Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
The Doctor's Wife (37 page)
She considered calling Michael, but then thought better of it. Unlike the other threats, this one was meant for
her.
her.
35
IN THE MEN’S ROOM at work, Michael took off his shirt and put on the bulletproof vest, surprised to discover that it fit comfortably. The literature boasted,
“Flexible Trauma Plate included, complete coverage with side protection Level IIIA.”
He looked at himself in the mirror; you couldn’t even tell he had it on. The strange thing was, he didn’t feel any safer wearing it, as if it was an invitation to shoot him. As if wearing it acknowledged the fact that they would do it, and they would do it soon.
“Flexible Trauma Plate included, complete coverage with side protection Level IIIA.”
He looked at himself in the mirror; you couldn’t even tell he had it on. The strange thing was, he didn’t feel any safer wearing it, as if it was an invitation to shoot him. As if wearing it acknowledged the fact that they would do it, and they would do it soon.
The fastest way to get these people off his back was to resign from the clinic, to leave Celina in the lurch, because that’s what it was, that’s what he would be doing. But he couldn’t seem to do that. In some strange way, he felt as though he had no control over what happened next, only that he had to go forward, he had to confront whatever thing came his way, no matter how horrible.
Miranda knocked on the door. “I’m ordering out. You want anything?”
“Yeah, all right,” he said, even though he had no appetite. “I’ll take a turkey—”
“On white with extra mayo,” Miranda finished. He ordered the same thing every day.
“I guess I’m pretty predictable.”
“Oh, yeah.” She smiled, and another face appeared behind her. It was Finney in his little round glasses and bow tie. He looked more like an accountant than a doctor, Michael thought. “Michael, come and take a look at this ultrasound, would you?”
“Sure.” Michael followed Finney into the examining room. The patient’s full-term baby was breech. The mother wanted a cesarean.
“I want a second opinion,” the patient snapped. “I can’t take this anymore.”
Michael checked out the ultrasound. “Your baby’s doing fine,” he concurred. “There’s no reason to do a cesarean. I agree that we should wait another week.”
“Another
week
?” the patient screeched. “You’re
both
crazy.”
week
?” the patient screeched. “You’re
both
crazy.”
Michael smiled at the woman. “She’s got it good in there, believe me. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
The woman scowled at him. “I can tell you’re one of those pushover types. You probably let your kids walk all over you.”
“You’re right,” he said. “They walk all over me and I’m proud of it.”
He went back to his office, feeling anything but proud. A weight sat in his chest, a longing for Henry and Rosie. He would have to find a way to make it up to them, he thought. One day he would.
A white Styrofoam container sat on his desk,
Turkey on White, Xtra Mayo
written across the top. He was suddenly hungry, eager for the distraction of eating more than anything else, and he opened the container expectantly. But he did not find a sandwich. What he found, instead, was a gun.
Turkey on White, Xtra Mayo
written across the top. He was suddenly hungry, eager for the distraction of eating more than anything else, and he opened the container expectantly. But he did not find a sandwich. What he found, instead, was a gun.
Astonished, he took the weapon into his hands. It was a small black pistol. Michael had never held a gun in his life and discovered that it fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He examined it cautiously and with a surprising amount of ease figured out how to open the chamber. The gun, he discovered, was loaded. He shook out the bullets into his hand and studied them. How strange to think that a bullet no larger than a pistachio nut could end someone’s life.
He went to his office door and peered into the empty hallway. He glanced at Miranda, who was eating a sandwich out of a container from the same deli. Everything appeared to be normal. Who would have done this? Who would have sent him a gun?
He shut the door. He took the gun and opened the chamber and reloaded the bullets into it, marveling at its compact sincerity, and then he carefully placed the gun in his coat and hung the coat on the hook on the back of his door.
The afternoon passed quickly with routine examinations.
At five-thirty he put on his coat. He could feel the gun in his pocket, jutting into his hip like a wound of the flesh.
Miranda looked up and smiled. “Good night, Dr. Knowles.”
At the door, he stopped and turned back toward the receptionist. “By the way, that sandwich you ordered me. Was it from the same place?”
“Yeah, Harry’s Deli. Was everything all right?”
“Yeah, sure, everything was fine.” Michael left the office and walked around the corner to Harry’s Deli. The deli did a big takeout business, but there were a couple of tables inside. He went in and sat down at one of them. A moment later a young woman came over to take his order. “I’ll have some coffee,” he said.
“We’re making a fresh pot. You in a rush?”
“No, actually, I’m not.”
“What else can I get you?”
“You got any pie? Something sweet?”
“Lemon meringue.”
“A piece of that, and the coffee.”
“Sure.”
“Got a men’s room?”
“In the back.”
Michael got up and walked past the deli counter toward the back. The pink-and-black tiled floor dazzled him. The details in these old buildings continually amazed him. He passed the window where the orders came up and glanced through it into the kitchen. A gangly short-order cook stood at the grill, frying onions. Two Mexican boys were washing dishes. And then something caught his eye: a red jacket, with wings on the back of it, hanging on a hook.
His waitress came out of the kitchen. “Your coffee’s ready,” she said, rushing by.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
He ducked into the bathroom and washed his hands. When he came out, the jacket was gone.
