by Carolyn Nash
I’d picked up the paper late Saturday after Andrew’s fever had abated somewhat. A discount store a couple of blocks over had a stand out front; after seeing the headline, I went inside, bought a prepaid cell phone, and called Cheryl from the alley beside the store.
“Chuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Put Cheryl on.”
“Who is this? Melanie? Melanie, are you all right?”
“Chuck, put Cheryl on.”
I heard Cheryl in the background, telling him to give her the damn phone. “Melanie, thank god. Are you ok?”
“Yes, fine. Cheryl you’ve got to let Maggie know I’m okay.”
“I will. But are you?”
“Yes, yes. Cheryl, have you told anyone anything?”
“No.”
I sagged against the brick wall behind me. “Thanks Cheryl.”
“Where are you? I hear traffic.”
“It’s better I don’t tell you.”
“I’ve been calling your phone and texting you. Why haven’t you answered?”
“I left it in the hotel room. I didn’t want anyone tracing it.”
There was a long pause. “I guess you didn’t go screaming into the night.”
“No, I didn’t. Look, I’ll be out of touch for a few days. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I heard Chuck’s voice, then Cheryl’s angry, “Who cares?”
“What?”
“Chuck wants to know if Andrew’s okay.”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Are you with him?”
“Yes. Not at the moment, but yes. Cheryl, the men who were chasing him, they shot him.”
“Call the police, Mel.” I heard Chuck’s protest and she angrily shushed him.
“No! I can’t call the police. I promised.”
There were several seconds of static, and then: “Mel, are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
I shivered in the cold breeze blowing in from the Bay. “No, but it’s a little too late to worry about that now. I’m in, and to tell you the truth Cheryl, I’m not all that sure that I can get out.”
“He won’t let you?” she asked, outraged.
“No,” I whispered. “I won’t.”
I pushed Saturday’s paper aside and dropped Sunday’s on the counter. The tone of the article had changed and story had moved to page one. My photo was bigger this time, an unflattering one that had been taken by the contest publicist while I’d been stunned by the news of winning my trip. I looked cold and vacant-eyed. The writer had begun to hint that I wasn’t an unwilling participant in the scheme, that from the information they’d gathered, I’d had ample opportunity to get away from Dr. Richards, but instead, had helped him time and again. The writer hinted the bank had begun an investigation into my work activities. They’d found the limo driver, Mr. Kent, and while clearly he had not been overly helpful, he had told the truth that Dr. Richards had been in his limo with me, and that we’d both seemed be in “some sort of difficulty.” The hotel employees, when pressed, had changed their story somewhat. Now I wasn’t nervous and obviously under duress, but rather, I’d been calculating, using them to get me and Andrew out of a nasty situation, that had I wanted to leave, I could have at any time.
But the innuendo and sly tone related to me was nothing compared to the outright disgust in the words about Andrew. Even when they blamed me, they made certain to assure their readers that it had been Andrew who corrupted me, Andrew who was playing at the game of being a scientist, only at the University because of daddy’s money, not capable of an original thought in his empty head. The quotes from J. P. Harrison were apologetic in that vein: he should have recognized earlier on that Andrew was incapable of the research and study necessary to become a scientist. He hinted he had been under undue pressure to move Andrew on through his dissertation. He’d been against the granting of the Ph.D., but had had no choice. The tone was penitent, humble, with just enough self-deprecation to make it totally believable.
Near the end of the story, a short quote from Chuck angrily disputed all the implications as slanderous lies, but the reporter carefully described Chuck as a “young, shaggy-haired graduate student whose blonde companion is a friend and former coworker of the missing Melanie Brenner.”
I leaned on the kitchen’s tile counter, looking down at the paper, feeling the confusion and weariness fighting with the doubts the insisted on trying to resurface. And if I, who knew Andrew, still had doubts, I could see now why he had run. If I, who… cared about him couldn’t bring myself to trust his story, how could a scandal-hungry public?
Under my left hand, the Saturday newspaper photo of Andrew stared up at me. That moment frozen in time: him just starting to laugh, dressed in a tux, just walking into a party, the light in his eyes clearly evident even though the photo was a poor black and white reproduction of the same color magazine shot that Cheryl had shown me in People an eon ago. The newspaper had been sloppy in trimming the photo so that Caren Granzella’s fingers were still visible, resting on Andrew’s arm.
I shoved the paper away. The morning sun was coming through the window over the sink. I moved over into the light, closed my eyes and let the heat bake into me. Even standing upright, I could feel myself start to doze and drift.
A thump outside, followed by a loud chattering, roused me. In the backyard, three birds fluttered upward, screeching back at the white Persian who stood in the center of the wrought iron table, twitching his tail, staring up at them in frustration.
I grinned. “Round four hundred to the birds.”
After I’d stashed the groceries, I took the rest of my supplies and headed up the hall, past the living room, to the bedroom.
