by Tiana Cole
Denise smiled before lifting her mouth to mine. The kiss warmed me more than the wine had, and not for the first time I praised myself for bringing her there.
Chapter 20
Denise
“Listen,” I whispered to Derek in the dark. After we made love we didn’t go to sleep, we just laid in bed talking as the night grew dark outside.
“I’m listening,” he said. “You have me as a captive audience.”
“This has been a really good weekend. I mean, I knew I liked you, but this weekend I've been able to see what we could look like, and it’s good.”
It was dark, but I could feel the smile on his face. “I agree.”
“We’re going back to the city tomorrow. You’ll have your cells and I'll have the paper, but we have to make time for this,” I told him as I gestured between us. “Our jobs can—and have—sucked the life out of us for years, but we both have a reason to create some boundaries now.”
I’d been pondering this when I was supposed to be napping that afternoon. In between drifts of sleep and alertness, I thought about what it would take to make the relationship with Derek work. With the conflict about the article behind us, we could just be together like normal people. I’d finally have someone in my life to call or text for any reason, a warm body to lie next to at night, and a set of arms to hold me. Not that I hadn't been in a relationship before, but to walk down that path with Derek already felt more committed and permanent than it had with any other man. It excited me.
Concerning the baby, I decided to wait and tell him after a few more weeks. Maybe wait until my first official appointment. I’d at least call around, find a doctor, and make contact when I returned to the office on Monday.
“Boundaries,” Derek mused. “What are those?”
“It’s time for you to figure them out. For both of us to figure them out.”
Eventually we fell asleep, and because it was Sunday morning, allowed ourselves to sleep late again. ‘Who needs breakfast when you can have brunch?’ seemed to be our attitude, and even though I woke up nauseous because my stomach was empty, I managed to get a few bites of a cracker down and stop myself from throwing up before Derek noticed.
It really would be nice when I could tell him. I had no idea how long I could pretend to simply be sick.
After brunch we cleaned up the cabin, made one more pass through town, and climbed into Derek’s sedan to drive back into the city. A beautiful mist hung around the edge of the lake and clung to the tall evergreens. The midday air was cool, promising that fall was coming sooner or later, and the sky was bright blue. For some reason I felt the need to memorize the scene, to pay close attention to the setting and the colors and how I felt that morning. The weekend was so special that it seemed vital.
As we neared the city we talked about when we could see each other next. I mentally reminded myself that my apartment could use a good cleaning, not to mention my kitchen re-stocking, if Derek was going to be coming over. Neither of us lived anywhere close to the other or close to each other’s work, so it would be a toss-up as to what we did together. None of that mattered, though. Just talking about the coming week in concrete terms was soothing to me.
Derek’s car pulled up to my apartment. He parked at the curb and helped me lift my small duffle out of the trunk, then he pulled me into his arms on the sidewalk.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Miss you,” I grinned. The smile on his face brought out a small dimple on his left cheek. My heart warmed. “What about you?”
He glanced at his watch. “Probably go by the lab. It’s been a few days. Without checking my phone, I have no idea what my little family of cells are up to.”
“I’m sure they missed you, too. Same with your little grad student did.”
Derek chuckled. “It’s possible that we’re a little obsessive around there.”
I snuggled closer into the circle of his arms. “Just a bit.”
Derek rested his chin on my forehead briefly. “Would it be weird to tell you I loved you?”
My breath caught in my throat and my heart rapidly tried to double its beats per minute. “No,” I said slowly. “Not at all.”
His arms tightened briefly around me, then dropped. “Good. Just checking.”
I scanned his face, loving everything about it, and pressed my lips onto his. “Don’t forget me this week.”
“Impossible.”
I stood on the sidewalk and watched him go.
***
When I was safely in my apartment, I methodically accomplished a short mental list before I would allow myself to think about work. First, I cleaned up the literal mountain of papers in the living area. For the first time in I don’t know how long, it looked tidy and livable. I sprayed the bathroom down with cleaner and gave it a quick swipe with a rag, then followed suit in the bathroom. After that, I changed the sheets on my bed before placing a grocery order online to get some food in my kitchen. Satisfied, I finally sunk into my couch, marveling how I allowed my job to control me in such a way that I seldom had time for relatively simple tasks like cleaning.
For the first time in over two days I pulled out my phone but was surprised to find only a few messages. One was from Skip, informing me to drive down to Decatur with Lucky the next morning to get the latest on the Macon County scandal, and the other was from the Layout department at the paper, asking if my submission for Monday’s paper had a tagline.
“Hmm,” I mused out loud. “Must have me confused with someone. I didn't submit a story for tomorrow. Skip said they’d just reprint an older column to fill that hole.”
I usually had a column on Mondays and Thursdays unless I was in the middle of a story that needed regular reporting, like an ongoing court case or investigation. When he let me off the hook about Derek, we’d decided I would write a short intro to the tax lawyer for Thursday which I wrote, submitted, and ran as planned. We agreed that he would run a reprint for Monday since I was going to be away for the weekend anyway.
