Heart of the Matter

by KI Thompson

  She jerked the nightgown over her head, concealing from view the body she no longer recognized. Inside, she still felt like the twenty-five-year-old grad student she had once been, lithe and athletic. Nearly twenty years of research sitting in front of a computer or cocooned in books had taken their toll. As had the countless years of pizza and beer—quick and easy take-out—with other PhD candidates in her department to get them through their program.

  Once she could have eaten like that and more because back then she would always play tennis or jog. But with her workload and now the impending sabbatical, which would mean more research sitting in museums and libraries, she saw her future predictably unfold in increased clothing sizes. She silently vowed that this year, this sabbatical, she would make time for exercise and eating right.

  ❖

  Kate drove along the inner loop of the Beltway, cursing the idiots who couldn’t drive in good weather, let alone when a little rain fell. Glancing at her watch for the umpteenth time, she swore again. She would be later than she thought, but at least she had called ahead and told Paula she would be there as quickly as she could. Paula’s obvious disappointment had only made Kate more anxious. Paula was clearly not a patient woman, and Kate didn’t want her to change her mind. She never liked to hurry a seduction, and the mere thought of what she would do to the willowy blonde caused her heart to flutter.

  A large semi passed her on the left, spraying water onto the Porsche’s windshield. Kate flipped the wiper switch to high and watched as the truck driver signaled to switch back into the lane in front of her. She slowed to let him in, conceding that big trucks always had the right-of-way when it came to little Porsches. She never wanted to try to prove who was stronger, although if the traffic had been lighter she would have definitely proved to him who was faster.

  The taillights flashing bloody red first alerted Kate that something wasn’t quite right about the truck. And the quiet, proverbial lull before the storm really struck her; she saw everything as if standing outside herself. The semi jackknifed onto its side and a white SUV careened out of control to avoid hitting it, rolling over and smashing into the concrete highway divider. Another car collided with the SUV, a dark sedan of some sort.

  Intellectually she knew that all of this occurred instantaneously, but everything moved in slow motion. By the time the events registered, it was too late for her brakes. She crushed the pedal nevertheless, a reflex, nothing more, because she intuited that her reaction would be useless.

  She endlessly slid on the wet pavement as metal crunched and glass shattered. Then all went black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ellen nodded as students dropped their midterm exams on the lectern and filed out of the classroom. She told them all to have a pleasant weekend and that she would post grades on her office door. Once they had left, she gathered up the papers and headed for her office, making her way down the hall to the history department, located in Georgetown University’s Intercultural Center.

  Ellen, a tenured professor of American history, specialized in the nineteenth century, specifically the Civil War. She was one of many professors in the department but the only one leaving on sabbatical this year, courtesy of NEH and Guggenheim Foundation grants. Ellen had received her PhD from the University of Virginia and had been fortunate to be born and raised in the cradle of the Civil War. Working at Georgetown let her remain in the area so that even without her approaching sabbatical, she could visit many of the sites she had frequented since childhood.

  Ellen walked into her office and put the stack of exams on her desk. She stuck a Post-it Note on the answer key, asking her assistant Jenny Nelson to get them back to her as soon as possible, then finished tidying up her office. Not much was out of place; she merely had to attend to last-minute paperwork.

  She had filed the last of her work when a light tap on the door drew her attention. Linda Cohen, professor of medieval studies, stood expectantly at her door. Plump and vivacious, Linda was Ellen’s colleague and closest friend. Despite her constant dishevelment and seeming lack of interest in her outward appearance, Linda possessed a brilliant mind and a quick sense of humor.

  “School’s out for the week, teacher. Are we ready to party?” Linda danced a little jig of excitement. “And you have no reason to say no this time, missy. There’s nothing left for you to do until Monday. Tonight it’s all about you and the possibility of meeting Ms. Right. What do you say to Italian first, then Rosie’s?” Ellen groaned. She hated going to the bar but couldn’t think of a good reason to avoid it this time. She disliked the dating scene, disliked the social pretense of making small talk, all the while knowing that some stranger merely wanted to get her home in bed or, worse still, wasn’t interested in her at all. She sighed. “Italian sounds fine.”

  “Wonderful. How about Janice and I meet you at Al Tiramisu at seven?”

  Ellen nodded. She might as well go, but she couldn’t help shake her head at her friends’ deviousness. Linda and her partner Janice knew Italian was her favorite.

  ❖

  Ellen rummaged through her closet trying to find something fashionable that still fit. Disappointed to find that one of her favorite blouses refused to button, she flung it to the floor with disgust.

  General Beauregard sniffed it curiously, then stepped on it, making a delicate pastry of it with his paws. Finally settling on a pair of black slacks and tan blouse, she again faced herself in the mirror.

  “Well, it’ll just have to do.”

  If no one liked her for who she was, then screw them. She made a face in the mirror at her false bravado and grabbed a black sweater off a hanger. It had been unusually warm that day but she knew the evening would be cool and, besides, the black sweater tied strategically over her shoulders also managed to hide her imperfections. She picked up her purse off the kitchen table, opened her front door, and nearly collided with someone in the hall.

