by Melissa Yi
What? I wasn't the one who'd made advances at the bicycle stand.
But this wasn't the time to stand here and defend my honour. Every instinct screamed at me to get out.
I didn't want to run. Something told me to treat him like a mad dog and just calmly, quietly move away. "You know what? I'm beat. I'll take a raincheck on the wine, okay?"
I took three steps and scooped my skirt off the floor. I zipped it up while trying to keep my eyes on him. I refused to turn my back on him. "It sounds really fun, but I've got to—"
Alex's hand shot forward and grabbed my shoulder.
I tried not to scream. His fingers dug into my skin, but not hard enough to hurt. "Hey. Alex."
He didn't speak. His hot breath stank of peanut butter. His eyes were like black holes.
I glanced at the phone lying face-down on the bedside table. No way I could get to it. I still hadn't gotten a cell phone and my pager was in my mini-backpack by the doorway.
I cleared my throat. "Alex. Dude." My voice broke, but got stronger. "I'm just going to head home. The whole contact lens thing, you know?"
He scowled. Slowly, the pressure of his fingers eased, but he didn't remove them.
I backed away, easing off his fingers. "Right on."
His hands fell to his sides, but he didn't blink. His eyes bore into mine.
I took a cautious step back.
He bent down toward my feet. I stifled a scream, but he was scooping his khaki pants off the floor, the ones he'd worn to work, and rooting in the pocket. Without looking at me, he said, "You just crossed the line." He palmed a pack of cigarettes and pinched a lighter between his index finger and thumb.
"Okay." I continued to back out the room door, still keeping my eyes trained on him. "That's fine. I'll leave. See you around."
I hurried to the front hall, jammed my feet in my sandals, and shouldered my bag. We outta here.
As I opened the door, cool air hit my midriff. I kept going anyway and slammed the door behind me.
Once I hit the sidewalk, I looked down at myself. My shirt was hanging open, showing off my bra. I tied the shirt in a quick knot, covering most of my lingerie. I wished I'd kept the white coat on.
I looped my backpack straps backwards over my shoulders, wearing the pack on my front, to cover myself. I did not want to get on the subway like this. But I was alive. I'd take it.
"Wait! Alex's voice echoed down the street.
I waved a cheery goodbye. I would not revisit the apartment of a madman. I started down the street. "See you later!"
A student couple passed me. The woman glanced me up and down. They both looked from me to Alex, and then soldiered up the hill, blank-faced.
"Don't go like this," said Alex, more quietly. He pressed his lips together. I thought maybe his eyes glistened, but it might have been a trick of the light.
"Gotta go," I said, still walking, but slower now.
His lips quirked in a slight smile. "Well, at least take this." He lobbed a plain white T-shirt at me. It fell about four feet short, but I scooped it up. It looked and smelled clean.
"Thanks," I muttered. The couple was now half a block away, so I held my bag between my legs while I twitched the shirt on. It was too big. It hung nearly as long as my skirt. I probably looked like a girl playing dress-up. But I was decent and minorly grateful for it. I turned my back to him. "Thanks. 'Bye."
"Wait. Hope." His hand extended, a $20 bill curved over his index finger.
Did he think I was a prostitute or something? Confused and angry, I shook my head.
"For the taxi," he said roughly.
Oh. Just like that, a kernel of tenderness bloomed in my chest. I tamped it down, but it was there. Alex was my Achilles heel.
He met my gaze. "I don't want you taking the metro."
I hesitated. I have to say, it hadn't even occurred to me to take a taxi. My parents raised me to save and save and save and save. But I kept an emergency $20 in my bag
Alex shook the bill at me. "It's the least—I mean, Hope—"
His Adam's apple bobbed up and down before he said, more softly, "Please."
I hardly recognized myself when I was with Alex, bouncing into bed, running into the street half-dressed, oscillating between seduction and terror.
"No, thank you," I said. "I have money."
Alex said, "Let me call the taxi for you, at least. Please."
I hesitated.
"It doesn't have to pick you up here, if you want."