Sunlight entered through the French doors and lay in a long cross-hatched rectangle across the room and over the bed. Andrew lay on his back across the mattress, the blankets twisted around him so that one long leg and his chest were bare. I knelt on the mattress and felt his forehead. It was cool to the touch. In the morning light I could see a pink flush beneath the stubble of his beard. I pulled the sheet gently out from under his leg and straightened it over him.
I stood and yawned and stretched until I felt my back crack. I started to run my fingers through my hair and drew them back in disgust. Andrew had his sponge bath, but about as close as I’d come to a real bath was a two minute shower the day before.
A shower. Suddenly, nothing sounded any better than a very long, very hot shower. I dug in the grocery bag, pulled out shampoo, soap and a package of disposable razors. Glory.
Half an hour later I walked from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my hair, wearing only the giant crab t-shirt which hung down to mid-thigh. Andrew was still asleep. I carried my freshly washed underthings outside and draped them over one of the wrought iron chairs, then yawned and rubbed at my hair with the towel as I walked back in, spread a blanket near the patio doors and sat down cross-legged in the sunshine. It was gloriously warm. Through the French doors I could see the blue sky through the grey-green fronds on the branches of the little mimosa tree that stood in the garden. Light glinted off the leaves of an elephant ear palm that sat at the tree’s base. I closed my eyes. I sat on a beach in the Caribbean, no, Bermuda. The sand beneath me was warm and soft, the wind blew through the palm trees, the waves ran up the shore, retreated, the crackle of the rocks on the sand audible as the water tumbled them over, then pushed them back.
I combed out my hair, not opening my eyes. Finally, I eased down on the floor, stretched out on the blanket and was almost instantly asleep.
The sun had moved halfway across the room by the time I woke. I lay on my back and stretched my arms over my head lazily, then sat up and ran my fingers through my hair, lifting it up, fluffing it out. I stretched again, letting my hair fall through my fingers. God, I felt good. It was the first real sleep I’d had since we’d arrived, and it had been deep and wonderful. I looked out into the garden, blinked, and then, belat
edly remembering where I was and why, turned quickly toward the bed.
Andrew sat, propped by pillows against the wall, watching me.
“Hello,” he said.
“Andrew!” I jumped up and ran to the bed. His eyes followed me. I knelt as gently as I could on the mattress and brushed my hair impatiently out of the way. “You’re awake!”
“Yes.” He reached out and lifted my hair up and let it drop down my back. His fingers brushed my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I managed to say. “How do you feel?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Remember those Road Runner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote would fall off a cliff?”
I nodded and laughed.
“And then an anvil would land on him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then the piece of cliff that he’d been standing on broke off and fell on the anvil that had fallen on him?”
“Yes.”
“And then he’d crawl out from under the anvil and boulders and the Acme truck would come around the corner and flatten him?”
“Yes! All right! I’ve got the point,” I laughed.
He nodded. “I don’t feel quite that good.”
“Even so, I’m glad you’re awake.”
He grinned. “Thanks. Now, one question. Where the hell am I?”
“This, my dear Dr. Richards, is your lovely garden apartment rented by your long-suffering wife here.”
His eyes widened. “You managed to rent an apartment last night? It had to be after eight o’clock when we left the hotel. How in the world did you do it?”
I shrugged. “Bribery, deceit. And, Andrew, it wasn’t last night.”
“What?” Andrew tried to push himself upright, winced and fell back against the pillows. “How long have I been out of it?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Good God!” This time he sat all the way up. “What’s been happening? Is Lance okay? Has there been any trouble with the police? You’ve been dealing with this on your own?”
“Andrew! Andrew, calm down. It’s okay.”
“It’s far from okay. Melanie, I am so sorry I dragged you into this.” He threw back the sheet and I quickly looked at the ceiling.
“Holy… Where are my clothes?”
I heard the rustle of cloth and looked back down at him. His face was flushed.
“Drying outside. I washed them.”
He began pulling his legs around to the edge of the mattress.
“Stop!” I jumped up and ran around to stand in front of him. “Damn it! Andrew, it’s not going to do either one of us any good if you break open your wound! Lie back and relax. Please.”
“I have to get up.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked up at me. “I, uh, need to go to the bathroom.”
“Do you want me to bring you something?” I said, as matter-of-factly as I could.
“No! I mean, no, I can’t ask you.”
I turned, squatted down beside him. “Andrew, it’s Sunday.”
A red flush crept up his neck and colored his cheeks. “You didn’t have to… I mean, I didn’t…”
I rolled my eyes and attempted a nonchalant grin. “No, you’re right, you didn’t. For the sake of propriety, the gods prevented anything from leaving your body for the last 48 hours. You didn’t even sweat.”
“But…”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, well you try waking up and realizing that I’d been taking care of your naked body for two days and see how you feel.”
My cheeks flushed. My whole body flushed. I had one of those instant mind movies: me lying on the bed, Andrew using a warm, soapy washcloth to…
“Sorry,” Andrew said.
