Double-Crossed (17 page)

Suddenly she heard a shuffle in the kitchen. Memories of what happened came flooding back as her heart started racing. She noticed her robe at the end of the bed and put it on quickly and quietly. Images and feelings of terror from her attack flooded over her. At the center of it all stood Don and the swift powerful way he'd moved through the door, grabbing at her. She started to panic, wondering who could be in her house now.

She glanced around her bedroom looking for clues and defensive weapons. She'd never go out there without some form of protection. Her eye settled on the candlestick, on the bookshelf against the wall.

That'll have to be it
, she decided.

As quietly as possible, she made her way toward the bookshelf. As she picked up the candlestick, she envisioned herself thwacking a man over the head with it.

Do I have the courage to go through with something like that?

She felt the pain in her face and decided she did.

Creeping carefully along the corridor, she maneuvered herself so that she did not let any floorboards creak. Moving toward the kitchen, she could hear a man singing. Vaguely familiar, the voice reminded her of someone, but definitely not Don. It wasn't Don's type of voice, and besides, Don would never sing.

Curious and scared, Marianne moved around the corner with the candlestick raised above her head, ready to crash it down on the skull of anyone who may be there.

As soon as her head rounded the corner to look into her kitchen, the voice said, “I can understand you not being a very gracious hostess, seeing as you were terribly sick. I had to make our breakfast myself. But I do hope that you aren't going to club me for my trouble as well.”

There in front of her stood the oddest-looking man she'd ever seen. He had very pale gray hair that ran down in a pageboy cut. His hair, thin and fanned, lay wispy about his face, but he wasn't old. At least, his skin didn't look old. However, it didn't look healthy, either. Milky and thin, it stretched taut across his bones. The stranger, a little taller than she, stood erect, as if his skeleton needed his willpower to keep it in place. His eyes gazed at her expressionlessly, unmoving and pallid, and they seemed to have too much liquid in them. They were a pasty color blue. Here, before her, stood the ghost of a man, Marianne thought.

As if the look on her face heralded a cue in a play he'd been performing for years, he spoke to her. “I know my appearance is strange. I am sorry if I frightened you. My name is Dr. Zamenof.”

Conscious that she'd been staring at this man, Marianne lowered her arm and looked away with a blush. The first thing that she saw when she averted her eyes was breakfast. Scrambled eggs, bacon, grilled tomato, and toast, all cooked in her kitchen. Delicious smells hit her nostrils at the same time that her stomach told her she needed food.

“I didn't know I had all that in my fridge,” said Marianne trying hard to remember.

“You didn't. I live next door to you. I moved in recently. I went home earlier this morning and got these for our breakfast. I hope you don't mind. In my opinion, you have suffered a terrible assault. I think you're okay, but it would be a good idea to get you to an emergency room to look you over. Just to be sure. But first, I feel confident that you can handle some food.”

Slowly the puzzle came together and revealed the full picture to Marianne. “You came to my rescue last night. Don tried to hurt me, and you came to my rescue.”

Turning his back on her, the doctor floated toward her dish rack picking up the plate with obvious effort. There seemed to be some sort of ailment weakening him, making the simplest tasks difficult. However, he insisted on doing it all alone. Marianne rose to help him as an automatic reaction, but he shooed her away.

“No, no, please. I know that it's difficult to watch, but it's terribly important to me that I do these things myself.” The flow of his voice came, even and cool without a hint of frustration. Milky, like his skin. His educated Sydney accent she recognized immediately, having heard it many times in the Cross before. She wondered what the story of his or his family's immigration must be, having been recently reminded of her own.

With some struggle, he got the plate to the bench. Then he shuffled back to the drainer and picked up the other plate. At this point, the kettle whistled and turned itself off.

“Well, at least let me make us a cup of tea,” Marianne said. “We'll need to talk. I'm concerned about what happened here last night.”

The doctor took the tomatoes out of the grill with his server and picked up the bacon with his tongs. However, the scrambled eggs were a trick. After struggling with lifting the pan by the plates, he then scooped the eggs up with a large spoon in order to serve them.

