Short Stories

by Lanyon, Josh

  “I’ll tell you what I think. In my expert opinion, you’ve experienced a text book case of an anxiety attack.”

  I felt my mouth drop open.

  “You’re under a lot of stress,” he explained, as if I didn’t know. “I think this is just your body’s way of reminding you to slow down and take some deep breaths.”

  The relief was incredible. Like Christmas morning and the governor granting your reprieve all at the same time. I hadn’t realized exactly how terrified I was until the danger was past.

  “Then I’m okay? There’s nothing to worry about?”

  “I think you’re fine.” Was it my imagination or was there a special emphasis in the way Dr. Hoyle said “fine”. “I’m going to prescribe something so you can get some rest. Who brought you in?”

  “I drove myself.”

  “You thought you were having a heart attack and you drove yourself?”

  “I…uh…it was late. I didn’t want to bother anybody.”

  He let out a disbelieving exhalation. Not exactly a gasp. More like sucking in air to deliver his thoughts and opinions, but he restrained himself.

  “I live alone,” I defended. What I was really thinking about was that health insurance I didn’t have—and the price of an ambulance ride.

  “Well, Dr. Hoyle said, “is there someone we can call to come and get you now? A girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “A boyfriend?” He was smiling, teasing me. It was West Hollywood, after all. But was there another question there? His eyes didn’t waver. Was he asking me for a reason? Or was I projecting?

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I was startled to hear myself blurt, “I haven’t really come out.”

  Dr. Hoyle didn’t bat an eyelash. “That’s another source of stress, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.” God. It was such a relief to finally say it.

  There was a funny pause while I absorbed what I had just done.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Dr. Hoyle said with brisk kindness, “I don’t want you driving just now. Not after all this. How about if I drop you off? I’m off duty—” he checked his wristwatch, “officially—as of three minutes ago.”

  I didn’t know what to say, what to make of this. This couldn’t be standard procedure, but Dr. Hoyle (what the hell was his first name?) seemed too professional to be coming on to a patient. Too straight, for that matter.

  “You don’t have to,” I said awkwardly. “I could…call a taxi.” And pay for it with what? I’d be paying for this emergency room visit for the next few months.

  “I want to.” He seemed perfectly serious.

  “Are you sure?”

  He assented.

  “Well…okay. Thank you.”

  When he met me in the waiting room a few minutes later he had changed into a leather jacket and chinos. He looked mature and successful and I re-revised my estimate of his age again. Definitely older. One of the big kids.

  A little intimidated I accompanied him out to the parking garage. He kept up a relaxed line of talk as though this were all routine. Maybe it was for him.

  “How long have you been in L.A.?”

  I replied, “About eighteen months.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “I like it a lot. Are you a native?”

  “Oh, yeah. I grew up here. I went to Hollywood High. UCLA.”

  “I almost went to UCLA.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I ended up getting a scholarship to Berkeley.” That had been a big factor, but the other factor had been how far away UCLA seemed from home and everybody I knew and loved.

  Our cars turned out to be the only two left on the upper parking level. His was a battered, green Volvo. A few empty spaces down my Nissan Skyline GT-R gleamed dully in the fluorescent lights. A symbol of the money I hadn’t invested wisely.

  “I think we better drive yours,” Hoyle said, “seeing that she’s screaming take me to the pylons.”

  I laughed nervously. Tried to find my keys. “But then how—”

  “I can call someone to pick me up and bring me back to my car.”

  “This seems like a lot of trouble…” Still searching my pockets. There weren’t that many of them.

  “It’s no trouble.” He watched my increasingly feverish hunt and suggested in that same kind voice he’d used back when I was his patient, “Do you think you left them inside?”

  We went back inside and Hoyle directed the search for my keys which were finally located in the men’s washroom. He took charge of me and my keys and we headed back out to the parking structure.

  By now the drama of the night was catching up with me and I was feeling shaky and weird with reaction. Despite the fact that it was a spring night and not really all that cold, my teeth were starting to chatter and I couldn’t stop yawning. I was simply grateful when, outside, Hoyle slipped his jacket off and put it around my shoulders. It felt heavy and smelled of leather and that astringent aftershave I was beginning to associate with him.

  This time we didn’t talk on the elevator ride to the top level. Hoyle unlocked the passenger side and waited, till I was inside and adjusting the seat, to shut the door and cross round to the driver’s side.

  He slid inside and started the Nissan’s sometimes finicky engine with no trouble, shifted smoothly, backed up in a clean, precise arc, his well-cared for hands familiar and almost caressing the wheel. “Nice,” he murmured.

  I thought of his hands on me, impersonal in the emergency room—no, not impersonal. There had been kindness and caring there, but a distance that had not existed when he laid his jacket over my shoulders.

  I shivered.

  “Still cold?” He reached down, found the heater, flipped it on. “We’ll get this prescription filled first and then I’ll run you home.”

  Fine. I didn’t have energy to protest if he’d suggested disco dancing for eight hours and then abandoning me on the streets and stealing my car.

  “Okay?”

  I nodded. Realized he wasn’t looking at me. Cleared my throat. “Yeah. Sorry about this.”

