Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures

by Merry Jones

  She asked me as if I’d know. I reached out, held her hand. She didn’t wait for an answer, kept talking.

  I closed my eyes. I think they’d given me pain medicine. Maybe I was just numb and exhausted. But I drifted, and fading, I saw Charlie in the distance. He called to me, held his arms out for me, and disappeared into haze.

  It was sometime after lunch. I’d managed to feed myself some noodle soup and yogurt with the arm not connected to the tube. Left the rest untouched. Now I was alone in my room in the medical center, lying in a drugged daze. Drifting. Dropping in on my past. Visiting life with Charlie, our good times, when I’d still held happy illusions about life, about Charlie. We were in the den, sharing a bottle of Shiraz. Watching an old mystery movie—Charade? Or Arsenic and Old Lace? Something with Cary Grant. And chowing down on white pizza with spinach. Or maybe shrimp. Charlie flashed me a steamy smile, and my heart did a fluttery dance. Oh God, I missed him. The good Charlie. The one I’d thought I’d married. Picturing him, I could almost hear him breathing, smell his Old Spice. Or not Old Spice—something sharper. Wait—had Charlie changed his aftershave? Did men even shave after death? Never mind. I was losing the memory. Went back to it. We were in bed, now, lying side by side, staring into each other’s eyes. Charlie put a hand gently on my cheek and ever so lightly placed his lips on my mouth.

  Wait. I held my breath. The kiss felt real.

  And the lips. Weren’t. Charlie’s.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Hey, there.” Alain pushed a wisp of hair off my forehead, smiling. He pulled a chair up beside the bed. Sat. Took my hand. His teeth gleamed white against his tan. “You awake?”

  “Hi.” I tried to return his smile, felt my lips crack.

  “You’ve been sleeping most of the day.” He furrowed his brows, focusing like a doctor. “Do you have any pain?”

  “No, no pain.”

  “I didn’t think you would. We’re giving you painkillers.”

  Yes. I was swimming in them. The IV tube was pumping them into my arm.

  “You were in a sorry state last night.” He studied me. I felt like a specimen in a lab. “You gave me a fright, Elle. But you look much better now.”

  I did? Oh. I hadn’t thought about how I looked. I put a hand to my hair, felt tangles and frizz. Became aware of gauze patches on my hands and forearms. Touched my face. Felt another patch on my cheek. And one on my chin.

  “Those will come off tonight. They’re mostly for protection, to keep the wounds clean. A good deal of grit and dirt had worked their way in; it was a job cleaning them out. But the knife wounds shouldn’t scar. And the abrasions were superficial; they’ll heal well. I think you’ll be pleased with your results.”

  My results?

  “I sutured you myself.” His voice was low, intimate. His head glowed, backlit by the window.

  “Thank you.” My mouth was dry. I licked my lips, tasted blood where they’d cracked.

  “In a few months, I doubt you’ll be even able to locate the spots where your cheek was cut. Or your clavicle, for that matter. Thank God, the blade struck where it did. Another few inches, she’d have cut your common carotid artery.”

  I saw the blade swing, felt the whoosh of air. A sting.

  Alain took a breath, frowning. “Your leg, however, was a challenge. Tissue was damaged in and around the wound. Even so, I’m confident I minimized the scarring there. You’ll have a mark, but over time, it should fade and become less noticeable.”

  He tried a smile. It didn’t work.

  I squeezed his hand, asked for some water. He held the glass for me, put an arm out to support my back. My ribs ached, my head felt heavy, and the distance seemed far from the pillow to the glass, but finally my mouth made contact with the rim. My fingers wrapped around Alain’s, tilting the glass, trying to pour the water down my throat.

  “Slowly, Elle. Just little sips.”

  I ignored him, gulping. Breaking into a spasm of coughs that made my ribs shriek.

  “You need to be patient, Elle. It will take time to get your strength back.”

  I was still coughing, holding my sides. Couldn’t respond.

  “But there’s no reason for you to remain in the clinic. You are being discharged and can leave as soon as you are ready.”

  Really? I looked around for my clothes. Didn’t see them.

  “Susan brought over some fresh clothes.”

