by Bill Walker
3
THE BISTRO, AN ELEGANT little restaurant nestled into a one-story building erected in 1890, sat in the shadow of the sprawling new wing of Saint John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, where Armen had privileges.
Brian edged his Dodge Viper through the noontime traffic and found a space in the lot behind the restaurant. The valet smiled, remembering him. Throughout the drive, it had taken all his efforts to keep his mind from speculating about what the good doctor wanted to talk about. The trouble was, when he avoided thinking about that, his mind kept returning to Joanna’s e-mail. He’d left it on the screen, as if by shutting it down he might somehow lose it. He just wasn’t sure what bothered him more: the thought of losing it or the fact that he was concerned about losing it.
Locking the car door, he wondered if he should have taken the Expedition, instead. The Viper stuck out like a sore thumb, parked between a battered VW Passat and a dusty Toyota Forerunner. He’d loved it’s sleek metallic-blue exterior and dual white racing stripes when he’d bought it some years back; but now, even though it was still fun to drive, it seemed ostentatious somehow, almost decadent, not to mention expensive as hell with gas prices the way they were. He pocketed his keys, wiped a beading of sweat from his brow, and walked toward the restaurant, his sand-colored hair already plastering itself to his skull.
The coolness of the Bistro’s darkened interior wrapped its arms around him in a grateful embrace, the air redolent with a heady mix of continental spices. Even though it was just past noon, only a few tables were filled. Silverware and lead crystal glassware gleamed atop starched white tablecloths, and potted palms dotted the floor in strategic locations designed to give each group of tables the illusion of privacy. He spotted Armen toward the rear sitting at his usual table. Brian waved, and stepped past the upright piano, already feeling the midday heat leeching from his body.
“Hiya, Doc,” Brian said, sliding into the plush chair across from his friend.
Armen Surabian was a study in contrasts to Brian. Where Armen was stocky and developing a paunch, Brian was tall and lean. Where Armen had thick black hair that fell over bushy brows and dark penetrating eyes, Brian’s baby-fine locks were brushed straight back, cornflower blue eyes cool and steady.
Armen smiled, full lips parting to reveal white, even teeth. “We’ve already done that for the day,” he replied, laughing.
“And we’ve only been whipping that horse for ten years, old friend, why stop now?”
A waitress approached and the two of them ordered drinks. A Samuel Adams Light for Armen, chilled Evian with no ice for Brian. They kept to small talk until after the drinks arrived. Brian sensed his friend’s mood turning somber.
“Okay, out with it, why all the cloak and dagger? You said she’s stable.”
“And she is, that’s the problem.”
Brian frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
Armen took a swig of his beer and shook his head. “Penny’s been in a coma for almost two years—”
“Two years next month.”
“Her muscles have atrophied, despite our best efforts to keep them limber, and her brain waves show the same low levels they’ve maintained for all that time. She’s not brain-dead, but she’s not showing any improvements, either.”
“You’re not telling me anything new.”
Armen nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry, it’s—”
Brian leaned towards his friend. “What are you trying to say, that she isn’t going to get better, that she’ll never wake up?”
Armen’s eyes stayed focused on the table.
“Look at me, for Christ’s sake.”
The neurologist looked up, his expression tightening. “I’m sorry.... I’m just plain lousy at this bedside manner crap. Should have become a researcher. The truth is I no longer think the prognosis for recovery is viable.”
“Please do me a favor and cut the doctor talk. How many times do we read or see stories on the news about people waking up after decades? And how many times did you tell me things were going to get better?”
“Yes, that’s true, but—”
“I’m not finished. Why are you giving up, Armen?”
A dark cloud passed over his friend’s face. “I’m not giving up,” he said, leaning forward. “I never give up. I just hate to see you sitting there in her room every night...waiting. You need to get on with your life.”
“Penny is my life!”
The couple at the next table turned. Brian felt the hot flash of a blush rising up his neck to his cheeks.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He signaled the waitress. “Give me one of those.” He pointed to Armen’s beer. The waitress nodded and moved toward the bar. A moment later she reappeared, setting the beer down with a soft thud. Brian waved the proffered glass away and took a deep swig from the icy bottle, then sighed.
“Now I remember why I stopped drinking these. I liked ’em too damn much.”
“You okay?” Armen asked, placing a hand on his friend’s arm.
Brian shrugged and pulled away, gazing through the tinted glass at the traffic stopped at the 23rd Street light. “As okay as anyone can be with his wife in a coma and his little boy rotting in a grave.”
Armen looked stricken.
“I still can’t believe it, you know? I still can’t believe my little Joey isn’t going to come bounding into my study yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Daddy, Daddy, play toys, play toys!’ He was only three, Armen, only three goddamn years old.”
“I really wish I could be more of a comfort to you about all this,” Armen said, “I really do. But the fact remains that you need to face the issue of long-term care. A special facility. Keeping her at Saint John’s is going to bankrupt you.”
“Money’s not a problem.”
“Still, these facilities are top-notch and are better equipped to deal with the issues of those who are chronically comatose. I know one in Westwood that would be perfect.”