Michael put a ten-dollar bill on the counter and ran out onto the street. He saw the red jacket up ahead, turning down Delaware Avenue. At the corner, she stopped at the curb to wait for the light. It was Theresa Sawyer. “Theresa!” he called out to her. She turned slightly and saw him but did not return the greeting. Instead, she jaywalked across the busy street, and kept going. He did the same, jogging to keep up with her. He followed her for several blocks, into a modest neighborhood of houses crammed up against one another. Small yards with chain-link fences. Dogs chained out front. Virgin Mary statues. The girl went into a house and shut the door. How had she gotten the gun? he wondered. And what did she know that he didn’t?
He stood there for a few minutes, looking at the house with its chipped black shutters. The air had cooled. Chilled, he shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling the outline of the gun. He felt a strange mixture of fear and comfort. Just having the gun in his pocket seemed to change everything. Something was coming, something bad, that much he knew, but instead of feeling protected, now that he had the weapon, he felt more vulnerable than ever.
He didn’t mention the gun to Annie when he got home that night. He found her in the family room. She looked shaken, upset. He could hear the kids upstairs, watching TV. She hadn’t even made dinner. “What’s wrong?”
“Molly. She ran into the woods this afternoon and never came back. There were some men out there, hunting.”
“I’ll go out and look.”
“No. I don’t want you to. I’m frightened, Michael.”
“I’ll take the Gator.”
Henry appeared in the doorway. “I’m going with you.”
Annie looked at Michael and he nodded. “Get your coat.”
They’d bought the Gator, a hardy farm vehicle, to traverse the fields quickly and to explore the neighboring pastures all around their land. The kids loved riding on it, and Michael let Henry drive it now and again. Michael took the wheel and Henry climbed in beside him, holding a flashlight. They drove out of the barn and Michael was glad Henry had come along. His chest felt tight with emotion, and he could not look at the boy. Instead, he focused on the journey, and the Gator roared over the rugged ground, pushing through a thick white mist that clung to everything in sight. They searched for over an hour, but there was no sign of poor Molly, and Michael knew they would not find her. “It’s your fault,” Henry muttered when they got back to the barn. He met Michael’s eyes head-on. It was a look Michael would never forget, simmering with hate. Henry climbed out of the Gator and went into the house. Michael sat there alone for a long time, hearing the bats overhead squealing in the rafters with judgment.
36
THE FIRST TIME she went faint a little, even before they went in. Just the look of the building, the idea of what she’d do inside it, made her feel like she was drunk. The way it felt walking through the door with Reverend Tim, the way he smelled like limes, the way everybody looked at her and at him and stepped back just a little, and the way he stood up straighter and tugged on his belt, his chin jutting out like a challenge.
The warm, clean smell inside. New carpeting. Glue.
Safety.
Everybody smiling at Reverend Tim. Not just a greeting but a proud smile.
Family.
Everybody smiling at her because she knew him, because she was with him and that meant she was someone important.
Special.
And the long walk beside him down the hall, her chest full of hope as she held herself like a queen—no,
not
a queen, a
princess.
He led her into the glass box and she could see all the other shooters down the line, in their own private lanes, their faces serene and floating. Nothing to worry about. They had everything they needed right there. No complications. Nobody else.
Safety.
Everybody smiling at Reverend Tim. Not just a greeting but a proud smile.
Family.
Everybody smiling at her because she knew him, because she was with him and that meant she was someone important.
Special.
And the long walk beside him down the hall, her chest full of hope as she held herself like a queen—no,
not
a queen, a
princess.
He led her into the glass box and she could see all the other shooters down the line, in their own private lanes, their faces serene and floating. Nothing to worry about. They had everything they needed right there. No complications. Nobody else.
Peace.
Reverend Tim looked at her like he wanted to tell her something, something deep. Like he wanted to reveal a quiet feeling. But he didn’t say anything. He took out his gun and grinned, shaking his head. “This is a nine-millimeter, a Beretta. Open your hand.”
She offered her hand, and her body went limp and white like a flower. Simon’s face floated in her brain like mist.
I’m gonna shut down, I’m gonna black out.
I’m gonna shut down, I’m gonna black out.
“Now, that’s what I call a nice fit.” He wrapped her fingers around the gun, molding them against the cold metal. He was right, it was an easy grip. Too easy, she thought, shuddering. The cold metal stayed cold, no matter how hard she held it. “It’s all right to like it,” he told her, his voice hoarse and quiet. “It’s all right. I want you to.” He looked at her again, deep, as if he could see her life, her past. And she knew, then, that she could do it and maybe he did, too. The way he was looking at her, like he knew. Like he could see that she liked it, the pleasure of holding it, the strength it gave her.
I want this,
she thought.
This is mine.
I want this,
she thought.
This is mine.
Her heart wound up and up, almost like singing.
“Now, look at your target. Concentrate. Deep breath. It’s about controlling yourself, that’s all. That’s what people don’t get. Like any other sport. Controlling your body. Your reflexes. The way you react. Your own sense of timing.” He moved away, behind her, watching her closely, and it was just her now, her and her body, the simple logic of the trigger, its reliable promise. Her whole life shot through the barrel over and over and over until the chamber emptied. Her life, her past. Her mother’s dying arms. The smell of death in that house. Like swallowing something thick and warm, relishing the drink only to find out after it’s gone down that it’s poison.
You’re already dead,
she thought wildly. Her mama whispering. Beckoning her. “Let it go, girl,” Reverend Tim whispered, his hand on her back. “Just let it all go.”
You’re already dead,
she thought wildly. Her mama whispering. Beckoning her. “Let it go, girl,” Reverend Tim whispered, his hand on her back. “Just let it all go.”
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