by Sandra Block
“Well, they don’t. Maybe you didn’t get to that part of the Bible yet, but it states it pretty clearly. ‘You shall not etch a tattoo on yourself.’ I call the guard over. “Leviticus. Look it up.”
* * *
That night Mike is finally home for dinner, and I decide to tell him.
He bites into a chicken wing, the aroma of spicy heat pouring over the kitchen table. They smell wonderful, and I steal one from the box.
“Hey,” he says, guarding the rest with his arm. “You said you didn’t want any. Just pizza, you said. I would have gotten twenty.”
“I changed my mind,” I say, reaching for another.
“And you’re taking all the drumettes,” he complains.
“They’re the best ones.”
He sighs. “Fine, just leave me the carrots, at least.” We sit, munching away, with Arthur darting from side to side for the chance of a dropped morsel. It’s a pleasure to have Mike home for dinner again, though my nerves are on edge with the thought of telling him.
“So, how do you think my patient found out about Sofia?” I ask, retreating to the barely safer territory of work.
“About Sofia?” He reaches for another wing. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
“I suppose,” I say, dipping celery in blue cheese. “I just don’t want Newsboy to catch on if I can help it.”
“Mmmph,” he says, nodding with commiseration as he bites into another wing.
In the pause I take a breath. “Mike, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Okay.” He wipes grease off his hands, turning his napkin orange. “What is it?”
“It’s about something that…” I find myself breathing funny as the silence builds. Mike looks at me, perplexed. Instead of talking, I wipe my hands off, too.
“Zoe, is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to breathe normally. “Everything’s fine. I just—”
“You’re taking your meds and everything?” he asks.
“Of course,” I answer, offended with the question by instinct, though I am, in fact, not taking my medications.
“I shouldn’t have asked that,” he says. “You just seem more distracted lately or something.”
I don’t answer but busy myself by throwing out the box the wings came in.
“Of course, you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he continues. “With that idiot texting you.”
Mike gets up, too, and we both wash our hands and sit back down at the table. He takes a long sip of his beer. “You sure you don’t want one? It’s hoppy.”
“No, no, I’m really fine,” I say, practically drooling at the thought of a hoppy beer right now.
Then Mike scoots his chair next to me. His skin smells like the lemon soap by the sink. “All right. What is it you wanted to tell me?”
I pause, feeling a squeeze in my chest. “Nothing really,” I say, weaseling out of my confession. “Just about Sofia. I was thinking maybe I should stop seeing her.”
“Definitely,” he agrees, readily. “There’s no reason to see her at all. She just upsets you.”
“Right.”
“You don’t owe her anything, no matter what she says.” He takes my hand and starts tracing his finger around my palm. “And try not to stress about the texting thing. The detective will find them eventually, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, but I can’t concentrate very well because now Mike is kissing my neck, which is a bit of a distraction.
I mean to tell him about the apricot. I want to tell him about the apricot.
But it’s not the right time. His fingers are running through my hair and it feels so good and I’m kissing him back and pretty soon our shoes are thrown off and we’ve landed on the couch.
And then we don’t talk about Sofia, or the texts, or the apricot. Or anything at all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next morning I get an urgent call to see Ol’ White Lady.
Destiny takes me cell-side, then goes back to her desk two feet away in the hallway. Janaya is sitting on her bed in her depressingly small cell, which just barely fits the bed, a toilet, and a couple of library books. (As Maloney is fond of saying, it’s prison, not a hotel.)
When she sees me, she stands up, and I lean into the red-and-white cage that separates us. “Listen,” I start. “I know this isn’t your fault. But just tell Sofia that I will see her when I see her.”
Janaya shakes her head. “This does not pertain to Sofia.”
“Oh, okay.” I relax. “What’s going on, then?”
She looks both ways down the hall for any eavesdroppers, and at Destiny, who smiles at us. Sappy tunes from a late-afternoon soap opera play on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall. “Someone’s after me,” she whispers, leaning right up to my face. I can smell her fetid breath, and her hair is looking like a rat’s nest again. So this visit is more about her palming her meds than about my visiting with Sofia.
“What do you mean by that, Miss Jones? Who’s after you?”
“I heard it,” she whispers, urgently. “It’s in the milieu. Someone is trying to get me. It’s murder. Out-and-out murder.”
“Do you know who?” I ask.
She grips the cage bars. “I don’t know. The who or the why, I don’t know. But the truth is out there. In the walls. People are talking.”
“Are you hearing the voices in the walls?”
“No,” she says with disdain. “It’s an expression. Not the actual walls talking. People talking. Saying things about me. They get quiet when I come over, but I know that they’re talking about me. I am certain of it.” She glances up and down the hall again, as if the potential killers might be lurking out there. “I’m scared,” she whispers. “Janaya is scared.”
“Have you talked to the guards about this?”
She nods, glumly. “I tried. Lord, I have tried, but they won’t listen to me. They just think I’m crazy. They…they lack perspective.”