“No.”
“Please, Brian.”
“I want her here...under your care.”
Armen sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate that, but I’ve done all I can.”
Brian turned his gaze from the window. “You are giving up, Armen. Face it. And you want me to give up, too.”
“I told you, I—”
Brian lifted his hand, cutting off his friend. “I’m not blaming you. I guess I’m just feeling that I’m at the end of my rope. You know the new book I keep telling you about? Well, there isn’t one. I can’t get the damned words out anymore. Nothing sounds right—nothing. I should be in that hole next to Joey or lying in that bed instead of Penny, for all the good I am. She’d handle all this a lot better than I have.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” Armen said.
“Am I? I’m not so sure.”
Armen stared back at his friend. “I am. Losing Joey would have devastated Penny, as much as it has you. And having you lying in that bed would be as much a torment for her as it is for you. Don’t kid yourself. You were her rock. And you still are. She needs you as much now as she ever did. Maybe more so.”
Brian blinked back tears, shaking his head. “I know that. I just don’t know if I can keep going like this. At least when I was writing, I could lose myself in the story with the characters. But I don’t even have that.”
“You will.”
“Please, tell my agent that,” Brian said, a grim smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Nothing has to be decided now. I just wanted to give you the heads up. Of course, she can be here as long as you wish, and I’ll be honored to help with her care. And we’ll both pray for a miracle. Like you say, people are known to beat the odds all the time.”
Brian nodded, staring at the remnants of his beer. “Some people say I beat the odds when it came to my career.... Maybe so.” He raised his head and leveled his gaze at Armen. “But I’d give it all up in a New York minute just to have them
back for one more day.”
“I know,” Armen said.
For the rest of their meal, they talked of other things: the Red Sox and whether or not they would repeat their miracle, as well as the fine art prints that were Armen’s passion. An hour later, Brian drove the Viper into the garage of his Beverly Hills home, and sat listening to the ticking of the cooling engine.
Maybe it was time to think about getting on with his life, maybe a change of some kind would spur his writing. Lord knew he needed that. But what did that really mean? Dating? How could he do that? After all, just as Armen had said, she wasn’t brain-dead, but in the shape she was in that might even be a blessing. If she woke now, with her twisted limbs—
Brian pushed that image from his mind and climbed out of the car and headed into the house. After a quick workout on his treadmill and the requisite bench-presses, he showered, dressed and returned to the computer for another round of pointless auto-flagellation. However, when he brought the computer out of sleep mode, instead of finding the familiar blank page for his novel, there was Joanna’s e-mail staring him in the face. He read through it again—twice. It still elicited a disturbing mix of emotions: a quickening of the pulse, a quiver of joy, an overlay of guilt...and anger....
...I have so many unanswered questions, Brian.
“You don’t know the half of it, Joanna.”
He stared at her words for a moment longer, reaching a decision, then picked up the phone and punched in a series of numbers with a rapid staccato. It was picked up on the second ring.
“Romano Public Relations,” a silken feminine voice intoned.
“Hi, Evie, how’s tricks? You’re sounding more like a radio an-nouncer every day.”
The voice giggled and abruptly changed, rising in pitch and taking on the familiar Flatbush accent. “I’m doing better, aren’t I, Mr. Weller?”
“You certainly are. I think you’re ready for Prime Time.”
“And lose this cushy job? Forget about it.” She laughed. “Mr. Ro-mano’s on a call. You want me to have him return?”
“I’ll wait, if that’s okay.”
“Okay, by me.”
Evie clicked off, her voice replaced by a local New York radio station playing classic rock. Brian recognized the song. Boston’s “More Than A Feeling.” Even though he was only ten years old in 1976, when it was originally released, he felt a jab of poignant nostalgia. A perfect mirror of his present mood. Sometimes life was weird that way.
The music cut off.
“Hey, Brian, how’s it hangin’?”
Brian smiled. “About as well as one might expect, Kevin.”
He heard the other man sigh. “Sometimes I’m just an asshole,” Kevin said. “Too much hypola and you start thinkin’ it’s all true. You do sound good. You really okay?”
Kevin Romano was one of those rare types in the Public Relations field who actually gave a damn about his clients and his integrity, a quality Brian cherished. “I’m fine, really.”
“Good. So, what can I do to you today?”
Brian shook his head, his grin widening. The man was incorrigible.
“I need to get out of L.A. for a bit, shake out the cobwebs. You think any of the bookstores in Boston would be interested in hosting some signings for Vipers? I know it’s old news—”
“Old news! Are you kidding? Your book’s been in the top-frigging-ten practically forever! They’ll fall all over themselves. You wanna little tour? I’m your man. But why Boston, why not somethin’ a little closer?”
“Got a personal matter to deal with there, so I thought I’d combine it with a little business.”
“Smart boy. You should’ve been a publicity agent.”
“Then I wouldn’t need you.”
“Got me there.” He laughed. “Anyway, give me a couple of days and I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
“One thing, though,” Brian said. “I want a mix of stores, some Mom and Pops, as well as the chains. It gives a boost to those little stores, and it’s the least I can do. Besides, those big places make me feel like I’m in a Wal-Mart.”