I thought it was awfully nice of him to give me the time. Granted, he didn't know that I was away with Derek all weekend, but he didn't need to know everything.
Derek
Monday was the beginning of a new life for me. I could taste it as I fell asleep Sunday night and as the dawn light broke through my window Monday morning.
Although I’d told Denise that I’d stop by the lab, as I pulled away from her apartment building I’d changed my mind. Knowing my tendency to work late once I entered my lab space, I convinced myself to start out on the right foot and drove home. There I took a long, hot shower, picked up a book, and had a quiet evening to myself. By the morning I was ready to live my life as a free man. She had awakened me to the possibility of real life, and I was going to take it.
I had a full day, with a few patient appointments in the morning and a clinic shift in the afternoon. I was trying to get to the lab first, but traffic was slow. My car crept down Chicago’s clogged streets as the radio quietly relayed the day’s news. When I was almost to the hospital, Logan called me.
“Hey, Logan.”
“Um, Dr. Johnson, have you—”
“No,” I interrupted. “I haven’t been there since Friday. Are the samples okay?”
“They’re fine,” Logan assured me hastily. “It’s not the samples.”
“Then what is it?” I asked. My tone sounded impatient, and I tried to temper it. I disliked talking while driving, even with a hands-free set, and the traffic was making me antsy. “I’m sorry to snap at you, Logan. There’s just a lot of traffic this morning and I’m trying to get to the lab before my first appointment.”
I heard him sigh through the phone. “Then I'll let you go, Dr. Johnson. It can wait a few minutes.”
“Okay, thanks.” I disconnected the call and tried to concentrate on getting through the next intersection.
My phone rang again. The screen displayed the name of Tim, my chief of medicine. I’d
let it go to voicemail. I couldn't just talk on the phone to all of these people while I was driving.
Whatever they were calling about, it could wait.
Chapter 21
Denise
Lucky and I sat on the town square in Decatur along with all of the other local news crews. This time the arraignment would stick, both for the City Manager and the County Commissioner. It was good that Skip sent me down there.
That said, I was pretty miserable.
“Are you feeling better?” Lucky asked, watching me with a quasi-sympathetic look on his face.
I sipped my half-caf coffee with a glum sigh. “Somewhat. Physically, yes. I got tons of sleep this weekend and feel rested. I've learned that if I eat small meals I can keep from throwing up, although I still feel pretty nauseous at times. Still, I’m slightly bummed that my life has become so normal that I have to make these considerations.” I paused for a moment before adding, “That being said, I’m happy that Derek’s happened to me and made these changes possible. Does any of that make sense?”
The benefit of being only twenty-two gave Lucky a sense of worldliness and also a stinging tendency to be insensitive. “You’re a basket case, Denise.”
“Shut up.”
I watched with envy as he bit into a fully loaded breakfast sandwich with cheese, bacon, and sausage.
“Have you told him yet?” he asked around his food.
“No. I’m going to find a doctor this week. As soon as I can get around a laptop.” I checked my watch. Just past nine; the court hearing was set for ten. “In a few minutes we should make our way in there to get the best view.”
My phone buzzed. It was Derek. My heart leapt with excitement; a good sign considering it had barely been twelve hours since I’d seen him.
“Hey, how are you?” I answered cheerily.
“How could you, Denise?” he snapped.
My stomach clenched. This was not the response I was expecting.
“Excuse me? How could I what?”
His voice was taut. Seething. Cold. “The paper. Your article.”
And then, in the space of a second or two, it was as if someone removed blinders from my eyes. It was like the videos of terrorists with their hostages kneeling before them, their heads covered with dark cloth hoods. After brandishing their guns and chattering in another language, the captors lifted the hoods from their hostages with a grand flourish and their captives always looked around, kind of confused yet with a sense of enlightenment. That’s similar to how I felt in this moment. Confused, yet with a sense of enlightenment. This quickly gave way to dread, realizing an article had appeared in the paper that morning. One about Derek, and one that he clearly didn't like. An article that was half-written and left on my thumb drive along with the good article I’d written about him.
And my thumb drive was currently in Skip’s possession.
Skip.
That absolute rat bastard.
“Derek, listen, I—”
“I can’t believe you lied to me,” he interrupted. “You told me that your editor was going to publish a Human Interest story. Instead it’s an expose, Denise. It’s filled with wild accusations! I can’t believe you wrote this stuff! My boss is calling me. Maria’s parents just left me a message. I can barely leave my office!”
“Derek, will you just listen for a minute?” I spoke quickly before he could start again. “I didn't write it!”
“Well, it’s got your name on it.”
“Like the picture of you holding the box of organs? Things can be fake, Derek,” I reminded him.
“The only thing fake around here is you. I’m done with you, Denise,” he hissed before the line went dead. I dropped my hands to my lap, the phone cradled there. My heart was pounding and my chest felt tight.
Lucky was there, his hand on my shoulder. “Denise? What’s going on?”