I’m sure she’s right that the guards won’t listen to her, and they may indeed lack perspective. But I’m also sure that she is quite paranoid right now and also lacks perspective. “I’ll talk to them.”
“The guards?”
“Yes.”
Her smile is relieved. “You’ll do that for me?”
“Yes. Of course.”
She bows her head toward me. “I knew you would. I knew I could count on you.” She gives me a gratified smile. “You’re accountable, Dr. Goldman. Not many people in this world are accountable. But you are accountable.”
I look around her cell. “Everything else okay? The bodies gone?”
“Indeed.” She nods with approval, glancing around at her cell. “Absolutely pristine.”
“Good,” I say. “So I’m just gonna…” I point my head toward Destiny, and Janaya nods. “Oh yes, by all means.” So I head over to tell Destiny that my paranoid patient is paranoid and thinks someone might be plotting to murder her.
“Noted,” she says, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. On the way out, I tell Maloney and Harry, too, for good measure, then sit down at my clinic desk. I’m starved, and exhausted, and quite sick of thinking about apricots. So I grab my phone.
“What up?” It’s Jason.
“Did you eat lunch yet?”
* * *
I take a slurpy bite of my ramen, which was the only thing that didn’t turn my stomach when I packed my lunch today. Jason is inhaling a taco that smells disgusting.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” I ask, showing him the newest text.
“It’s not weird, Zoe. It’s totally freaky-slash–fucked up.”
“Thank you,” I say, validated. “You’re the only person who seems to appreciate how bizarre this whole thing is.”
“What did Gardner say about it?”
“Not a word,” I say. “I guess he’s talking to the detective or whatever, but I don’t really want to bother him if I don’t have to.”
“
Yeah,” Jason agrees. “That’s probably wise.” He bites into his taco, getting sour cream on his chin. “So what else is new? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever. What’s up with Mike? Any rings flying yet?”
And then, distressingly, I start crying.
“Oh shit.” Jason’s eyes get wide. “Men are stupid, Zoe. I’m sure he’ll ask eventually.” I shake my head to let him know that’s not it, but can’t speak without sobbing.
“Did you break up?” I shake my head again, still mute.
“Um.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m running out of guesses here.”
Wiping my eyes, I breathe in deeply to steady myself while he watches me. I take another deep breath and release it. “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” His eyes practically pop out of his head. “You’re…Seriously?” he whispers.
I nod.
“You’re fucking with me.” I shake my head. “You’re not fucking with me.”
“Not fucking with you.”
“Oh my God. When did you find out? What are you going to do? Does Mike know?” he asks in rapid fire.
“I found out a couple weeks ago. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. And no, Mike does not know yet.”
“But you’re going to tell him,” he says, as if advising me and not asking me.
“Yes,” I say. “Eventually.”
“Holy shit.” Jason pushes his plate to the side while I take another sip of my soup. “I thought you were looking a little rounder lately.”
“Thanks, Jason. That’s actually not helpful.”
“You still look good,” he says, backtracking. “Some guys like that. I hear.”
We both chuckle a bit at that, and then he puts his hand on my shoulder again. “I’m here if you need to talk, okay? I mean, I know you’ve got Mike, but I’m happy to do whatever. If you want me to. Now I’m sounding stupid.”
“Thanks, Jason.”
“I mean it,” he says.
“I know you do,” I say.
Jason checks his Apple Watch. “I gotta go. Hang in there, okay?”
I nod, trying not to tear up again, and go back to my soup with great fervor, realizing all of a sudden that I’m famished. As Jason walks away, I wonder why on earth I chose to tell him. And not Scotty, for instance. Let alone Mike. With a stab of sadness, I realize that I would have told my mom, if she were still here, before her dementia. And if I had a sister, maybe I would tell her. And then I remember that I do have a sister. And this makes me want to cry even more.
My phone rings then, and I note with some surprise that it’s Dr. Novaire’s number. Maybe he wants to discuss some patients. Will wonders never cease? “Hello?”
“Dr. Goldman, are you available to meet?”
“Yeah, I have a couple more patients to see but…”
“No.” His usually jovial voice is frigid. “Now. In my office, right now. I just got a call from Abraham Green.”
* * *
“I can explain,” I say, sitting down across from him at his natural disaster of a desk.
“Yes, Dr. Goldman.” Dr. Novaire is gripping a stress-reliever brain model, squeezing with some vigor despite his age. “Please do. Please do explain why you’ve been harassing a poor man who just lost his wife and is now dealing with a very sick child in prison.”
I swallow, rapidly realizing that this meeting may not go well. “See, I got this text. Well, a bunch of texts.”
“Yes. I heard all about that.”
I pause. “Maybe I could just show you on my phone. It would be a lot easier.”
“No, Dr. Goldman. I do not want to see your phone.” There is not an iota of patience left in his voice. “The warden and I have spoken at length about your texts.”
“You have?”
“Yes, we have. More than enough.” He puts the brain model down, though the temporal lobe is still a bit squished. “He’s been talking with the detective on a daily basis as well.”
“Okay, good. I knew they were communicating.”