Marianne put tea in the pot and filled it up with boiling water. While waiting for the tea to brew, she set places with knives and forks, carrying the pot with cups and saucers over to the table. She turned her back on him to avoid the rising desire to help him. They moved in silence, the strangeness of the situation sitting heavily on Marianne.

When she finished setting the plates, Marianne, without asking, rose up and carried them herself to their places at the table. As she did so, she glanced at the clock, which informed her that at ten in the morning she really ought to be at work.

“Oh, God, I have to ring work!”

She ran to her phone and called quickly. She explained to the receptionist that she'd been in an accident and that she wouldn't be in for the day. She said she needed to go to a hospital later to have a full checkup and that she'd call back with those results.

When she got back to the table, the doctor waited for her. He sat stiff in his chair, again giving that overdramatic sense of being in control of his own body.

Marianne sat opposite him at her small table and poured them both tea. Then she began to eat. She noticed that he didn't eat until she did. The silence became oppressive. Marianne needed to talk.

“I have to thank you for helping me out. You've been my knight in shining armor last night and today.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said gallantly. “To be frank, it's thrilling to be able to help again. I had to stop practicing a few years ago because my illness got so bad, and I miss the practice so much. I go to the clinic every now and then to try to help the doctors who have taken my place, but I don't know any of their patients. As you can see”—here he breathed a slight sigh—“my appearance is unsettling.”

Marianne looked into the pale blue eyes that were almost expressionless, like plain buttons. He did have a very strange look, though not frightening. The effect was unsettling, just as he'd told her.

“If you don't mind my asking, what illness do you have?”

“It's a disease similar in symptom to Parkinson's, but contracted through an insect bite, rather than inherited. I also have a rare skin disorder, and they act against each other within me. One is a disease of the central nervous system, and the other affects the lymphatic system. The tremor that you see is so rapid and small that it is almost imperceptible, but I have the experience of shaking terribly, like a desperate case of nerves. The lymphatic disorder that gives me the strange appearance is worse; I have no immunity against it. I'm afraid it will kill me eventually.

“I picked up both conditions in Africa over fifteen years ago. Fortunately for me, it has been medically 'discovered' in that time, so we are now able to identify it, but not cure it. I will die from the two combined, Marianne. So you see, I am a rather pathetic creature, and to be able to help you made me feel—well—valuable, I guess.”

“It affects your voice? And your hair?”

“Yes. Strange, isn't it? I've grown used to it, and I work long and hard in the researching the subject. I have turned my apartment into a lab. I will show you sometime, if you don't have more important things to do, of course.”

His voice floated, even and inoffensive, but Marianne wondered if he made fun of her. His appearance was so unusual that interpreting his expressions bordered on impossible. She decided she'd let it ease on by, even if he proved to be making sport of her.

“I wonder that I haven't seen you here before.”

“I'm ashamed to tell you that I have seen you many times. I tend to hide away because of my appearance, and I look through my peephole. I am a doctor, but you see, I don't have a physician's courage. Because you live opposite me, I look out at you often. Not to spy or to ogle—my illness has long taken care of any abilities or interests in that department—but mostly just to know that you are home so that I don't feel so lonely. I watch the others in the corridor also. Goodness, I sound terribly pathetic, don't I?”

Marianne felt sorry for him, and it bled into a certain sort of warmth.

“No, Doctor. For me, you are a Godsend. I'm very lucky you looked out of your door last night.”

“Yes. Who was that character? Please tell me that wasn't your boyfriend.”

“God, no! I have…well…I have a difficult past. Actually, to be honest with you, Doctor, I've had a very strange couple of days all round, and now I suddenly feel exhausted.”

Without any change in the emotion of his voice, the doctor said, “Well, that worries me. Let's get you down to St. Vincent's. I'm sorry that I can't drive you. Let's take a cab the few blocks. Better not to walk, even so short a distance.”

Marianne didn't feel well enough to argue and really didn't want to. She left half her breakfast and walked into the bedroom to get into some clothes. She shut the door to her room, even though the doctor had a sexless quality about him. She didn't particularly want to be on display.