  “Hey, just relax,” he said easily. “It’s all part of the service. I’m Jacob, by the way.”

  Jacob. It suited him. Low-key and grave and steady.

  We stopped at an all-night pharmacy. “I can get this done faster,” Jacob said and was out of the car and disappearing inside the building while I was still trying to decide if that was a good idea.

  I fell asleep waiting, and resumed consciousness to find a strange man sliding in beside me. I started upright.

  “It’s just me,” Jacob reassured, and there was something about his tone of voice and the words he used. It was like we’d known each other for years. Like we’d been crawling inside tight, dark places together for a lifetime.

  “Jacob,” I acknowledged huskily. His name felt odd coming off my tongue for the first time.

  I saw the gleam of his teeth and eyes in the gloom as he smiled.

  “So you want to tell me how to get to Larrabee Street?”

  “Right. Yeah. It’s Larrabee and Palm.” I gave him directions.

  As we drove through the dark, mostly quiet streets, I started to get anxious. What was supposed to happen now? Was he just giving me a lift home or was there more to this? What did he want from me? What did I want from him? Did I have to invite him up? Did he expect me to? Did I want to?

  I didn’t know him at all.

  For all I knew he could be an ax murderer. Half the killers on those true crime shows were doctors.

  My chest got tight again, my palms grew wet and clammy. My heart started jumping so hard I was surprised the seatbelt strap didn’t move. “You can park anywhere along here,” I told Jacob breathlessly as the complex came into view.

  “You don’t have parking?”

  “Well, yeah…yeah. The parking is…”

  He’d already figured it out.

  He parked neatly in the packed
garage. I felt myself going hot and cold with panic. Almost two in the morning. What next? What did he want?

  “Is it okay if I use your phone?” Jacob asked.

  Of course. The old can-I-use-your-phone routine.

  Who was he? Jacob Hoyle. What was a name? I didn’t know him. He hadn’t said to anyone at the hospital he was driving me home. No one knew he was here. He could do anything to me and no one would ever know. Fantasies of rape and murder flickered through my foggy brain.

  I stammered, “I…uh…I…”

  There was a moment of silence. Jacob handed over the little white bag with my prescription—which I belatedly remembered he had paid for.

  “I’ll call from the Mobile station around the block. Can I see your window from the street? I want to make sure you get inside.”

  Numbly I pointed toward the courtyard. Like that would tell him anything.

  “Okay.”

  Jacob got out of the car, locked the door and came around to where I was stiffly unfolding from my seat. He held the door for me, locked it, handed me my keys. I handed him his jacket. He draped it over his arm.

  I dropped the bag with my prescription. He bent to pick it up. Our fingers brushed as we exchanged the bag once more.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. When you get inside, turn the light on,” Jacob instructed. “And I’ll know you’re in safe.”

  Safe. What a wonderful word. A word from childhood really because once you left home nothing was safe ever again. Everything was up to you, everything was on you, and you either made it or you didn’t. But safe was a word like home and it conjured images of warmth, comfort, someone who cared….

  “You can’t see it from the street. My apartment faces the pool and the courtyard.”

  “Then I’ll wait and you can wave from your balcony.”

  “Thank you, Jacob.” I felt like an idiot. What the hell was I doing? I was being a jerk and this guy—this attractive, nice, caring guy was about to walk out of my life forever.

  He acknowledged curtly. “When you get in, make yourself a hot drink. Something without caffeine. Take one of those tablets and go straight to bed.” He smiled, though it was brief. “Doctor’s orders.”

  I nodded. We walked out of the parking structure. I glanced sideways at him. He glanced sideways at me. His hair looked silver in the grainy light, his eyes black. He patted his pockets, handed over a card.

  “If you want to talk sometime, give me a call.”

  “Talk?”

  “I’ve been out a long time, but I remember how it feels.”

  I took the card and dropped my keys.

  Jacob gave a muffled laugh and retrieved them. He handed them to me. “With anyone else, I’d think you were trying to say something,” he teased.

  A light went on in the abandoned warehouse of my brain.

  Good thing I didn’t write mysteries because we had walked out of the hospital together, his fingerprints were all over my car, he’d picked up and paid for my prescription, and now he was patiently standing in the lamplight for anyone to see. He couldn’t be plotting anything too sinister.

  I said nervously, “Jacob, why don’t you call from my apartment?”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. Embarrassingly, my teeth started to chatter.

  “You really do need to get inside.” He draped his jacket around my shoulders once more. It was like having his arm around me as we walked through the main entrance. We stopped at the security intercom, the gate opened, and then we were inside the grounds with fountains splashing to the right and the scent of jasmine and citrus mingling with smog. The palm trees and tall lamp posts threw bars of shadow across the stone walkways and dark windows.

  “There’s a koi pond in the back,” I said.

  “That’s nice,” Jacob said.

  We went upstairs and I fumbled tiredly with my keys until I finally managed to get the door open. Jacob followed me in.

  “Sorry it’s such a mess,” I said, finding the light switch.

  Jacob shut the door and looked around himself. I imagined his place was probably as spic and span as an operating room. I pictured something modern and utilitarian. Steel frames and glass tops.

