Le Remède

by Densie Webb

  Chapter 32

  Andie

  Maybe I just need to sweat it out. I can get in a quick thirty-minute workout, shower at the gym, and still make it to work more or less on time. I’d rather focus on anything but what I’m feeling right now. I grab my gym bag prepacked with workout clothes and loop it over my shoulder; it’s been gathering dust in the same spot in the corner of my bedroom for weeks. The weeks since I met Vincent. More evidence that he’s bad for me.

  The gym is only two blocks away. Mack and I joined together. As we signed on the dotted line, we made a pact over a drink at Lizzie Borden’s that we would become fitness nuts, ripped. She lasted exactly a week and a half. But she’s still paying the monthly fee. I kept going.

  Those workouts made me feel powerful, full of self-pride and hope. In control. Today, as I slide my key card in the door, I begin to wonder if I can even make it through fifteen minutes on the treadmill, much less thirty on the StairMaster.

  I quickly change into my workout clothes and tie my hair back into a ponytail. I stand in front of the mirror and check out my reflection. Putting mirrors in a gym is a stupid idea; I look like I should be heading to the ER instead of the gym. As I lean over to tie my shoes, a fresh wave of nausea washes over me, I take deep breaths in and out until it passes.

  In the exercise room everyone looks so determined, so healthy, so alive. I step on the treadmill, set it for three miles an hour, no incline, and I last exactly ten minutes.

  Back in the dressing room, I’m perspiring heavily and my hands are palsied. I attempt to pull myself together, trying to ignore the rawness of my emotional state, the electric shocks that feel like a joy buzzer in my brain. Something is seriously wrong with me. And I’m convinced Vincent is somehow responsible. I open my locker, sit on the bench, pull out my phone. Vincent has answered the text I sent before I left for the gym.

  Your lobby after work.

  “Sorry, but are you okay?” A concerned gym rat is checking on my wellbeing. “Yeah, thanks. Just overdid it.” She must have seen my mini-workout because she raises her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah, you gotta be careful when you’re just starting out.”

  I have to be careful about a lot more than that.

  ****

  Peter wanders into the office around one o’clock, minus his usual effervescence, heads straight to his office, and in complete opposition to his open-door policy, shuts it behind him. I wait a while, then stand in front of the closed door and listen for a few seconds before knocking tentatively.

  No answer.

  “Peter? It’s Andie. Everything okay?”

  My question is met with an uncharacteristic silence. I knock again.

  “Peter?”

  I open the door. He’s curled up on the sofa in his office. I walk over and tap him on the shoulder. “Peter? Are you okay?’’

  Groggy, he sits up. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

  But he doesn’t look fine. That makes two of us. He drags himself over to this desk, twirls the chair in circles and stares at the ceiling.

  “Do you believe there’s anything after you die?” he asks as if in the middle of a conversation.

  “Um, before my parents died I did. But now I’m not so sure. Why?”

  “What about reincarnation? I kind of like the idea of coming back over and over again until you get it right.”

  I like that idea too. So many things I would do differently. Where would I be now if I hadn’t—

  “I have metastatic liver cancer,” he blurts out. He leans back, clasps his hands behind his head.

  I gasp and reach across the desk, but he doesn’t unclasp his hands.

  “Oh my God, no. I’m so sorry.”

  “I just thought I had gas.” He chuckles to himself. “Doc says I have maybe six months. That’s if I want to subject myself to radiation and chemo—become a dead man walking.” He places his hands on the desk and I immediately cover them with my own. Tears silently stream down his cheeks. My own feelings are insignificant and self-indulgent by comparison and I feel small for having blown them out of proportion.

  He sniffs hard and tries to blink back the tears. “The kicker is, doc says most people who get liver cancer drink too much, are heavy drug users, have hepatitis. I never checked any of those boxes on medical forms. I’ve been a fucking Boy Scout. And for what? Maybe I should start using all those drugs I’ve been missing out on. What’s the harm now? Right?” He forces a cheerless laugh and I want to cry for the wrongness of it all.

  “I miss Zach,” he mutters.

  I’m sucker punched— I understand Peter's aching need for Zach all too well. I miss Vincent like I would miss my sight if I were to go blind.

  “If Zach were still with me, he would take care of me, make me tea.” He sighs.

  “I’ll make you tea.” I stand up and walk over and embrace him, kiss the top of his head.

  “Don’t do that,” he mumbles. “I haven’t washed my hair.” He looks at me and gives me a more familiar, Peter-like grin.

  “Can I do anything?” I offer, knowing I’m helpless to alter Peter’s fate—he’s only thirty-six and he’s going to die a painful death. How can it be that my parents were the just a few years older when they died? Deprived of so much life. Deprived of sharing that life. Deprived of a different destiny. Control is an illusion. Who knows what the future holds– for any of us.

  Peter drags himself around, zombie-like all day, but refuses to give in and go home. He makes me swear not to breathe a word to anyone, especially not to Patty. Somehow, the hours pass. Most of the time is spent Googling survival statistics (really horrible) and alternative treatments (really iffy).

  When six o’clock rolls around, a text comes from Vincent.

  In the lobby.

