Authors: Elizabeth Brundage

The Doctor's Wife (46 page)

BOOK: The Doctor's Wife

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It was only midafternoon, but he felt the need for a drink, a stiff one. He opened the drawer in the nightstand and helped himself to some whiskey. He noticed her pocketbook on the floor, beckoning his inquiry, and he picked it up and dug his hands into it, tangling his fingers in her rosary. Crammed in a side pocket were two neatly folded pamphlets from the Free Women’s Health and Wellness Center on South Pearl Street. One described various methods of birth control, and a second provided information on sexually transmitted diseases. Further inspection exposed a pair of plastic gloves, the sort a doctor wore.

Had she been down to that clinic? Had she been to see
Knowles
? And then he imagined the unthinkable.

Standing over his wife he suddenly felt dizzy. He staggered through the hallway as if crossing the deck of a reckless ship, and sought refuge on the bed in the guest room. He didn’t want to think anymore. His thoughts only brought him pain. Maybe he would just stay in bed for a while. Nobody would miss him. Not even Annie.

IT WAS HENRY’S big day on the field and Annie and Rosie were his loyal fans, even though the temperature had plummeted since morning. Now it was almost noon and they were huddled together on the bleachers under an old plaid blanket. Like the other parents, Annie belted out her support for Henry’s team, but under that wholesome, maternal facade her mind wound tight around her memories of Simon, the prickling reality that she had not gotten over him.

Henry’s team scored a goal and everyone stood up, wildly cheering. Rosie climbed up on the bleachers and jumped up and down, clapping for her brother. Annie felt someone’s arms go around her and turned to see Michael, his face in silhouette with the bright sun behind him. “Michael! What are you doing here?”

“Daddy!” Rosie threw her arms around him.

“Rosie girl.”

“What happened, Daddy? You’re bleeding.”

There was blood on his forehead, dust on his clothes, and pieces of plaster in his hair. “Oh, my God. Michael, what happened?”

“Somebody bombed the clinic,” he told her. “I’m all right.” He held her close with Rosie clinging on, the three of them locked in a huddle. For a moment they didn’t move, and she could feel him shudder slightly. “I had just finished an exam and this blast went off. It threw me across the room. The whole front of the clinic’s been damaged. Luckily, nobody was killed. Our security guard’s in critical care. Anya, the receptionist, got pretty banged up.”

“And Celina?”

“She’s already on the phone with contractors. The woman’s relentless.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I got out. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look fine. He picked Rosie up in his arms and kissed her and squinted down at the game. “How’s Henry’s team doing? They gonna win this thing, or what?” Annie sensed that he couldn’t look at her just now because in looking at her he would have to admit how sorry he was for getting involved with the clinic. How sorry he was about what it had done to their lives. But then, incredibly, he said, “I’ll never give in to those bastards now.”

The comment burned through her. His arrogance.

Rosie shook the sleeve of Annie’s coat. “Mommy,
look!
”

Henry had the ball. He was kicking it toward the goal, followed by a throng of players. Henry was not an especially good athlete, but, she had to admit, he had tenacity and at this moment in time it seemed to be paying off. “Go, Henry!” they all screamed at once, standing up and clapping their hands, and Henry miraculously kicked the ball into the goal. It was his first goal of the season. His teammates swarmed him, and all the people in the bleachers stood up and cheered. Michael and Annie joined in, shouting as if their lives depended on it until their throats were raw. They were shouting for Henry, and they were shouting because it was the only thing left to do that made any sense.

“I WONDER HOW your friend’s wife made out,” Michael said to her later that night in their kitchen. They were drinking a bottle of wine together at the table after the children had gone to bed. All the drapes in the house had been pulled, the shutters tightly closed, the doors dead-bolted. It was a terrible thing, not feeling safe in your own home. At his feet was his canvas bag, the one that contained the gun. He would use it, he decided. He would use it if it came to that.

He watched his wife across the table, her cheeks ruddy as a cheerleader’s after a game. God, she was pretty, he thought. She had a certain wholesome radiance. It had been a long time since they’d sat down together for a drink. Weeks, months even. It felt awkward sitting here with her now. Something tight about her, something concealed. It was just a hunch, but he had come to know when a woman was hiding something; he’d seen it enough in his practice, a certain withholding, a passive gaze of apology. For what, he did not know.