A woman approached us with a miniature dog on a leash. The dog stopped to root in Alex's pizza boxes. She jerked it away with some difficulty, and glared at me like it was my fault.
"Thanks but no thanks, Alex. I'll see you later." I headed south, where I could hear traffic and see people crossing the sidewalk. I flagged the first taxi I saw.
The black male driver hardly glanced at me in the rear view mirror. He just stared at the traffic while his radio deafened us with information about other pick-ups. Fine with me.
When he came to a stop on Mimosa, I handed him some money and ran down the small, lantern-lit concrete path to my apartment.
I threw the bolt on my door.
What just happened tonight?
When I lifted my phone receiver, the dial tone beeped. I had messages.
Alex, probably.
I threw the phone on the couch and started washing dishes. But then I had to get it over with. Not knowing was stressing me out. I scooped up the phone and punched in the numbers.
"For your—two—new—voice messages, press one one, now."
My heart hammered.
"First message," said the recording.
"Hope. It's Mom," my mother yelled. I closed my eyes and lowered the volume on her voice. "Where are you? I hope you're not working too hard."
My brother piped up. "Guess who we saw today at Yangtze?" That was our favourite restaurant. "Ryan!"
I choked. They won the "worst timing ever" award. No, wait. Maybe that was me.
Mom said, "I know you said it's, ah, over, but he looked very nice! Handsome. And he was with his family. No girlfriend. We asked his mother."
"Mommy," my father chastised under his breath and added, louder, "Anyway, we were just calling to say hello! We'll call you tomorrow."
The second message was from the moving company, promising that they'd come tomorrow. My temples throbbed. The Zippy company that did zip.
As soon as I hung up, I checked the dial tone in case Alex had just called. He hadn't.
Thank God.
Right?
I walked to the living room without turning on the light. Somehow, the darkness soothed me. The street lamp beamed through the window between tree leaves, allowing me to skirt the few boxes near the doorway and pick my way to my desk. The floor was cool and smooth beneath my feet. I picked Henry up and pressed him against my cheek. "I guess I was better off with you as my boyfriend."
He didn't answer.
"Right. You're the strong, silent type." My voice echoed in my empty apartment. I heard someone scraping furniture across the floor in the apartment above, and felt lonelier than ever. I stretched Henry full-length, his arms above his head, and laid him gently on his stomach.
Tonight, I needed someone more alive than Henry, but just as safe. I opened my laptop and brought up an old e-mail from Ryan.
Dear Hope,
Thanks for coming to my grandmother's funeral. It meant a lot to all of us. I love you....
I tore off Alex's T-shirt, my buttonless dress shirt, bra, white skirt, and soiled panties and launched them in the hall closet. I'd never wear any of them again. Back in my trusty nightshirt, I propped myself up in my sleeping bag, reading Ryan's e-mails until I fell asleep.
Chapter 16
By Friday, every minute of my ER shift, my head pounded, hangover-style. My back ached from the unforgiving bedroom floor. My tongue felt thick and furry, even though I'd brushed it, and my breath probably reeked of misery.
I tugged at the sleeves of my white coat, grateful that at least my cleavage was no longer on display for all of Montreal. A girl has to have some standards.
Dr. Dupuis was on. He cast me an appraising glance when I fumbled my presentations, but said nothing until I told him I was leaving for my family med clinic after one more patient. His face seemed to lengthen even more. I could hardly read his eyes as the fluorescent light bounced off his glasses. "Are you all right?"
I shrugged and tried to smile. "As well as can be expected, under the circumstances." It was a loose Anne of Green Gables quote.
He eased the last clipboard out of my hands. "I'll take care of this. Go have lunch."
I was too tired to argue. It was almost noon, which was the end of my shift. I'd only picked up the chart because I was trying to make up for my lackluster performance. Until now, I'd been humming along on barbed wire and bug juice, as Jack Nicholson put it. But after Alex, this bug had run out of juice.
