by Joan Hohl
“Not a thing.” The calm reply was directed at the street.
“But you said—”
“I lied.” He shot a mocking glance at her. “I figured it was the only thing I could say that might get you to go with me, and I had to talk to you alone, tell you.”
Helen felt that strange, disoriented feeling surrounding her again, and she shook her head violently to dispel it. “You don’t even know me,” she whispered hoarsely.
He stopped the car at the hospital’s main entrance turning to face her.
“I will before too long.” He lifted his hand from the steering wheel to cup her face, draw her to him. His thumb moved caressingly, disturbingly, back and forth across her cheekbone, then slowly to the corner of her mouth. “Don’t look so shattered, love.” His head moved closer, closer, and Helen couldn’t tear her eyes away from his mouth. His lips a mere whisper away from hers, he murmured, “I don’t understand it myself, darling. If I believed in reincarnation, I’d believe we have been lovers for a long, long time. I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even care. But I do know this. While I stood waiting for you in that hall, I knew I loved you and that you were mine.”
Stunned, Helen’s eyes widened as he spoke those incredible words, one thought screaming through her mind: I’ve got to get out of this car. His eyes held hers, motionless, breathless. His breath was warm against her face, the smell of the wine he’d had with dinner, mingled with the musky scent of his cologne, was intoxicating. When he finished speaking, she moistened parched lips, gave a strangled “No.”
Too late. His mouth touched hers in a kiss so sweet, so tender, it was almost reverent in its gentleness. It destroyed her resistance and with a sigh she went limp inside the arms that were suddenly around her, hard and possessive. His lips left hers, moved tenderly over her cheek, ruffling the hair at her temple.
“You’re trembling,” he said softly into her ear. “I know how you feel. I feel it too. Oh, God, Helen, I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve never felt like this before in my life.”
Unsure, frightened, not at all the cool, self-contained woman she knew herself to be, Helen stirred, tried to move away from him.
“I—I must go. I have a patient.”
“No.” His arms tightened. “Not yet.”
His mouth sought hers again, but she twisted her head, began to struggle. The word “patient” had pierced the curtain of mistiness that had covered her mind, tore the veil of enchantment that had encircled her.
“Let me go, Marsh.” Her voice was steady, controlled, the moment of madness had passed. “I want to go in ... now.”
Marsh sighed deeply but loosened his arms, then reached across her to open the door. “Okay, love, go to work.” Dipping his head quickly, he gave her a fast, hard kiss. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No, Marsh, I don’t—”
A long finger came up to touch her lips, silencing her. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Now go.”
She went. Out of the car, up the steps, through the door, and across the lobby, practically at a run.
Waiting for the elevator, Helen glanced at her watch, then looked closer. Nine forty-five? That couldn’t be the correct time! She swung around and her eyes flew to the large wall clock in the lobby. Nine forty-six. How could that be? The elevator doors slid back silently, and a frown marring her smooth brow, Helen stepped inside. She had been gone less than three hours, and yet it seemed such a long time since she’d left the hospital. Hours. Days. Half a lifetime.
A cold shudder shook her body as inside her head his voice whispered over and over again, “I don’t know how. Hell, I don’t even care. I knew I loved you and that you were mine.”
The words jarred in her mind, tore at her nerves, like the needle caught on a badly scarred record. Nails digging into her palms, Helen stared, sightlessly, as the doors slid open at her floor. The doors whooshed softly as they came together and the car gave a mild lurch before it began to move up again. The lurch, mild as it had been, startled Helen back to awareness. Looking up at the floor indicator, she grimaced in self-disgust and stretched her hand out to touch the button of her floor number again. What a fool you are, she told herself bleakly. You must need a vacation very badly. The doors slid open once more and this time she stepped out quickly, walked down the hall with a determined pace.
Kathy was leaving Jolene’s room as Helen crossed the floor toward it.