  The text is innocuous. But the feelings those three words trigger are anything but. Though I’m the one who insisted we talk, now I’m not even sure what it is I want to say. The last time we were together, he hurt me. I was strong, forced him out of my apartment, out of my life. Forever, I told myself. Now, it’s like I’ve set my own trap and I’m willingly stepping into its steel jaws.

  But I can’t help myself; the bait is irresistible.

  The elevator doors open and I catch a glimpse of Vincent. His back is to me, but I’d recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. I want to forget what he did, what I fear could happen again, and I remind myself of Mack’s friend, Heather.

  She believed she had found the one. Sam. He was attentive, considerate, interested in everything she had to say. She said he always knew what she wanted, what she needed, even before she did. He wined and dined her, brought her flowers for no reason. Even her mother adored him. Heather was the happiest she’d ever been. Then he moved in.

  She came over more than once with bruises she had tried, and failed, to hide. When he threatened to burn the apartment building down with her in it, she left New York, changed her name. I remember listening to her tale and some small part of me thought how could she not have known? Now I’m asking myself if I’m turning the same blind eye—blinded by love, lust, and some unnamable emotion.

  I try to harvest my previous anger, but I come up empty-handed. Despite my inner turmoil, when he holds his hand out for me, I rush into his arms before my actions register, before I have time to reconsider, before I can stop myself. The feel of his arms around me, the deep timbre of his voice as he says my name, his scent—pain relief ripples through me like a drug and I feel every bone, every muscle, every tendon, every cell in my body relax. I’m able to breathe with ease for the first time since I forced him out. He may be the cause of my sickness, but he’s also the cure.

  I’m not stupid. I know this isn’t normal, that no good can come of this obsession, but I don’t have the strength to fight it. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, leads me outside and hails a cab. Tethered, we enter and I hear him say “Riverside and 125th.”

  I don’t know where we’re going and I don’t care.

  Chapter 33
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  Vincent

  Andie’s breath has slowed and her heart is lazily pumping. I cannot wait any longer. I must tell her the truth. To end her confusion, her pain. I will leave no sin untold. I will make no effort to soften the harsh reality of my depravity. Or of our fated coupling. Will she laugh, think it a joke? Or will she run away in horror?

  I mentally rehearse my opening lines for our impossible conversation. “Andie, do you believe in the supernatural?” No, she’ll think I’m referring to ghosts and poltergeists. “Do you believe there are some things ‘beyond heaven and earth’?” Poetically quoting Shakespeare will not make it easier. “Andie, I’m not who you think I am.” That might open the door for the conversation. But this isn’t a conversation; it’s a confession, an admission of guilt. And she is the only one who can pardon me, absolve me of my sins. The dark reality of what I’m asking of her wraps its unforgiving tentacles around me, latches on and squeezes. Hard.

  When we pull up to the curb in front of my building, I pay the driver, support Andie’s limp frame up the front steps.

  With the click of the lock, I push open the front door and sweep her up in my arms, carry her to the elevator and into my apartment. I lay her down on my bed, gently.

  “Vincent.”

  For me, it is a song composed of a single word.

  “It’s okay. Sleep,” I whisper. I kiss her feverish forehead. Her eyes flutter, then close as she turns on her side and curls up in a fetal position. I’m overcome with the depth of my feelings. I fervently wish our positions were reversed. For her, I would give my life. If I had it to give.

  In the living room I pour myself a drink. My thoughts are frantic, unfocused, fireflies trapped in a glass jar. Hours pass and I’m no closer to formulating answers to the questions I know she will ask, when Nicholas walks in.

  “How’d it go with Andie?”

  “Shhh.” I nod in the direction of the bedroom. “She’s sleeping.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “I need to break it to her gently.”

  “Mate, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “You have to know this is not going to go well, no matter how gently you try to break the news.”

  I down the rest of my drink and pour myself another.

  “Care for one?” I ask.

  Nicholas heads to the refrigerator. “I’ll have a Carling.”

  He sits at the bar and his subsequent silence signals his preoccupation. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life-altering events, we haven’t spoken about what happened. I know he’s hesitant to turn to me when I’m dealing with such upheaval myself.

  “How are you coping, Nicholas?”

  He finishes his drink in a few long draws and goes to get another. “Been better, mate. Been better.”

  When he sits back down, a fresh lager in his hand, he says, “Whatever it is that kept me in check all those years has taken leave.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that I have come close to killing again. Twice. My willpower has faded and my appetite has increased in equal measure. That’s a zero-sum game I can’t win.”

  He shakes his head and looks out the window.

  “Help me to understand. What…what has happened, what has changed?”

  He turns to look me in the eye and, his voice barely audible, he says, “Andie.”

  “Andie?” I stand up straighter and take a step back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Not Andie specifically. But you being with Andie has brought to mind my Sarah. Over the years, I somehow managed to accept that she was in the past, yeah? I thought all the memories were six feet under, never to be retrieved.”

  He takes another draw from the beer. “I know it makes me a tosser, but seeing you and Andie together, knowing how you feel about her, and she about you, it brought memories of Sarah front and center.”