He swallowed more wine, wanting to get a little drunk tonight.
I’ve been granted mercy,
he thought dully, reflecting on the explosion, knowing that you didn’t get mercy without guilt. It was too late for guilt, he realized. Guilt wouldn’t get him out of this alive.

Annie touched his hand. “What did you say?”

“Your friend the painter. Haas? His wife came to see me this morning.” He did not mention the fact that Lydia Haas had not given her true name; he intended to call the police with that scrap of information.

His wife stared at him. “Lydia Haas came to see you at the clinic?”

“I figured it was because of you.”

“Because of
me
?”

“You know. Because of Haas. The article? I just assumed he recommended me.”

She was squinting at him fiercely. “What did she come in for?”

“A general checkup.” He paused. “She hasn’t been to a doctor in ten years.”

“I wonder why she went to the clinic? Why not your office?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to wait. There’s a three-week wait for a routine checkup on Hackett Boulevard. At the clinic, you can get in the next day.”

“Why the big rush?”

“What?”

“You just said she hasn’t seen a doctor in ten years. She couldn’t wait another three weeks?”

Michael shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Was she all right?”

“Sure. Yeah. A little freaked out, but other than that.”

“Freaked out?”

“Uptight. She had . . .” He hesitated.

“Had what?”

“Scars. On her thighs.”

“Scars?”

“I shouldn’t have told you. I just assumed—”

“Assumed
what
?”

“Well, because of him. Anyway, I met her once. Remember? Jack’s party.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.”

“When you and her husband were off in the woods together.”

Now she looked the other way. “We got lost, remember?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember.” And he left it at that.

“Don’t tell me you’re going in,” she said to him the next morning. “How can you possibly go in today?”

He stood there, tying his tie. “Why shouldn’t I? I have patients. I have rounds. It shouldn’t take me long.”

She was up, pulling on her robe, yanking the belt into a knot. “Michael, they tried to kill you. They bombed the clinic. Not just to destroy the building, but to destroy you, honey.” She tried to take his hand, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Annie, it’s what I do, all right? I don’t know how else to explain it to you.”

“I
know
it’s what you do, Michael. Believe me. Nobody has to tell me because you know what? You know what? I’ve been
right here.
I’ve been
right here
the whole time. So don’t tell me it’s what you do.”

I don’t need this.
“I’ll be at the hospital. Page me if you need me.”

And he left her there.

THROUGHOUT THE WEEKEND, Simon stayed in the house, tending his wife. Her condition had not improved. He brought her food on a tray. He changed her sheets and helped her to the toilet. He even showered her, squeezing the soap through her long yellow hair. Stroking her back, feeling the swell of bones underneath. In her dark glittering eyes they silently shared the awful thing she’d done. While she slept, he sat in the den gazing mindlessly at the news, the pervasive coverage of the bombing. He did not rebuke her for it, and he did not call the police.

Monday morning, at seven o’clock, there came a knock on the door. It was a cop. Simon’s heart rushed to his feet. He opened the door a crack, grateful that the dogs were in the cellar. Sensing an intruder, they began to bark.

“Hello, Officer,” he said, trying to sound amiable.

“Mr. Haas, is it?”

“Yes?”

“Is your wife at home?”

Simon felt himself hesitate. “Yes?”

“I’d like to ask her a couple of questions if I may.”

“About what?”

“Sorry, but I need to speak with her.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he heard himself say.

The cop’s head tilted and he smirked. “Why’s that?”

“She’s ill. It’s a”—he coughed into his hand—“a female problem. You know.”

The cop nodded as if this made perfect sense. “That’s along the lines of what I wanted to talk to her about.”

“Oh?”

“She had an appointment Saturday at a clinic downtown. You might have heard about it on the news?”

“My wife told me all about it. In fact, she was so frightened that her condition seems to have worsened.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She’s upstairs, in bed.” It was all the truth, he realized. “Would you like to come and have a look?”

“No,” the cop said carefully, then added, “I believe you, Mr. Haas.”

“Maybe when she’s feeling better? I could have her call you.”

The cop stole a look past Simon, briefly rising up on his toes. Simon hoped he hadn’t seen Lydia walking around. A tense moment festered. “I heard about your dogs,” the cop said finally. “Great Danes are they?”

“Misunderstood animals. It’s their size, you know.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll stop back later in the week.”

“Good. That would be very good.”

BOOK: The Doctor's Wife

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