  Was he reading my mind? He held up a plastic bag, laid it on the bed.

  “So, you can go back to your hotel suite to rest. But I’d like to propose an alternative.” He paused, eyes zeroed on mine. “Why don’t you stay at my place? I can monitor you, make sure you have no infection or pain.”

  What? Stay at his place? I looked away. Didn’t know what to say.

  “As you know, I’m not a bad cook.” Again, he attempted a smile.

  “Thank you, Alain.” I cleared my throat. Reached for the bag.

  “Does that mean yes?”

  I didn’t meet his eyes. “It’s generous of you to offer.”

  “Oh. It means no?” He tilted his head. “It’s not a marriage proposal, Elle. It’s a doctor friend, offering to care for you for a day or two.”

  “But I leave in two days.”

  “No. You’re here for two days. You leave on the third.”

  How did he know that?

  “I spoke to Susan.”

  Again, he answered my thoughts.

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s no imposition. You can stay just tonight or as long as you want. You can come back to the hotel during the day if you feel up to it or rest all day beside my pool. Ana, my housekeeper, will assist you. It’s up to you.”

  He smiled, but his eyes dug deep. He sat close to the bed. Again, I wondered about him. Why was Alain so interested in me? What did he really want?

  “Alain, I should go back to my friends.”

  He let out a breath. “I understand. You should know, though, that I have already talked with them. My invitation was made with your friends’ interests in mind. Becky wants to spend time with her lover, but she’ll feel obligated to stay with you if you go back to the suite. Jen is still recovering from her procedures and doesn’t feel capable of helping you. And Susan, well, quite frankly, she was very shaken by what happened to you. In my opinion, she needs rest. If you’re there, she won’t. She’ll feel the need to mother you.”

  Oh.

  I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My throat choked, and my eyes blurred. I blinked away tears. Alain had essentially told me that my friends didn’t want me to come back to the suite. That I would be a burden.

  I bit my lip. Felt a jab where it had split. Not only did they want me to stay out, Susan had even packed me a bag.

  Alain waited, watching me. I felt cornered. How could I say no? But if I went to his house, would he expect me to sleep with him again? Once a man had sex with you, he expected it again, right? I couldn’t even consider it. Didn’t want anyone close to me, let alone touching me. I recoiled at the thought, closed my eyes. Maybe he’d disappear. Maybe I’d wake up in my own bed, back in Philadelphia. Maybe Charlie would be next to me.

  “Elle, don’t feel any pressure. You would be my guest, no strings. Just rest and recuperation. No obligations of any kind. Nothing physical, especially in your condition.”

  What was the deal with Alain and my thoughts? Was he probing my brain?

  “How about you come just for tonight. You’ll see how it goes, how you feel. We can take it one day at a time, okay?”

  I reached for the bag of clothes, held my ribs, and sat up to get out of bed. Something plummeted inside my skull and the walls whirled. I lay back against the pillow.

  “Take your time,” Alain said. “You might feel dizzy.”

  Might? Maybe it was the drugs. When they wore off, I’d be steadier.

  Then again, when they wore off, I’d probably hurt all over. Damn. I had bandages all over my body. Would I
be able to change them myself? Bathe myself? Take my own medicine, make my own meals? I wanted to be with Susan and Becky and Jen. I belonged with them, would feel comfortable with them. But Alain was right, it wouldn’t be fair. I shouldn’t make them take care of me.

  “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll come for one night.”

  “Excellent.” Alain called a nurse to remove my IV.

  He waited outside as the nurse helped me put on the loose sundress and flip-flops Susan had sent. The nurse also helped me fix my hair. I didn’t look in the mirror, didn’t dare.

  Alain took me out of the clinic in a wheelchair and helped me into his car. He put the top up, maybe to protect me from the wind. Maybe to hide me from public view. Either way, I didn’t care. I felt far away, as if nothing happening was real. Or as if I were watching from the sky. Probably it was the trauma, the shock. The drugs. Probably I would be stronger in the morning and need to spend only one night at Alain’s. No big deal. After all, how bad could one night be?