I took several deep breaths, closing my eyes and trying to maintain my composure. Around us we could hear the signs of activity; the news crews were moving. Time to go watch some government officials get their hands slapped, and hopefully more.
Lucky pulled me by my elbow, lifting me from my bench. He turned me towards him and searched my face.
“Denise. Honey. Whatever just happened with your doctor friend, you’ll have to put on the back burner. Just for an hour. Can you do that?”
I focused on his face, on the sounds around me, and nodded. “Yes. An hour. And then you’ll let me fall apart and quit my job?”
He pulled back. “Quit your job?”
With a sigh I gathered my things, getting my notebook and pen ready before running my fingers through my hair in frustration. “I just might, Lucky. I just might.”
As we followed the other crews into the courthouse, I grabbed my phone and texted Skip:
You will not get away with this.
He was probably waiting for me, because he responded immediately:
It’s the news, honey. Your name is on that for life.
A surge of anger shot through me.
I am finished with you. I hope you know that. Finished.
What small satisfaction I gained from that message was dashed by his last response, after which I turned my phone off so I could focus on the story at hand.
Can you hear me laughing from here? You go ahead and try.
Derek
The entire day, which was supposed to be a day of great liberation and freedom, was instead a barrage of phone calls, texts, and emails all centered around one Denise Willard’s biweekly column in the biggest paper in the Midwest:
Internist Derek Johnson has all the appearance of goodness. An Ivy-League educated doctor and Chicago native, the handsome physician both sees patients from his office in a downtown hospital and cares for inner city patients at a free clinic in one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods. And he doesn't do it for the money, either. The recipient of a huge bequest from the proverbial long lost uncle, Dr. Johnson has no need to work at all, much less work in the worst of conditions, treating patients who can’t pay him and most likely won’t return for a thank you.
Dr. Johnson himself would tell you that he treats the poor because nobody else will, and he’s right about that, but is it possible he has an ulterior motive for his thoughtful actions? This reporter had only to look a few years into his past to find some interesting facts about the good doctor. First, that his beloved wife, brilliant and renowned epidemiologist Maria Johnson, died five years ago from an aggressive and nearly unheard of strain of Leukemia. Second, that the medical community suspects that this form of cancer works differently from others like it; namely, that it could be transmittable rather than a spontaneous occurrence, and that it’s possible Maria Johnson somehow acquired it during her copious hours of work with the inner city population. Third, that Derek Johnson purchased, with his own funds, the entire 8th floor of the hospital he works at and has outfitted it with high-tech equipment for his own use.
And this last fact, which has been researched and confirmed by this reporter, begs several questions: Does he have a research grant? Is he board-certified in oncology or cell research? Is he technically, legally, allowed to perform cancer experiments at his leisure? The answer to all of these questions is a resounding ‘no,’ so what exactly is Derek Johnson doing in that lab? This reporter aims to find out.
Sensationalist garbage. Utter trash. It was hard to believe that Denise was able to write something so obviously pandering, but it was there… with her name on it. What had she said on the phone? That it could be faked?
It didn't matter. Whoever had written it, Denise had certainly been a part of it. She’d either given them the information or contributed in part. I’d been the focus of the media before; both after Maria’s death and after my inheritance, I had to talk to a few papers. And, of course, the fateful interview after Rashid approached me for my cancer research. Never had my name been dragged through the mud as the Tribune allowed that morning, though.
After hanging
up on Denise, I changed the voicemail on my office phone. “Hello, this is Dr. Derek Johnson. I will not consent to an interview with any news outlet, although I firmly deny the allegations the Tribune printed in Monday’s article. Thank you.”
By lunchtime, my patient appointments were finished and I had a few hours before my clinic shift began. The homeless, at least, wouldn't care about the news article, unlike every other person I saw in the hospital that morning.
In the office at my lab on the 8th floor, I locked the door and took the phone off the hook before lying down on the sofa. Finally, after the horrible morning I’d endured, I could allow the worst of it to sink in: Denise had betrayed me in the nastiest way. That was undoubtedly what hurt the most. The news article, I could deal with. The allegations—all untrue—I would have been able to weather easier had she not been behind them. She was the same woman whom, just one day earlier, I’d uttered the three words I hadn't said to another human in five years. In fact, the last time I’d said ‘I love you’ was minutes before Maria slipped away forever. Saying them to Denise was powerful, significant, but apparently meaningless to her.
My fingers itched to call her again, but I couldn't decide why. Was I calling her to yell at her once more and extract my own pound of flesh, or was I hoping that there was some underlying circumstance that would excuse her so that I could forgive her?
It was both, probably, so I plunged my hand into my pocket and didn't call anyone.
Chapter 22
Denise
Getting through the court hearings—my quick, shouted questions at the lawyers and at the accused themselves, the standing around the courthouse, and the long walk back to the car—was definitely a struggle. I felt very much like I was trudging through deep mud wearing heels. The ability to keep distraction at bay lasted only until the press corp started packing up their things and heading back to their vans, and then I kind of fell apart.