I shook my head and shrugged, but I couldn’t look at him. I listened to a bird out by the patio, to the traffic on the street out front, and then I heard him try to rise again.
“Stop, Andrew.”
“I’m getting up.”
I considered for a moment and then knelt down in front of him. “Let me see the bandage,” I said.
He pushed the sheet down. He sat on the edge of the bed, the sheet pulled across his lap, the rest of him bare, and I became very conscious of the fact that I wore only a t-shirt and that my bra and panties were hanging outside, near his shorts, drying. The wrapping was still clean and white; there was no sign of leakage or bleeding.
“Pretty professional looking job,” he said.
“Harry—the bellman? Harry knew a medical student who needed some extra money. She bandaged you and gave me a supply of antibiotics.”
“Remind me, if I ever get shot again, to have you around,” he said.
I shrugged. “It was no big deal.”
“No big deal.”
I gently pushed on the bandage and watched his face. Not even a wince. “Okay. We can try to get you up. But, if you feel any sharp pain, we stop, agreed?”
No answer.
“Agreed?”
“No promises.”
“Hmm. Do you want your shorts or not?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then I’d better get a promise that you’ll tell me if something starts to feel wrong or you’re going to be jaybirding it to the bathroom.”
“Jaybirding? Oh, as in naked as a?”
I nodded.
He stared at me and then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Blackmail. I never would have thought it of you.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah, well, think it.”
He laughed, but I couldn’t help but notice his eyes flickered toward where my breasts moved under the t-shirt. Perhaps dramatic gestures were not the best idea just at the moment.
Andrew managed his shorts. He was also stronger than I’d thought he would be and only needed a little help from me with balance. The main trouble was that when he put his arm across my shoulders and my arm went around his waist, I might as well have been trying to hold onto a column of flame. Never, never in my life had I even suspected that just touching a man’s skin could make me react in such a way.
At the door to the bathroom he stopped. “I can take it from here,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I struggled to regain some measure of control. I forced myself to look him in the face. “Okay, but if you pass out, fall over, crack your head open and bleed all over the tile, I’m not cleaning it up.”
The corner of his mouth lifted again. “Deal,” he said and closed the door.
I went outside, retrieved my clothes from where they were draped over the patio table, then heard a thump from the bathroom.
“Andrew?”
I ran in and started to open the door when the knob turned under my hand.
Andrew pulled it open. “I just dropped the seat,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Do you… need help?”
He shook his head, took a step, swayed, and then said, “Maybe just a little.”
I helped him back to the mattress and to ease back down, but he did most of the work himself.
“Maybe this was just a flesh wound,” I said.
Andrew grinned. “Told you.”
I laughed.
He looked at me for a long moment. All hint of humor faded from his face and he took my hand in his. “Thank you, Melanie.”
I shrugged and, of course, blushed. (I’d give a lot to discover the cure for blushing.) “You’re welcome. It was no big deal.” Even as I said that, I knew it was a stupid thing to say, but I didn’t know how to handle gratitude; never had been able to.
“You keep saying that. Excuse me, but what wasn’t a big deal about this?”
“It’s not like I knew what I was doing,” I said. “I just sort of made it up as I went along.”
“You helped me on the plane, in the airport. You get us out of the hotel, find an apartment late on a Friday night, move in a practically comatose man, and then nurse, feed, and watch this man for two days and n
ights and it’s no big deal?”
“Well, you don’t have to get mad about it,” I said. I smiled, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“No big deal,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard me speak. “No big deal, she says.” He shook his head and looked at me as if he were considering the fact that he wouldn’t have to go to the expense of a commitment hearing; the judge, jury, and the court appointed psychiatrist would fight each other for the chance to sign the papers first.
“Sorry.”
Andrew rolled his eyes and raked back his hair again. “Now she’s apologizing.”
“Look,” I said. “What do you want from me?”
Andrew looked at me, his face serious. “I want you to admit how amazing you are.”
I rolled my eyes and began to laugh. “Oh, good grief.”
He wouldn’t laugh with me. “Come on. Admit it.”
I pushed off the mattress. “I don’t have to stay here and take this.”
He grabbed my hand, pulled me back. “Yes you do.”
I stopped. “Please don’t do this,” I said softly.
He wouldn’t let me go. “Melanie,” he said. “I want you to believe me.”
“Please don’t do this,” I whispered again, trying to twist my wrist from his grasp as tears burned my eyes.
Andrew held on tighter. “Why?” he demanded.
I stopped, startled by his tone. “What?”
His hold loosened, but his hand wouldn’t let me go, and neither would his eyes. “Why won’t you admit how special you are?”
“Because I’m not,” I cried suddenly, and I turned away, biting down on my lip in horror before anymore of the words pressing to spill out could do so. The cries wanting to be heard and understood: Because if I was special my parents wouldn’t have left! If I was special, I wouldn’t be alone! If I was special, you wouldn’t love Caren, you would love… I shook my head, desperately pushing that thought away, afraid suddenly that he’d be able to read it in my eyes, see it in my face.