I revived my spirits by sipping some literal, apple-flavored, juice from a glass bottle while sitting around the back of the FMC, under an anemic birch tree. I hadn't packed a proper lunch and didn't want to buy one. These calories plus my liver's gluconeogenesis would carry me through the afternoon.
The fresh air and grass under my feet buoyed me slightly, and I strode into my FMC clinic a few minutes early.
Dr. Levine, a tanned, barrel-chested man with bristly brown hair, shook my hand and boomed, "Pleased to meet you, Hope!"
I liked him better than Dr. C. already. Too bad Dr. Levine was no longer our team leader.
"How are you settling into Montreal?"
Until last night, I would have chirped, "Great!" As it stood, I demurred. "It's, ah, interesting. I'm not settled yet. I still don't have my furniture."
"Why's that?" he bellowed.
So then I summarized my saga of furniture-in-limbo, wishing I could pick another story that made me look smart and in-control.
"That's terrible! You don't even have a bed? I'll lend you a futon!" Dr. Levine looked distressed. "My son's home from university. We have some furniture just sitting there."
Tempting, but I didn't want handouts. "It's supposed to come today. I'll let you know."
Stan shook his head. "You should threaten them with small claims court. That'll get them moving."
We laughed at his inadvertent pun. Dr. Levine held out a mixing bowl. "At least have some microwaved popcorn. I didn't have time to bring anything better today."
I laughed. "I'll wash my hands first. Thank you."
He shook the bowl, rustling the popcorn. "Hygiene first. You're off to a great start already."
I shook my head and smiled. Why, oh why, couldn't he have stayed our team leader?
Even fueled by popcorn and a friendly supervisor, I ran a slow-mo, cotton-brained clinic. Dr. Levine prodded and encouraged and eventually sighed, "Have more popcorn" before feeding me the answers.
"Thanks," I said. Now I had an inkling of what the other residents were missing, after Kurt's death. Ideally, the FMC would be a refuge from our other rotations, our chance to learn family medicine and follow patients for two years. Dr. Callendar and the eroding building made it feel more like bamboo shoved under the fingernails. I'd settle for somewhere between the two.
I hid in my room, waiting for my last patient and writing my charts. 76 y.o. male, DM II, HT, COPD. CC: glycemic control. Even my writing was slower and more cautious than usual.
While I was surrounded by other people, I was okay, but as soon as I was alone, I started ruminating about the light in Alex's eyes, his smell of cedar and musk, his nimble fingers and tongue. He felt so right in bed and so wrong out of it.
I hated books and movies where women seemed to be punished for premarital sex. Nothing as obvious as a bolt of lightning, but they were still made to feel ashamed and defiled. So why was I living the stereotype?
Oh. Suddenly, I wanted to cry. I bit the inside of my cheek and blinked ferociously. You will not. You will not.
Two sharp raps on my door.
Alex. No. It wasn't his clinic day. I took a deep breath. "Come in."
Tori's face popped around the imitation oak door. Her kind expression made me grip the edge of my wood-veneer desk.
She sank in the patient's chair beside my desk and crossed her legs toward me. "I'm not going to ask you how you are. It's pretty obvious."
I hiccupped something between a laugh and a sob. "Don't you have a patient?"
"Mrs. McNally was my last one. So." She studied me. I cleared my throat and gripped my pen, its plastic edges making ridges in my fingertips. She said softly, "Alex, right?"
I laid down my pen, taking extra care to minimize the noise. "I know you warned me. I know I'm stupid."
She shook her head. "You're not stupid. Alex can be very charming when he wants to be." She hesitated, pressing her lips together. "I wish Kurt was around."
I frowned at her. "I didn't even know him."
"I know." She twisted her only ring, a topaz set in silver. "But he was great with this kind of stuff."
I snorted. "People getting fucked over?" I wanted to shock her, make her sniff and leave me alone.
She didn't hesitate. "Pretty much. Even people you wouldn't expect to open up, like Robin—"
She stopped there, as if regretting her words, but I pounced on them. Lily-white, geek-of-the-year Robin Huxley? "What did he talk to Kurt about? Type I and type II errors?"