  “Oh. I beg your pardon,” Ellen exclaimed, reaching out to steady the slight figure.

  At first she thought she’d grasped the arm of a stranger, but she was appalled to find herself staring at Kate Foster. She almost didn’t recognize her. An ugly red gash crossed her cheek diagonally from the left bridge of her nose down to the lower tip of her left ear. The stitches stood out like black spiders, frayed and angry, giving Kate’s face a singularly crawling effect. Ellen couldn’t speak, the pain in her heart almost unbearable. Her throat constricted and hot tears rushed to her eyes.

  “Oh, Kate,” she whispered.

  Without thinking, she reached up to touch Kate’s cheek.

  Flinching visibly, Kate jerked her arm from Ellen’s grasp and lowered her head, keeping the left side of her face out of sight.

  Before Ellen could think of something to say, Kate stumbled to her condo and slammed the door behind her. Ellen stood where she was, aching to comfort her.

  When she had first heard of Kate’s accident, she couldn’t believe it. But the newscaster had been certain it was indeed Channel 5’s anchor who had been involved in a six-car pileup on the Beltway.

  Not knowing what else to do, Ellen had sent Kate flowers in the hospital. She had thought about visiting her, but didn’t want to intrude. After all, they barely knew each other, and Kate probably didn’t even know her name. Since then Ellen had kept a close eye at the peephole, hoping to glimpse her returning home. She hadn’t expected to run into her so soon.

  My God, her face.

  Her mind was filled with images of Kate—Kate, striding purposefully into her condo that night, only to emerge in a stunning outfit with a look of anticipation. Kate eight days later, almost unrecognizable, the hollow eyes, the gaunt cheeks.

  Ellen withdrew a tissue from her purse and dabbed the corner of her eyes. Though her makeup was light, she didn’t want to smear her mascara, an indication to Linda and Janice that she’d been crying. The subject was too raw right now for discussion. She took the elevator down to the first floor and headed for the restaurant a few block
s away. She barely registered the traffic on Connecticut Avenue or the already crowded sidewalk around Dupont Circle filled with Friday-night diners. When she reached Al Tiramisu, she spotted her friends at a table against the wall. The lights were dim, thank goodness, and she forced a smile as she approached. Linda and Janice greeted her with the usual jokes and teasing, like this was just another day.

  But it wasn’t just another day, and she was more disturbed than she cared to admit. Seeing what Kate had been through, her life changed instantly by events outside her control, had stirred Ellen.

  Tragedies like the auto accident weren’t supposed to happen to someone like Kate. She was strong and vibrant, a constant on the television screen, almost a member of each viewer’s family. If a life-changing event like that could affect someone like Kate, what would Ellen do if it happened to her? Her life was rather dull and mundane compared to Kate’s. She loved teaching, but her personal life had become routine, practically nonexistent. She had avoided intimate relationships most of her adult life, not because she didn’t want one, but because no one would be attracted to what she had become physically. If her life suddenly ended, she would never experience the one thing missing from her life—love.

  ❖

  When Kate flipped the light switch inside her door she noticed the silence first. The condo felt cavernous, as if her voice would echo endlessly if she called out. After a week of constantly being poked and prodded, and hearing machines hiss and beep, she found it odd to hear the stillness again. She tossed her keys onto the chest in her entryway and limped to her bedroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. The suit she had worn on her way to Paula’s that night had been cut away from her body and was completely unsalvageable, with the exception of her shoes. Recalling Paula brought back an unpleasant memory. She had never even called.

  Then again, why would she? It wasn’t as though they knew each other that well. Still, that no one outside of work had bothered to find out how she was doing irked her.

  When she had learned she would be released today, she didn’t know what to do about clothes. She had no one to call for the favor—no family, no friends. Her agent was in Miami for a few days, and even if he was home she wasn’t sure she would ask him.

  As a last resort, she asked a candy striper to buy her a set of GWU sweats and socks at the hospital gift shop. She was glad to have worn the strange clothes only a few hours. Like everything else at the hospital, the sweats felt foreign and out of place.

  Turning the shower faucets on, she stepped in quickly, letting the hot water cascade over her. She placed the palms of her hands on the cool tiles in front of her and bent her head so the spray hit the back of her neck and spread down her back. It felt so good to finally shower at home in her bathroom. At the moment her place felt slightly unfamiliar, but at least she was alone and back in control of her life. She had known the first thing she would do when she arrived home was shower, so she had the hospital staff tape plastic covers over all the places with stitches to keep them from getting wet. Everywhere, that is, except for her face.

  As she stood there in a daze, letting the water wash away the antiseptic smell of the hospital, her mind drifted, as it had so often the past few days, and she tried to remember what had happened.

  She could only recall driving to Paula’s that night and then waking up in the hospital the next day. She should recall something about the accident, but she couldn’t access the memory. She only knew she was lucky to be alive.