“Hang in there, Jo, you’re doing fine.” The nurse spoke over her shoulder, then turning, she flashed a smile at Helen. “That little lady means business, Doctor. She went into labor not long after you left and she’s gone from one stage to the other like that.” Raising her hand, she snapped her fingers three times in succession. “I just might have this baby before I go off duty, after all.” She grinned.
Helen grinned back, a sense of normalcy returning with the easy flippancy of Kathy’s tone. Marshall Kirk and the bizarre events of the last few hours were pushed to the back of her mind as Helen went into Jolene’s room.
Several hours later Helen stood in another elevator, her fingers idly playing with the keys in her hand. Jolene’s son, born less than an hour before, had weighed in at seven pounds two ounces, a lusty male, squalling his resentment of the whole procedure. Jolene was doing fine, sleepily content now that her fears were unrealized. A tender smile curved Helen’s lips as she remembered the bubbling joy young Tim Johnson had displayed on hearing her news.
The car stopped at the sixth floor and Helen stepped out and walked slowly along the hall to her apartment at the front of the building, a sudden thought wiping the smile from her lips. Tim Johnson had seemed so very young to her, and yet he could not be more than a few years younger than Marshall Kirk!
Hand none too steady, Helen unlocked her door, stepped inside, then leaned back against the smooth panels in sudden weariness. Memories of the few hours she’d spent with him flooded her mind, while a small shiver raced down her spine. What had possessed him to say what he had to her? Closing her eyes, she could almost hear his softly murmured words, feel his warm breath against her skin. Remembering the way she’d melted against him, her breath caught painfully in her throat. What had possessed her?
Opening her eyes, Helen pushed herself away from the door, hung her coat in the closet just inside the door and walked unerringly through the dark living room to the small hallway that led to her bedroom.
A flick of a switch cast a soft glow on the muted green and blue decor in the room, lending a sheen to the expensive dark wood furniture. Moving slowly, Helen sat down on the vanity bench, unzipped then tugged the boots from her feet. Uncharacteristically she tossed the boots in the direction of her closet. Lifting her hands she removed the pins that held her hair in a neat coil. Freed, her honey-gold mane flowed rich and full to her shoulders, and Helen’s fingers pushed through it to massage the scalp at the back of her head, gasping softly as the same tingling she’d experienced earlier that evening spread up her neck and under her fingers.
Stop it, she told herself harshly. Stop thinking about him. He’s a young man probably looking for a diversion, and an older woman is a challenge. Her eyes shifted to the mirror, momentarily studying her reflection. The makeup she had carefully applied that morning, and touched up before going to dinner, had worn off, leaving exposed her clear skin, now pale and somewhat taut, with tiny lines of strain at the corners of her eyes and mouth.
It was a beautiful face and Helen knew it. She would be a fool not to know it and she had never been that. The honey fairness, the classic bone structure, the full soft mouth were gifts from her mother. Her height, her clear hazel eyes, and her determination were gifts from her father. Helen recognized and accepted those gifts with gratitude.
Now staring into those hazel eyes, Helen silently told her reflection, he’ll find no challenge here. She had no intentions of getting involved with any men, let alone a younger one.
The mirrored eyes seemed to mock her knowingly. There was an attraction between
them. She’d be a fool to deny the energy sizzling between them. The antagonism she’d felt on first sight should have warned her. Yet, she had never experienced anything like that before. How could she have known?
There was very little Helen didn’t know about sex, except the actual participation in it. And that, she thought, biting her lip, was the most important part. What she had garnered from textbooks and lectures hardly qualified her as an expert. She knew what happened and the correct terms to define it, but without any real experience she was, in essence, abysmally ignorant.
Without conscious thought Helen brushed her hair and prepared for bed, her mind refusing to let go of the subject. She had come close, very close, to that real experience but she had backed away, almost at the last moment. And because of that long-ago fiasco she was still, unbelievable as it seemed, even to her sometimes, a virgin at thirty-five.
Slipping into bed, Helen lay still, eyes closed, wishing she’d not allowed her thoughts to stray in the direction they had. If she was still innocent, there had to be a reason, and her wandering thoughts had led to that reason. With a soft sigh of protest Helen saw a picture of a handsome, curly haired, laughing young man. Carl Engle, the man she had been engaged to while still in college.
