He was still crouching. “Then I’m sorry,” he said.
Now that she was sitting, he had to look up at her. He observed her openly without speaking. To her surprise she wasn’t self-conscious; rather, she felt comfortable with him.
“You’re not as strong as you make out,” he said.
“Are you?”
He reflected for a minute, then stood up. “I am when I swim.”
This was something new, she thought.
“When I feel really bad, I find the nearest pool and swim and swim till I can’t breathe anymore. I feel strong in the water; it keeps me afloat.” His hands were curled into loose fists. “But in the end it doesn’t matter. When your heart is dead, you can be strong. Mine’s just a lump in my chest. You can do almost anything if you don’t have to feel.”
She stood up beside him. There was no expression in his eyes as she brought the fingers of one hand together and pressed them flat against his chest. She tilted her head, played at listening to the ailing heart but the warmth of his body beneath her hand distracted her, the gentle breathing.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” she said at last, feeling his eyes upon her. “But as a doctor, I can say with confidence that your heart is alive and well — and lodged firmly in your chest.”
He seemed to be looking at her from beyond some gulf of distance or time. His gaze made her feel awkward and she began to pull her arm away. He caught her gently and clasped her hand to his chest with his own. She stopped breathing. His hand warmed hers against the delicate movement of his breast.
“It’s been a long time since I let someone get this close,” he whispered.
That seemed remarkable to her since her arm was almost fully extended. She stepped forward, insouciant. “How close?”
The line of his mouth relaxed, his eyes softened with bemused surprise as he watched her face, ten inches away. “Doctor —” he began.
“Rebecca.”
“I don’t think you understand. You can’t save me.”
“I don’t give up as long as there’s hope,” she said.
His full lips parted, she was close enough to see the sculpted line of his upper lip. “So where can you possibly see hope?” He asked this while still clasping his hand over hers, tight against his chest.
She squeezed his fingers and said, “Here.” She lifted her face to his, whispering. “And here.” Then she pressed her lips lightly against his wide sculpted mouth.
She pulled away, staggered by the silken warmth. He hadn’t let go of her hand though his eyes were closed, his brow creased in some distress. The last thing she wanted was to cause him more pain. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He opened his eyes and stared at her face a full minute, as if finding something there he had missed before. Then slowly, purposefully, he slid her hand from his chest up around his neck and drew her close. His soft mouth enfolded hers, burned with heat. She was melting into it, disappearing from the world gladly, dissolving into a lump of flesh and everything was gone except the arms pressing her waist strongly to his.
For two years she had forgotten how to feel desire. On the sectional couch in the den, Nesha reminded her. He probed her body like an explorer without maps, without compass, only instinct and passion to guide him. Nesha. His name was like the sound water made splashing over stones. Her head swam with his heat, with the tautness of his body arched against hers, the firm round muscles of his shoulders and thighs. His lips searched her breasts, her belly. She felt his bewilderment become hunger and she rejoiced in her victory over death. Hers as well as his. She rejoiced in the fever of her skin that burned where his hand touched. They made love in the hazy dark, the light of the street lamp splitting the night.
chapter thirty
Saturday, April 7, 1979
Why is it so cold? Isn’t it spring? Why am I shivering under the cover, a duvet filled with enough silky down to clothe a flock of geese? Rebecca opened one eye and became disoriented. There was no duvet, there were no bedclothes, indeed there was no bed. She was lying stark naked under the afghan she usually kept folded on the den sofa. A thin light filtered into the room. Dawn. The highlights of last night played out before her eyes: Nesha’s muscular body, his mouth sweetly pressing.... She craned her neck, still squinting from the light, to peer up at the other side of the sectional. Empty. Flown the coop. A one-nighter. He seemed more reliable than that. She looked over at the coffee table. There was a note.
Her arm reached out through the cold air. “Sorry to run. Call you later.” He must’ve taken down her number from one of her phones.
She wrapped the afghan around herself and started upstairs. No, check the front door first. He couldn’t have locked the deadbolt without a key. She hobbled down the hall to the door and clicked the deadbolt down. How long had he been gone? One hour? Two? The killer had missed his chance. Eyes screwed up against the incipient light, she hiked upstairs to bed and set her alarm for 8:45. Every new sound roused her as she drifted in a shallow sleep. The alarm woke her with a start. Exhausted, but awake. She had scheduled two hours of patients this morning, starting at ten.
After quickly showering, she pulled on a pair of beige linen trousers and a loose cotton sweater. She scrunched up her damp hair in her fingers, squeezing the curls into place. A bit of foundation on her skin, a bit of mascara, her cotton spring jacket, and she was out the door.
She drove down Avenue Road until it became Queen’s Park, then all the way down to College Street. Traffic was light Saturday morning and allowed her the opportunity of mentally reliving last night’s lovemaking. She was ashamed she had enjoyed it so much. Sorry to run. Call you later. Maybe Nesha hadn’t felt the same.
She parked in the back lot beside Iris’ Buick, the only car there since Lila Arons didn’t work on Saturdays. She unlocked the back door of the building and stepped in. Approaching the staircase that led to her office she knew something was wrong — the door was ajar. She stopped cold half way up, listening for every sound. Iris never left the door open. What if he were up there? She listened. Nothing but the sound of her own heart. Iris. Rebecca ran the rest of the way until a few steps before the top, when her eyes were level with the office floor. All she could see was Iris’ blonde head on the carpet.
“Oh, God,” Rebecca whispered. Iris’ large legs stretched out below her skirt, which bunched around her thighs. She lay face down on the grey carpet.
“Oh, God,” Rebecca murmured at the blood on the coiffed blonde hair. Please be alright, she thought, her stomach lurching in her mouth. She thought of David, who had died despite her; she thought of her medical degree on the wall, a blind piece of parchment that guaranteed nothing, especially not the safety of loved ones.
Do something, she screamed at her paralyzed body. What was the order? Think! Breathing, Bleeding, Brain, Bladder, Bone. It would all come back automatically if she could only lose the panic. She knew what to do; she just had to do it. She forced herself to move, almost watched from a distance as that other Rebecca rolled Iris gently onto her side and listened for her breathing. She brought her face close to Iris’ and watched her chest: slight but steady movement. Rebecca smiled. Okay, she thought. Okay. The pulse at her neck was weak but rapid. She lifted Iris’ eyelids: her pupils responded to light. Good. Iris’ hands were cold. She was in shock.
She ran to a small cabinet for gauze and pads. Crouching over Iris she applied pressure to the back of her head with a pad, wrapping long pieces of gauze around to keep it tight. That was when she noticed the wooden stool lying on its side behind her. It was kept in one of the examining rooms for her to sit on when she spoke to patients. It could have landed a crushing blow. Taking a closer look at one side, she could see blood on the wooden seat. She ran