  We listened to classical guitar. The sun had long since gone down, but Alain had lit a lot of candles. I lay beside his pool on a pillowed lounge chair, beside a half-empty glass of lemonade and a tray holding the remnants of dinner—tatters of tomato and rice. A few bites of chicken breast.

  I tried to be comfortable. Earlier, Alain had gone inside for a moment, leaving me alone. I’d been safe, and had known he’d be right back. It hadn’t mattered. As soon as Alain left, shadows had begun to dance, taking ominous forms, and unseen creatures had rustled in the foliage. Even the night air thickened, wrapping me in dampness and dark. I’d watched the candles, refusing to get rattled. Telling myself that that nothing was wrong. That Melanie was dead and no one else would hurt me. My senses, though, remained on alert, and I was palpably relieved when Alain came back outside. He was drinking something caramel colored. Whiskey?

  “Feeling better?”

  I was still woozy, but my bruised muscles were waking up and beginning to ache. My abrasions stung, and the places that had been cut and stitched were telling me about it. “Much better. And dinner was delicious. Thank you.”

  “If you have pain, let me know. I have your medication. Meantime, take this.” He handed me a pill. “Antibiotic. You’ll need to take them for the rest of the week.”

  I swallowed it with lemonade. Again, sensed movement behind me. Turned, saw only hedges lining the wall.

  Alain sat facing me. Leaning on his knees. “So. Do you want to talk?”

  Talk? We’d been talking for hours. All through dinner we’d talked about sailing, about whales and other endangered animals. About our childhoods, traveling, books. But Alain looked serious. Oh dear. “You mean about Melanie?”

  He tilted his head. “Yes, if you want to. Or about anything else.”

  Anything else?

  “Look, Elle. I understand you’ve been through a lot this week. You’ve had a lot on your mind besides what’s happening with us.”

  Oh. That anything else.

  “But when I saw you—Elle, honestly, when I responded to the call at the clinic and came in, I saw you lying there half-conscious covered with blood and, frankly, I wasn’t prepared for my reaction. I’ve already told you how bad I felt when you nearly drowned. Well, this—” He paused. “It was more difficult than I can say.”

  Actually, it hadn’t been a picnic for me either. But Alain’s eyes shone in the candlelight. Teary.

  Teary again? Was it a cultural thing to cry easily? Because in the last few days, I’d seen Alain almost cry twice, more often than any man I’d ever known. Hell, more often than any woman. Except Becky. So what was going on with him? Was he sensitive? Emotional? Melodramatic? Manipulative? Whatever it was, I felt bad for him. Took his hand. “Alain—”

  “You don’t need to reciprocate my feelings,” he went on. “I don’t expect you to. But I want you to know that you aren’t merely a conquest or another affair. I’ve already told you that. Look, I don’t know how it happened so fast. But already, in this short time, you’ve become—Elle, you’re very dear to me.” Slowly, he lifted my hand to his mouth, kissed it.

  In his eyes, I saw sorrow. Deep, tortured, bleak. That sorrow couldn’t possibly have to do with me; it was too old, too comfortable with its surroundings. Maybe caring for me—even just beginning to care—had reopened old wounds. Not the kind that could be stitched.

  “Well.” He blinked rapidly, looked at his watch. Took a breath. “It’s late. You’re tired, and I have to see patients in the morning.” He stood, reached for my hand, helped me to my feet.

  I leaned against him as I stood. Wasn’t surprised that his arms closed gently around me. Or that, when I looked up, he was waiting with a kiss. I wasn’t sure what I felt for Alain. And, even with his teary eyes, I wasn’t sure that he was sincere, that he wasn’t trifling with me, tossing out glib, manipulative lines. But that night, while my body hurt and the bushes rustled and the shadows watched, I was glad to have his arms around me, walking me inside.

  He asked if I’d prefer to sleep with him or alone. “You’re welcome to stay with me. And, obviously, I’d like you to. But you need rest. I don’t want to keep you awake.”

  I felt awkward about wanting to sleep alone. How should I phrase it? I hesitated.

  “It’s not a problem, Elle. Why don’t you stay in the spare bedroom? It’s right next to mine.”

  He opened a door, turned on a light. Revealed a room unlike the rest of the house. The walls were covered in baroque art and tapestries. A dark four-poster bed was draped with black lace. I stopped, didn’t walk in.