“And Warden Gardner told me that he has examined all of the cases mentioned, thoroughly, and found nothing untoward in any of them.” The rubber brain is back in his hand. “Not a one. He even took Andre out of gen pop for his own protection. Gen pop, where he could be getting a lot of positive interaction instead of sitting in his cell all day.” He thumps the brain down on his desk. “There is nothing, Dr. Goldman, nothing, that exculpates your recent behavior.”
I stare at a coffee stain on the gray carpet.
“I don’t understand you,” he says, his voice almost plaintive. “I’ve been trying to protect you, I really have. Trying to make excuses for you, running interference for you. But I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t. It’s impossible.”
Hot tears prick my eyes, and I hold them back.
“You’re treating Andre, not his father. I know the family unit is important, but this is different. It’s almost as if you’ve got some vendetta against him.”
“It’s not a vendetta,” I argue. “It’s just that if he is involved in his wife’s death and the texting, he could be planning to harm Andre as well. That’s all I’m worried about.”
He squeezes the brain again, his knuckles turning white. “Let me ask you something.” He pauses, as if calming himself down. “Did it ever occur to you that you are the only one making these connections?”
My foot is tapping the carpet, like a motor, and I stop it. “I’m the one being texted, so obviously it’s more on my mind.”
“Have you considered changing your number, then?”
Which is something Mike also suggested. “But that’s not the point,” I argue.
“Zoe,” he says, almost sadly, “I don’t even think you know what the point is anymore.” I don’t answer because I don’t know what to say. He may even be right. My foot is thumping again, and this time I just let it go. “The warden wants you fired. I won’t sugarcoat it. It’s as simple as that. But I am giving you a reprieve. I’m putting you on probation.”
“Okay.” I take a breath of relief. Probation is better than suspension, at least. I can get off probation eventually. “Thank you.”
“With the understanding,” he says, raising his hand in warning, “that you are not to come within five feet of Andre Green. Or his father.”
I nod. “Understood.”
* * *
I sit in the car for a while.
The heater’s buzzing is a comfort, and I turn off the radio, which was blaring some sports station Mike had on. The silence is oddly soothing.
In a sense, I can see how this would be an ideal way to go.
To turn on the engine with the garage shut, close your eyes to the sweet fumes, and let it all fade away. Everything. Every problem. Evil texters, evil sisters. Probation. Patients who rely on you until you fail them. Apricots you don’t even deserve.
All fading away in a twinkling, stuporous moment.
But I’m not in a garage.
I’m in the parking lot of the prison, and I should get going, or a guard might come out and check on me. But I can’t move. My hand doesn’t want to move the gear shift. I am stuck in this moment. The purr of the motor, the muted gray sky turning black, the snowflakes drifting down against the light. And Mike’s late again tonight, so I have nothing to go home to anyway. Then I picture Arthur’s face. His frizzy head, his pink tongue. Arthur is probably missing me, at least. Or if not me, at least the dog food provided by me.
The sound of my phone buzzing snaps me out of my reverie. I am searching for it in my satchel through all my crap, but by the time I get to it, the call has gone to voice mail. Looking at the number, I realize with a jolt that it’s Zena, Andre’s other aunt.
I hit the button to listen.
“Hi, Dr. Goldman. I’m happy to talk to you about Andre. His father says he’s been too sick to visit, or I would have seen him. Do you want to meet sometime? Maybe for coffee? I was thinking…”
I dial the number ba
ck before the message even ends.
Chapter Thirty
I didn’t have a name this time. I had something even better. Something that would get you back for sure, the real you. Something that would make you love me again.
A secret, I said.
You looked at me with doubt. What secret?
So I told you, and your eyes opened wide in delight, your lips spreading into a smile. You even held my hand. We never hold hands. I closed my eyes to imprint this moment on my mind, to remember it forever. For the late nights, when the girls are crying all around me. For the cold afternoons in the rec yard. I could turn to this moment.
You looked thrilled, enamored. You reached over and cradled my head with such tenderness, and you kissed me.
Then we made love. Slowly, luxuriously. Like we had all the time in the world. Not fierce or fast. Not fucking me, not hurting me like last time, just making love.
Then, as we lay there, on the hard floor, you asked if I wanted to hear a poem. I said yes, and you recited it, by heart.
“Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?”
Your voice was low, purring.
“Call us what you will, we are made such by love.”
I could imagine the words, forming in front of me, dancing.
That’s beautiful, I said. Who wrote it?
John Donne, you said. An old poet.
I wrote those words down when I got back to my cell that day. And I say them before I go to sleep every night, like a prayer. I will never forget those words, as long as I live.
And I realized then that it was fate that I was sent here. I never wanted to be in prison, of course. In this cursed, rat-infested, godforsaken place. I’ve been fighting, railing against it with my whole soul. But I now understand, it was meant to be. Everything that happened to me up until now was all leading up to that moment. That perfect moment in a musty utility closet, listening to my lover reading poetry to me.
This perfect man. My Professor.
You.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aubrey wasn’t on my schedule, but asked to be seen “to get something off her chest.”