  My living space, on the other hand, was a clutter of books, clothes, papers. The computer sat on the dining room table, screensaver rolling an endless view of outer space. The stereo was on but silent. Trash bins overflowed, the sink was full of dishes, there were books everywhere. The dining room walls were paneled in bookshelves—which was ultimately going to cost me my deposit, but so be it. There were books stacked on the floors, the counters, the tabletops, every conceivable flat surface including the top of the fridge.

  Jacob’s brows rose. All he said was, “I like it. Early Dewey Decimal, isn’t it?”

  “I’m a little obsessive,” I admitted.

  “Do tell.” He grinned at me.

  It was hard to believe he was standing there. Not that I hadn’t had friends over, but not a friend like this. Not a friend who was maybe going to be more than a friend.

  But was that the case? The minute the thought took form, I shied away from it. Too soon. Too soon to get my hopes up. Especially when I didn’t know what my hopes were.

  I walked into the kitchen alcove, still wearing Jacob’s jacket and opened the empty cupboards. Shut them. Opened the fridge.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure.” He was examining the prints on the living room wall. Vintage watercolors of the French countryside I’d bought as an exchange student. “These are nice.”

  “What did you want?” I asked doubtfully, still studying the empty shelves of the fridge. A couple of beers and a small, forgotten carton of fried rice. Not much else. “There’s a bottle of chardonnay. I think it’s pretty good. Or would you like an MGD?”

  “I’ll have a hot drink with you.”

  That was a nice way of reminding me not to mix booze and tranquilizers. “I don’t know if I have anything without caffeine. I thought caffeine was one of the nine essential amino acids?”

  “Do you have any milk?” Jacob joined me in the kitchen which seemed too confined to accommodate all that confidence and vitality.

  “A little.” I sniffed doubtfully at the blue and orange carton. Checked the label. “I guess this is still good.”

  Jacob took it from me, checked it. “This will do. Do you have any cocoa?”

  “Ovaltine?”

  “Ovaltine’s fine.” He was smiling. Laughing at me? It put me on defense, made me self-conscious. Maybe if we were meeting on an equal footing, but I’d been at a disadvantage from the start. It’s hard to be charming when you think you’re dying.

  “The phone’s over there.” I nodded to the wall. I knelt to open the cupboard and started searching for a saucepan.

  I felt his silence as well as heard it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him set down the milk carton on the counter and go to the phone. I heard him punching buttons.

  Then, “Rob? It’s me.”

  Rob. Well of course there would be a Rob. Nobody like Jacob was available. Not for long. Not in this city.

  My throat tightened up. My eyes blurred. The bridge of my nose prickled. I stayed crouched down, hidden by the counter and sink. What the hell was the matter with me? I’d only just met him.

  Stomach in knots, I listened to him arrange for Rob to come and pick him up.

  Jacob hung up and I wiped my nose hastily and started rummaging in the cupboard again.

  “It’ll take him about thirty minutes. Is that going to work?” Jacob walked back into the kitchen.

  Halfway inside the cupboard, I nodded, banged my head—hard—and withdrew, blinking away tears.

  “Sure,” I choked out. I made to wipe my face on my sleeve, realized I was still draped in Jacob’s jacket and, to my horror, started to cry for real.

  It was silent, mostly, but it’s not like you can hide that. Not from someone standing two feet
away.

  “What’s the matter?” Jacob knelt beside me. “Ford?”

  “Nothing. I hit my head.” My throat ached with the effort of restraining sobs—God help me, they tore out anyway.

  What the hell was the matter with me?

  “Jesus, how hard did you hit it?” He turned me towards him, tilted my head up, examining me. His hands were cool, gentle. Through the mist of tears I could see him frowning.

  I gulped out, “I just don’t feel so great.”

  “I know you don’t.” He did the completely unexpected then and folded me into his arms. Just a hug. Just…strong arms and a warm body. Comfort. Friendship. Just not being alone for a few minutes. In that instant it meant as much as someone throwing me a life preserver.

  I cried into Jacob’s shoulder, which was conveniently broad and built to withstand flood rains. Poor Jacob. No good deed goes unpunished. But he bore up pretty well, patting my back and every so often making a sound that fell somewhere between encouraging and shushing.

  Eventually I managed to get myself back under control. Not so under control that I pulled away from him. Or loosened my own grip. “I’m really sorry,” I managed. My eyes felt swollen. My face felt hot and sticky. No one looks good when they cry—and I hadn’t been at my best before I broke down.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” Jacob reassured.

  His jacket slipped off my shoulders. “This floor is none too clean,” I warned him.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I gave myself a second and then confessed, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m not like this. I swear to God this is not me.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice as he asked, “No? What are you usually like?” This time I didn’t mind the smile.

  I sat back. “Normal.”

  We were still close enough that I felt his laugh. “You seem nice and normal to me.”

  “Obviously you see a lot of nuts in your line of work.”

  “I do. I can spot them a mile off. Here’s the deal,” he said seriously. “You’re probably batting about 378 on the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale. You’ve got a lot of stuff going on right now. A lot of stuff you’re working through. But you’ll get through it. You just have to remember to take care of yourself.”