  “Whose room is this?” I already knew.

  “No one’s.” He looked away.

  We stood at the threshold, not moving.

  “Alain, I don’t think—” I began just as he said, “It was my wife’s.”

  “Your wife’s?” They’d had separate bedrooms?

  “She wanted her own space. She decorated it to her own tastes, as you can see. Sometimes she retreated into it. But, look, if you’re uncomfortable—”

  “Where is she now?”

  Alain let out a breath, withdrew his arm from my waist. “Why don’t I give you my room? I can sleep on the sofa.”

  “No, it’s okay. Really. This is silly. Let’s both stay in your room.”

  And so, we did. We lay side by side, chastely. Politely leaving a few inches of empty space between us. I wore one of his t-shirts; he wore boxers. Before bed, Alain checked my wounds, reapplied ointments, replaced bandages, removed gauze. He made sure I had everything I needed—from a new toothbrush to a sponge bath to a pain pill. Finally, the light was out. My leg hurt, my ribs ached; I waited for the pill to kick in. Wanted to drift off.

  “Alain—” I was going to thank him.

  “At the clinic.”

  What?

  “You asked where my wife is.” His voice floated over me, disembodied in the dark. “She’s been staying there. I’ve told you she’s disabled. Sometimes it’s worse than others. When she’s well enough, she comes home. But caring for her has become—I can’t manage it alone.”

  I reached across our no-man’s land and found his hand, took it.

  “It’s not that she’s completely incapacitated. She can walk on her own. She just needs a lot of care. She doesn’t function.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I blame myself, Elle. The accident was my fault. Her condition is my doing.”

  “Alain, blaming yourself won’t help her. It won’t help either of you.” In truth, I was simply placating him, saying what seemed appropriate. I had no idea what kind of accident had happened or what permanent injuries his wife had sustained. “You might have hurt her, but it wasn’t intentional. Accidents happen. You’re doing your best. And your best is all you can do.” I’d have kept going, but ran out of clichés.

  He didn’t respond. I lay in the dark beside him, listening to him breathe, holding onto his hand. In a few minutes, sleep began to close in on me. Vaguely, I fel
t him lean over and kiss me good night. And then I heard—or maybe I imagined hearing him cry.

  “Buenos dias, señora.” Alain was buttoning his shirt when I opened my eyes.

  I looked around. Light poked through the bedroom curtains. “What time is it?”

  “Not yet seven. Go back to sleep.” He bent over, pecked my forehead. Smelled like soap and aftershave.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I have to see a patient at the clinic, and then I’ll be back. My housekeeper will be here any minute. I won’t be more than an hour. Coffee’s made, and there are pastries. Your antibiotic is on the nightstand with some juice.” He nodded to my left.

  I turned my head. Saw the pill and the juice.

  “Thank you.” I started to get up, but stopped halfway. I was sore all over. None of my parts wanted to move.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Spectacular.” I winced as I reached for the juice.

  “I expect you’ll be stiff. Your bruises and muscle strains will probably bother you more than your stitches.”

  “Good to know.” I took the pill, drank the juice. Fell back against the pillow.

  “Sorry to run off. But you’re safe here. Ana will take care of you until I get back. If you need anything—even your pain pills, just ask her.”

  I nodded, thanked him. He put a hand on my head, smoothed my hair. Looked at me for a moment before leaving. I closed my eyes, heard his footsteps on the tiled floor and the opening and closing of the outer door.

  I tried to sleep again, but the house was too silent. Nothing moved. The place felt hollow. I strained to hear birds chirping or breezes rattling foliage. But the windows were closed, shutting out small sounds. The house sat still, empty, making no noise. I lay there, listening to nothing until it became a bellow. I rolled over, grateful for the rustling of the sheets. Aware that until Ana the housekeeper arrived, I would be alone.

  Alain had said there was coffee. If I got up and moved around, I’d stop fixating on silence and solitude. I debated the proposition with my body and, finally, it wasn’t relief from silence but the promise of pastries that won. I dragged myself out of bed, hobbled to the bathroom. Brushing my teeth, I glanced at the mirror. And gasped.