Looking in the mirror, horror reared when she saw she had quite a bruise on the side of her face. At least it started on the side of her face, but stretched up back past her hairline. She ran a comb through her hair, and it hurt, so she gingerly tidied it, but did little else. She put on a pair of easy-to-wear pants and a T-shirt over the underwear that she already wore. Vaguely she remembered staggering to her bed, but the doctor must have been with her. It suddenly occurred to her that the doctor must have seen her in her underwear. Even though he'd appeared to be nothing but honest and straight up, she still felt a little weird about the whole thing.

He was sexless, but he had established intimacy on a deep level such that she felt obliged to be grateful. The pit of her belly had a stirring feeling that told her the entire situation remained out of her ordinary experience, and that perhaps her defenses were unnecessary.

Walking out into the lounge, she saw that the doctor had cleared away the breakfast things and tidied up. She grabbed her bag and had a fast flick through it. Seeing her money intact and her Medicare card still there, she smiled and told him she was ready to go. He reached awkwardly for a coat that he had with him, and they headed out into the warm sunshine.

Marianne felt the need to walk slowly toward the taxi stand, so they did, not that the doctor could walk fast. He seemed terribly sick, and Marianne's heart went out to him. She felt very glad to have him by her side and across the hall.

Settling into the nearest cab, he chatted about his past. Even though his name was Eastern European, he said that he was born in Sydney and raised there. His parents were immigrants who fought very hard to get to this lucky country. He had no siblings, and his parents died young in an accident. He'd been alone for a long time.

He'd studied clinical psychology when younger and practiced for a few years, moving into medicine when his parents died. After practicing medicine for three years, he took up several posts in Africa.

He laughed and said that all the medical staff called him “Dr. Esperanto” because of the famous L. Zamenhoff who invented Esperanto. They still called him that to this day.

Marianne couldn't make out his age. He seemed to have lived a rather full and rich life, and she had gotten lost in the details in trying to make a virtual time line. She didn't like to ask his age or the cause of death of his parents. By the time he'd finished his story, they'd arrived at the hospital. A warm, smiling nurse called Kerin had leaped from behind the counter to welcome Dr. Esperanto. Filled with concern, she turned to the doctor.

“How are you getting on, love?” she asked him. “We all miss you around here, you know.”

“I am okay, Kerin. Stop fussing. I am not here socially. My friend and neighbor here has been knocked over the head by a very bad man, and I want to get her looked at.”

“When did this happen?” Kerin started examining Marianne's head right away.

“Last night,” said the doctor. “She's had a normal, unaffected sleep. She ate breakfast happily, but suddenly claimed to be tired. I thought we'd better get her down here to have her checked out.”

Kerin looked into Marianne's eyes. “You look okay in there. I'll tell you that you are very lucky because you've been in the best of care. There is no finer doctor than the one who's taken you under his wing. Any doctor or nurse here will tell you, just ask.”

With that, she walked behind the desk again. Marianne gave her Medicare card to Kerin, and the nurse filled in all the necessary paperwork.

“Take a seat, love. Really quiet this morning. You won't have to wait long, and you're in very good hands.”

They headed to the waiting area, and both of them sat heavily into the plastic chairs there.

“I am afraid my illness makes people feel sorry for me,” the doctor whispered to Marianne. “And they can be rather disproportionately glowing regarding my abilities.”

However, by the end of the visit, she had reason to doubt his word. Marianne felt very well looked after in emergency, but every doctor and every nurse waxed lyrical about the doctor's efforts and how tireless and marvelous he'd been when he worked there. Even a young intern sought the doctor out to thank him for the crucial role he'd played in the intern's development.

“Looks like I live next door to a celebrity,” Marianne whispered.

“All in a day's work,” he said back to her in his expressionless voice.

Marianne spent an hour in emergency before they cleared her to go home. She had no serious damage to her head, but they told her to take a week due to the shock of the experience. Kerin supplied her with a certificate for her employer.