“I can get you Target, too.” Kevin said, chuckling.
Brian laughed. “Shut up, you mook.”
“Hey, that’s why I love you, you put up with my lousy jokes.”
“And I’m beginning to wonder why.”
“All right, all right. Call me in a couple of days.”
After a few more moments of small talk, they hung up and Brian faced his computer once again. He clicked on the REPLY button and a new e-mail window appeared with Joanna’s address. He started typing, surprised the words came so easily.
August 20, 2006
Dear Joanna:
I must say I was surprised to hear from you after all this time. Pleasantly so. I’ve often thought about you over the years, wondering what you were doing at a given moment, and if you were happy. You see, you made quite an impression on me, too....
Anyway, you know what I’ve been up to, so I won’t bore you with a recitation of my career highlights, but I may be in Boston in the near future for some book signings. I’d love to see you, maybe take you out for dinner, if that’s okay.
I apologize for Doris, my agent. She’s a real watchdog, where I’m concerned. I’m surprised she even gave you the e-mail address. Then again, the cousin gambit was a clever one, as she knows I have a gaggle of those scattered across the country.
Brian paused, wondering if he should put in his phone number and decided against it. He wasn’t sure why, perhaps a part of him felt the need for a little caution, or maybe he didn’t want to burst the bubble, whatever the hell that meant. He resumed typing.
I’ll let you know when the dates firm up for my little tour and hopefully we can get together.
All my best,
Brian-
PS—Please give my best to Nick
Erik Ruby eyed the two oafs struggling to hang Joanna’s life-size photo, and felt the heat rising in his cheeks. In his mind, he saw the younger one with the low-rider trousers and backwards baseball cap tripping over the laces of his tatty Air Jordans and—
“Careful with that,” he snapped.
The two men froze, their expressions a mixture of fear, exasperation and weariness. The older of the two, a graying heavyset man with pale-blue eyes and a bulbous nose full of burst capillaries, signaled to his younger co-worker to put the photo down, then mopped the sweat from his brow with a soiled blue bandana.
“Are you sure you want the lady hung here, Mr. Ruby? She’ll be in the afternoon sun for a good portion of the day, that way. Bad for the complexion, if you get my drift.”
Ruby’s dark eyes narrowed. “There’s a UV coating on the glass.”
The heavyset man nodded. “Right. Well, then we’d best get to it. Ready, Mike?”
The younger man nodded and the two of them bent down and, with a grunt, lifted the photo and hung it from the two fifty-pound hooks embedded in the wall over the wet bar. The heavyset man stood back, stared at it a moment, head cocked, meaty fists on his hips, then reached out and straightened the ornate Victorian frame with a gentle shove.
“There you go, Mr. Ruby. She’s right as rain. And a pretty one, too, if I do say so.”
Ruby’s gaze shifted from the photo to the older man, his expression stony. “Yes, she is. But I’m not paying you for your opinions.”
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Ruby. No offense intended,” the older man mumbled, embarrassed.
Ruby came from around the desk, handed the heavyset man a wad of cash and watched while the two workers gathered their tools and exited the office, leaving Ruby to his thoughts.
He stared up at his wife’s image, drinking her in. Joanna was still as adorable as the day the photo was taken, fifteen years before. She hardly looked a day older, but as of late she’d been restless and distracted. And while the cause could be anything, a difficult client with one of her commissions, one of her students on the edge of failing, their son, Zack, it was
her evasiveness—her unwillingness to speak of the problem—that rankled him. He hated it when anything caused her pain.
The phone on his glass-topped desk buzzed. He walked over and glanced at the blinking light.
His private line.
At least the idiots from the phone company had finally gotten the lines working. He reached over and jabbed the speaker button.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Ruby, it’s Dean Meltzer, from IT.”
“Ah, Meltzer, what can I do for you? I trust everything’s on schedule for the move to Ruby Plaza?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Can’t wait ’til December. Everyone’s sick and tired of tripping over one another.”
“It won’t be long now. So, what do you need?”
“I have your weekly report, sir.”
Ruby smiled and shook his head. Too many damned details with this new building. He was forgetting things he shouldn’t. Then again, he wasn’t getting any younger.
Still shaking his head, he said. “So what’s my boy been up to?”
“It would seem that Zack has quite a few female admirers. I really had to stop reading them after awhile.”
Ruby chuckled. “Well, if that’s his only problem, then his mother and I will have one less thing to worry about. Can’t be too sure with all these predators on the Internet, you know.”
“Yes, sir, you’re right about that.”
“Is there anything else?”
“You did say to monitor all your home accounts.”
“Yes....” Already bored with the conversation, Ruby picked up his Blackberry and began checking his calendar.
“Well, your wife’s e-mail account was fairly inactive until the other day, when she sent a message to a man in California.”
Ruby frowned. California?
“What was the address?”
Meltzer told him.
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Did he reply?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“Forward everything to me and I’ll check it out.”
“Already done, sir.”
“Thank you, Meltzer. And be sure to let me know if my son makes any conquests.”