  She switched off the faucets and stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and dried off. Glancing into the mirror, she could see a faint image of herself and, hesitating briefly, rubbed a clear spot with her towel. She gazed at herself dispassionately, observing with interest the purple and yellow bruises marking her chest and arms. She avoided looking above the neck for a moment, fascinated by the stitches that traced a line down her left arm from the elbow to her wrist. She guessed somehow she had turned the wheel of the Porsche hard to the right and impacted the truck on the left side of the car. But that was only speculation. She’d have to examine the damage to her car at some point and file an insurance claim.

  Steeling herself for the inevitable, she peered curiously at her face, and as had happened the last day or two when she did, it shocked her. Her fingers found their way to the scar, tracing with a delicate touch the jagged, stiff ends of the stitches. She felt strange.

  It was still her face—her eyes, her nose, and mouth—but she seemed to look at it for the first time. Kate had never spent hours in the bathroom primping and fussing with her appearance. The only time anyone paid any attention to it was when the makeup artist prepped her before going on camera, and that was a necessary evil. As far back as she could remember, it was simply her face, neither pretty nor ugly. Women called her handsome and were apparently attracted to the firm jaw and sharp planes.

  But now she examined it for what it had gotten her so far in life.

  The camera loved her, enhancing and magnifying all the positive qualities and giving her a toughness that came across the television screen. People had trusted her and looked to her for reassurance.

  Now they would stare at her in horror.

  ❖

  “Hello. Earth to Ellen.” Linda waved a hand in front of Ellen.

  Snapping out of her reverie, she managed to refocus on Linda and Janice.

  “Where have you been all night?” Linda asked. “You’re a million miles away.”

  “Sorry, guys. I’ve been preoccupied.” Ellen sipped her white wine.

  “Oh, no, you are not allowed to think about your research tonight.” Janice loved to admonish her. “Tonight is all about having fun.”

  “Exactly,” Linda agreed. “Surely someone out there looks promising.”

  Ellen scanned the dance floor and tried to look interested.

  Rosie’s was crowded, as usual, and the cigarette smoke made her eyes burn and water. She hated the thought of getting home and taking a whiff of her clothes and hair after being in such a place.

  General Beauregard always refused to come near her until she showered and changed. But she had to at least make a show of enjoying herself, if for no other reason than to please Linda and Janice. After all, they tried so hard to get her out to places like this, to meet people—rather, to meet a woman.

  She could hardly concentrate, though, since running into Kate in the hallway. She couldn’t take her mind off her and was angry at herself for having behaved so badly. Kate had been through a horrific experience, which Ellen had made worse by reacting to her face as though she had seen a three-headed monster. What must she think of me?

  “Hey, what about the redhead in leather, over there by the bar?” Linda pointed to what Ellen could only describe as an Amazon.

  Easily six feet tall, loud and apparently tipsy, the woman was cackling uproariously at some joke being told by a shorter woman in her party. When she slapped her companion on the back and shouted to the bartender for another round of tequila, Ellen instantly disliked her.

  “Uh, I really don’t think she’s my type,” she said delicately.

  “She’s breathing, isn’t she?”

  “Linda.” Janice poked her in the side. “Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m only kidding.” Linda pouted. “So what is your type, Ellen? What do you look for in a woman?”

  That was a good question. Ellen actually didn’t know and had never examined why she was attracted to someone. Somehow she knew when she was interested in a woman simply because of the way she made her feel when they were together. Looks had never been the most important aspect of a person, although when Ellen looked at Kate Foster her toes curled. The slash across Kate’s cheek flashed bright red into her consciousness.

  “Janice? Hi.”

  “Sandra? Well, hello.”

  A dishwater blonde stopped at their table and hugged Janice around the neck. Ellen noted how her impish face lit up when she smiled and that her tasteful attire was understa
ted but elegant.

  “Sandra, you remember my partner, Linda?”

  “It’s been a while,” Linda said as they shook hands.

  “Too long.” Sandra’s glance had already shifted to Ellen.

  “Ellen, I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine,” Janice said.

  “Sandra Powell, Ellen Webster. Sandra works with me on Senator Teasdale’s staff, and Ellen is in the history department at GU with Linda.”

  Sandra’s grip was firm and warm, yet Ellen couldn’t drop her hand fast enough. She cringed reflexively into the smallest size she could manage as Sandra regarded her more closely. She understood that everyone habitually inspected someone that way; she often did it herself, but she was always uncomfortable when someone appraised her body. Whenever she met a woman whom she found even marginally attractive, she always chided herself for not having begun her diet sooner.

  “Won’t you join us?” Janice asked.

  “I’d love to, but I was on my way out. I’m here with friends and they’re getting the car now.”

  The veil of invisibility that so often came over Ellen descended quickly. For no reason, she felt rejected. A woman she thought attractive had glanced her way and found her wanting. If she was interested in Ellen, she could have found an excuse to stay, taken a cab home or, hell, Ellen would have driven her home. She fixed her eyes on the dance floor again, pretending to be interested in what was going on in the writhing mass of bodies, pretending this woman’s brief entry into her life had no significance whatsoever.

  “Maybe next time,” Sandra was saying. “It was nice meeting you, Ellen.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, nice to meet you too, Sandra.” She watched Sandra cut her way through the crowd to the front door.