong, unusual, bizarre, or neurotic about any of it,” he said.

“Maybe not,” she replied slowly. “But it isn't me.”

“Well, whoever you are, I'd like you to come home to bed.”

He started the car and looked at her questioningly. She raised the corners of her mouth with effort, and he shook his head, unconvinced. She took a deep breath, batted her eyelashes seductively, and flashed him her exaggerated version of the Hollywood starlet smile.

“Oh, beautiful,” he said, grinning at her. Then he put the car in gear, and they drove off toward the motel.