She pressed her lips together. "We all have problems."
Well, whip my politically incorrect ass. "Do you know what his were?"
Tori shrugged. "Robin never talked to the rest of us. But Kurt used to talk to Robin, and it seemed to help."
Since I felt so selfish and miserable, I said, "Well, it's too late for me. Kurt's not coming back."
"Yes." Tori's brown eyes were level. "So I'm going to try and step into his place."
I blinked at her. "Why?" I was surprised enough she'd gone to the Jazz Festival with me. She might have been too polite to say no, but she didn't seem to have a stellar time.
She glanced at the closed door before turning back to me. "It sounds silly. But now that Kurt's gone, it's the least I can do for him. His memory."
I eyed her. It was all so strange. I couldn't deny I needed a friend. A real friend, though. Not a pity party. "I'm not a charity case."
She smiled slightly. "No?" She laughed at my injured face. "Just kidding. Look. Kurt helped us all the time, and not once did he make us feel pathetic, like he was too busy for us, or whatever. If he could do that for all the residents and all the medical students, I can handle being friends with you."
Gee, thanks. But at least she was honest and I respected her. I said heavily, "Okay."
"Okay." She smiled at me.
I smiled back. I did feel better. It feels good to have someone believe in you, even if you don't quite believe in yourself. "Does this mean you'll massage my feet?"
She gave me a strange look.
I laughed. "What, was that something even Kurt didn't do?"
"Not to me!"
We giggled together. I sobered. "Do you have any idea who held a grudge against him?"
She shook her head. "I doubt it's anyone we know. He must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Everyone had their pet theories. Alex and Mireille pointed their fingers at each other. Tucker suspected Dr. Bob Clarkson. But who had an alibi? And how could I possibly ask in a tactful way? "Yeah. What a crazy night. Did you and Tucker and Anu hang out at the Jazz Festival all night?"
"Until midnight," she said, pressing her lips together for a second. She knew where I was going with this, but she was willing to play ball for now.
"Alex and I went out for sushi, but then he took off," I said. "Do you know what the other residents were up to?"
"Well, one of the second years had a party, so a lot of people went to that," she said, surprising me.
"Really?" No one had invited me. Nev
er mind that it had been my first day and Alex had whirled me away on a date. I still felt left out.
"It was sort of a spur of the moment thing, I guess," she said, reading my mind. "Anu and Tucker and I wanted to hang out at the Jazz Festival anyway, so we called you. But Mireille and Robin—"
"Robin Huxley?" Even the town nerd got invited before me?
"Yes." She hesitated. Her head dipped before she met my eyes again. "I heard Alex showed up too."
My head spun. "On Friday night."
"So I heard. I wasn't there."
He ditched me for an "emergency" that was a resident party? If I hadn't already written him off, this would have sent him straight to jail, do not pass GO, do not collect $200.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I blinked them back and shook my head. The guy wasn't worth crying over, unless it was tears of joy that I'd escaped him. "I should make a spreadsheet of where everyone was that night."
She looked pained. "The police will find out."
I shook my head. "Yeah, they've done a great job so far."
"Even so, they've been trained far more than you or I."
"True." I paused. "Uh, did you spend all of Friday night with Tucker and Anu?"
"Of course not." She suppressed a smile. "You want my alibi for your spreadsheet?"
I shrugged, but of course I did.
"Anu went home before midnight. Tucker and I watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD until we fell asleep."
I didn't like picturing them on the couch together. Clearly, the guy had yellow fever. "So you were together all night?"
"He went home eventually. I didn't wake up enough to check the clock."
I turned to my patient's chart, smoothing the crease down the middle. "Do you do that often?"
"Check the clock?" When I raised my head, she was smiling at me almost maternally. "You're fun to tease."
I flapped the chart closed. "Really? 'Cause I don't like it."
"That's why," she replied. Her eyes glittered with amusement, although her mouth stayed sober. "To answer your real question, Tucker and I both like Buffy. But we've never done what you and Alex probably did. Satisfied?"