Moving restlessly, she turned onto her side, trying to escape the memories crowding in on her.
She had been in love as only the very young can be, misty-eyed, seeing only perfection in the chosen one. They had seemed perfectly matched. They had shared the same interests in books, plays, music, movies, sports, and, most importantly, medicine. They had had wonderful times together; even studying had been fun, as long as they studied together. She had been seeing him exclusively for some months when he asked her to marry him and she had accepted him with only one condition: they would not marry until she received her M.D. Carl, who was planning on specializing in pediatrics, had agreed with a laughing “Of course. We’ll make a great team. You’ll deliver them and I’ll take over from there.”
Helen groaned and rolled onto her other side, her eyes tightly shut, as if trying to shut out the past. She was so tired, why did she have to think of Carl tonight? Marshall Kirk’s face replaced Carl’s in her mind and with another groan she gave up. Pushing the covers back, she left the bed, slipped into her robe and walked to the large square window in the wall that ran parallel to her bed. Drawing a slow, deep breath she stared at the dark streets six floors below, lighted at this late hour, only occasionally by the headlights of a passing car. Glancing up, her eyes scanned the sky, following the blinking lights of a passing Jet Liner. The night was cold and clear, the stars very bright, seemingly very close. A shudder rippled through Helen’s body and she wrapped her arms around her body seeking warmth. The stars had seemed very bright and close on that other night too.
She and Carl had been engaged six months and she was very happy, if vaguely discontent. Knowing what the discontent stemmed from was little consolation. Helen had been carefully brought up by loving, protective parents whose views on sex were rigid to the point of puritanical. She had been gently, but firmly, taught that a girl “saves herself” for her wedding night. The nights came, more often as the months went by, that Carl’s lovemaking became heated and his soft voice cajoled her coaxingly to give in. She had been tempted, filled with the longing to belong to him completely, to be part of him. But her parents had done their job well, and she had stopped him before reaching the no-turning point. In consequence she was left with mingled feelings of guilt and frustration. Guilt for having the perfectly normal urges that seared through her body, frustration at having to deny those urges.
That was the emotional situation on, what Helen had always thought of since, that night. They had driven over into Jersey to join friends at a beer and pizza bar to celebrate the end of first term. It had been a fun evening, with lots of laughter, as they solved the world’s problems, decided who would win the up-coming Oscars, and discussed the merits of the latest musical groups. By the time the party broke up, Carl was mellow with beer and feeling very friendly. Instead of heading straight for the Ben Franklin Bridge to Philly he found a country road and parked the car off the side of the road under the trees.
Another shudder, stronger this time, shook Helen’s slim frame and her arms tightened around herself, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms. To this day every word, every act that had occurred in that car that night, was as clear in her mind as it had been then.
“Why are we stopping?” she had asked, glancing out the window apprehensively. The area was very dark and desolate, and the idea of being stranded there scared her. “Is there something wrong with the car?”
Laughing softly, Carl had turned to her, (pulled her into his arms. “No, honey, there’s nothing wrong with the car. I just couldn’t wait to kiss you.” His arms loosened, hands moving between them to undo the buttons on her coat. When the buttons were free he pushed the coat open, down, and off her shoulders, tugging it off.
“Carl!” she’d cried. “I’m cold.”
The coat was tossed behind him as he slid from under the steering wheel, pushing her along the seat toward the door. “You won’t be for long. I’m gonna keep you warm.” His jacket followed hers, then his arms were around her again, jerking her against him with such force, it knocked the breath from her body.
“Carl, what—”
She got no further for his mouth crashed onto hers, jolting her head back with the impact. His lips were moist and urgent, his tongue an assault, and his hand, moving roughly over her back, slid between them to grasp painfully at her breast.
Shocked and angry at his rough handling, Helen had tried to twist away, her hand pushing at his shoulders. Her resistance seemed to inflame him and his arm slid around her again, crushed her against him. His lips slipped wetly from hers, slid slowly down the side of her neck.