  He sighs and averts his eyes. “I remember so clearly. Neither of us could wait through the long engagement, all the formalities, the wedding, all that rot. So, late at night, we would sneak deep into the garden on the grounds of her family’s home and…” His lip curls into a half smile. “Impetuous youth.

  “You know, sometimes I can actually feel the scratch of the woolen blanket beneath us…when you’re so young and so in love, discomfort becomes another source of pleasure.” He closes his eyes. Nicholas waxing romantic is unexpected. When he opens his eyes, he says, “I know she’s long since passed. Truly dead and buried—thank God—but I miss her just the same.”

  “Nicholas, I’m so very sorry. I had no idea my connection with Andie was affecting you so.”

  He chuckles. “It’s certainly not your doing. I’m just trying to answer your question—My long-suppressed memories have come rushing in to fill the void and left little room for self-control. I saw Maisie and she reminded me so much of Sarah… I broke my rule of avoiding beautiful women.” He looks at me. “It was a good rule, you know. I should have known my limits. It’s just that…”

  “Just what?”

  “You’re able to maintain control with Andie. I thought I would give it a go. Something besides feeding on slags or shagging horny Kindred.” He pauses, wistful.

  “Bonkers, I know, but I thought maybe I might even be able to find something like a real relationship, something like you have with Andie.”

  He shrugs and walks over to the window and stares out at the river. “You see how that worked out. Just know that I’m trying. But my bags are packed, in case I can’t—"

  “Nicholas, no. I won’t hear of it. You gained control once, you can certainly do it again. I will help you—just as before.”

  He still hasn’t looked at me. “If it were possible for me to feel tired, Vincent, I would be exhausted. I don’t know how long I can fight this fight or even if I want to. You know the risks. My behavior could jeopardize the business, your life here. Your future with Andie.” He finally turns around and says in a hoarse whisper, “Even Andie herself.”

  Is losing my dear friend, my only friend, the price I must pay for having Andie in my life? Is this the universe righting itself? If I make this pact with the devil, take the cure, then Nicholas will truly be alone, with no way for me to ever help him cope.

  “You’ll be fine, Vincent. You can handle the shop. Anyway, we were going to have to close it and move on before long.”

  He sips his lager. There’s little left to say, so we sit in silence, as we have done countless times in the past, nursing our drinks and pouring more. He breaks our unspoken agreement of silence when he asks, “So, how exactly do you plan to tell Andie?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Nicholas and I turn in unison. She is standing in the doorway of my bedroom, her face slack from slumber, her hair in glorious disarray.

  “Where am I?” she asks, her gravelly voice barely a whisper.

  I rush to her side and wrap my arms around her. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. I guess I was way more tired than I thought.”

  She blinks several times. “Hi, Nicholas.”

  “Cheers, Andie.” He stands up. “Well, I’m sure I need to be someplace.” He smiles. “I’ll catch you later.”

  He grabs his beer and walks toward the door, but before he takes leave, he turns back to me. “Good luck, mate.”

  Andie turns to me. “What time is it?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Yes. Would you like some coffee?”

  She nods. “Is this your place?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Wow.” She looks around appreciatively, until her eyes land on Danielle’s portrait. She cocks her head.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  If I don’t say this now, I will surely break inside.

  “That’s my wife, Danielle.”

  “Oh.” She sighs and starts to turn away but stops and leans in closer. She turns to me, frowning.

  “It says 1862?”

 
I want this to be over. For her to have heard my explanation, processed it and accepted my truth.

  “Andie, come. Sit.”

  Though I’ve thought of little else but this moment, I still have no idea where to begin. I return with a hot mug of freshly brewed coffee and place it on the kitchen island. She’s still standing near the painting, looking around the room. “So, you’re really rich.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “I suppose that depends on how you define ‘rich.’ ”

  “Having enough money to afford an apartment like this.”

  “Then, yes, I guess I am.”

  I slide the mug toward her and she walks over, wraps her fingers around it, and brings it to her lips and blows to cool it off. She takes a sip and says, “Thank you. I needed that. I can’t believe I slept so long.” With the mug still in her hands, she walks over to the refrigerator. “I’m starving.”

  She opens the door and peers in. The refrigerator is full of bottled beer and nothing else. She slowly closes it, straightens up and glances at the fully stocked bar. She goes to the kitchen cabinets, opening and slamming shut each one. They are empty, of course. She reluctantly looks me in the eye. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  She sets the mug down on the counter and looks at me, as if she just remembered why she’s here.

  “Andie, it’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not sure what I think,” she says as she collapses onto a bar stool and looks at me. “Vincent are you—an alcoholic?”

  Before I start, I come around to where she is sitting. “No, Andie, I’m not an alcoholic, though that would be far easier to explain.”

  I straighten up and put her hands in mine. “Do you remember the night at Lizzie Borden’s when I asked if you believed in soul mates?”

  She says nothing.

  “The reason I asked you that…the reason you’ve been so ill…you and I are…”

  “Wait, how do you know I’ve been sick?”

  Her eyes widen and I hear her heart galloping in her chest.

  “What? What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m telling you that you and I are meant to be together. No, we must be together. Once we made love, we became like one. We are one. You need me.”