“Come into the backseat with me.”
His slurred words caused the first twinge of fear. It was not an invitation. It was an order.
“Carl, you know how I feel about that. I want—”
She gasped in shock and pain as his teeth ground together on the soft skin at the curve of her neck.
“Carl! Stop you’re hurti— Oh!”
She hadn’t seen his hand move, only felt the pain as his palm hit her cheek. His mouth caught hers again, grinding her lips against her teeth. Near panic, blinded by tears, Helen struggled, pushing against him frantically. Suddenly she was free as, pulling away from her, he slid back across the seat, cursing as he flung her coat and his jacket onto the floor, out of his way. He pushed his door open, then slammed it so hard behind him that the car rocked.
Sitting huddled and trembling on the seat, tears running down her face, Helen had thought he’d gone to cool off and she jumped when she heard him yank open the backseat door behind her. The door next to her was flung open, and with a grated “Get out,” he reached in, grabbed her arm, and dragged her out of the car and around the backseat door. “Get in,” he grated.
Nearly hysterical, Helen hit out at him, screaming, “No, I won’t get in. I want you to take me home, now.”
“Damn you, get in.”
This time it was his fist that hit her face, and barely conscious, Helen didn’t even feel her shins scrape against the side of the car or her head strike the opposite armrest when he shoved her in and onto the seat. The next instant his body was on hers, pressing her back against the upholstery, one hand moving up under her sweater to clutch her breast, the other sliding up her leg under her skirt.
Her face, her whole head, throbbed with pain and she couldn’t seem to focus her eyes. She felt groggy and sick to her stomach and still she fought him wildly, silently.
“It’s your own fault, Helen. You and your damned wait-till-the-wedding-night bit. Well, I can’t wait anymore, and I won’t.”
His mouth crushed hers and his larger body, pressing down on hers, subdued her struggles, cut off her air. Consciousness slipping away from her, H
elen hadn’t heard the car stop behind them, but she did hear the sharp rap against the window, did hear the not-unpleasant voice of the patrolman when he called, “Break it up, kids. You’re not allowed to park here.” Not waiting for a response, he strolled back to the patrol car.
Jerking away from her, Carl stared out the back window, cursing softly at the retreating, straight back. Then, turning, he looped his legs over the back of the front seat and pushed himself up and over. Glancing in the rearview mirror at the patrol car, obviously waiting for him to move, he cursed again, then snarled, “Well, are you coming up or not?”
Curled on the backseat, swallowing hard against the sobs that tore at her throat, Helen didn’t bother to answer him. He waited a moment, cursed again, shrugged into his jacket, threw hers over the seat to her, then reached out to slam the door closed with a snapped, “Will you shut the damned door?”
Moving slowly, Helen straightened and closed the back door. Then, pulling her coat around her shoulders, she rested her pounding head back against the seat and closed her eyes, gulping down the nausea rising from her churning stomach. They were almost back to her dormitory before Carl broke the strained silence.
“I’m sorry I hit you, Helen,” he began softly then his tone hardened. “But a man can take just so much. We’re going to be married anyway, so what the hell difference does it make if we go to bed together now? No normal man could be expected to wait years to make love to his girl.”
Again Helen didn’t respond and she was ready when he stopped the car in front of her dorm. Without speaking, she pushed open the door, jumped out, threw his ring onto the front seat, and ran up the walk to the safety of the dorm, ignoring his call to wait.
Now, over ten years later, Helen stood staring out her bedroom window at a night very much like that other night, her face cold and uncompromising. Sighing deeply, she turned from the window, walked to the nightstand by the bed, her eyes pensive.
Over the years she had gone out with many men, had proposals from several and a few propositions, but something inside seemed frozen and she could not respond to any of them. Intellectually she knew that all men did not become brutal when frustrated, but emotionally she could not handle a close relationship, and when a light good-night kiss began to deepen into something more or a male hand began to wander she withdrew coldly, her manner shutting the man out as effectively as if she’d closed a door between them.