The Awakening of Dr. Brown

by Kathleen Creighton

  She was turned toward him; he could feel her eyes. “I just don’t give out personal information, Doc. Sorry.”

  “But you did,” he said softly. He turned now, to face her. The city seemed like an eavesdropper looking over his shoulder. “You told me your name.” Again he waited for the shuddering rejection of her withdrawal.

  Instead, her eyes shimmered at him in the twilight. The silence shimmered, too, felt in the skin like the subaudible hum of electricity. His heartbeat leaped into his consciousness, like the sudden awareness of a ticking clock.

  “That wasn’t for public consumption.” Her lips seemed barely to move; her voice was a whisper, like windblown sand.

  He answered as softly, “I never thought it was.”

  “You’d best just forget you ever heard that name.”

  “Why? It’s a beautiful name…Joanna Dunn.”

  Joanna… Seeing the word form on his lips, hearing it whispered in his voice…something came into her heart, something warm and tiny, and incredibly fragile. Panic-stricken, desperately afraid of losing or destroying it somehow, she closed herself like protecting hands around it, hiding it from view.

  Did he even know, she wondered, that he was leaning so close to her…that there were only a few scant inches between his lips and hers? Did he know how fast, how hard her heart was beating? Was his heart pounding, too? If he touched her now…if he touched any part of her, it would be like a thousand tiny points of light pricking her skin. Her skin would shiver and her breasts grow tight, and the melting warmth inside her would pour into her legs, and they would tremble and weaken…

  Fear seized her. She made a small, wordless sound and whirled away from him, while somewhere in the back of her mind the Phoenix she thought she knew was jumping up and screeching What are you doing? Are you crazy? He was about to kiss you-isn’t that what you wanted?

  And the newcomer inside her, the stranger curled protectively around a newborn emotion that hadn’t yet been given a name, replied, Yes, oh, yes. But not like this.

  Ah, of course. The familiar Phoenix nodded in relief. Because it wouldn’t be on my terms. Because I’m not in control of my emotions.

  The newcomer merely smiled.

  Shaken, she strode to the couch and sat, slipping off her sandles and pulling her bare feet under her. Sitting cross-legged like that-the lotus position, wasn’t it? Wasn’t yoga supposed to help with serenity?-she felt her confidence coming back. She took a swig of beer and said airily, “Hey, have a seat, Doc. You want to talk about those apartment buildings I own, or not?”

  She watched him as he came and sat in one of the chairs across the coffee table from her, watching for signs that he’d been affected in any way by what had almost happened between them. But he seemed completely at ease, his eyes as calm and wise as always. Shaman’s eyes.

  “Yes, of course I do,” he said quietly. “That’s what I came for.”

  She felt a bright, hot flare of anger. “Are you sure?” she purred wickedly, and was delighted to see something flicker at last in those imperturbable eyes. “Come on, admit it-you came mostly out of curiosity. You wanted to see for yourself-‘Phoenix in her natural habitat.”’

  He studied her for a moment, eyes slightly narrowed. Then he smiled. “I’m not going to deny it. Hell, what did you expect?”

  “Hey-” she smiled back “-not that I mind. Goes with the territory!”

  “Yeah, I guess.” But the smile was gone, and the eyes were quiet again. Thoughtful.

  “This doesn’t have to be complicated, you know,” Phoenix said, before she could begin to squirm under the weight of that scrutiny. “I do want to do the right thing. I’m not an ogre.”

  The beer bottle paused just shy of his lips. “I never thought you were.”

  “It’s so simple, really. All you need to do is give Patrick-my business manager-a list. He’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

  Once again he took his time answering. She could hear the whisper of an exhalation as he leaned forward, the bottle of beer loosely clasped between his knees. “The thing is,” he said quietly, “it really isn’t that easy. I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I think I’m fairly safe in saying what’s wrong with those apartments isn’t going to be fixed with some spackling and fresh paint.”

  “Then what?” She threw it at him almost desperately. “What is it you want from me?”

  Perhaps because she asked it just that way-What do you want?-Ethan answered her truthfully. “I want you to come down there,” he said, as intense as if at that very moment lives hung in the balance. “Look for yourself. Put on one of your disguises if you want to, but come with me.” It was what he wanted; nobody had ever suggested such a thing to him, probably even Father Frank would think him out of his mind to dare expect Phoenix to personally tour a run-down tenement. The only thing he didn’t understand was why he wanted it, and so badly.

  She regarded him from across the bare expanse of coffee table, sitting cross-legged and sharply upright, remote as a statue of Buddha. A statue with diamond eyes…

  “That’s not going to happen.” Her voice was empty of emotion, smooth and dry as sunbaked clay. “I’ll arrange to have Patrick send somebody down to evaluate the buildings. Based on that report, the decision will be made by the people I pay to handle my business affairs either to repair or demolish them.” She lifted her hands and shoulders together as if to say, That’s it-end of story.

  She had more ways of withdrawing, Ethan thought, than any human being he’d ever met. Shrinking, hardening, freezing, distancing…even jokes and games…they were all the ways she had of protecting herself, of keeping other people from getting too close. He understood that, he supposed, given who she was. What he didn’t understand was his own profound disappointment.

  Keeping his movements deliberate and slow, he rose, walked to the counter and placed his empty beer bottle on the polished granite. There was no reason for him to stay longer. He’d gotten what he came for. He’d come to discuss repairing the buildings she owned in The Gardens, and he’d done that. He’d been informed of her plan of action, which he could now report back to Father Frank, who would in turn inform the tenants committee. He’d done very well, actually-and it was a shock to him to realize that fact, so deep and personal was his sense of failure.

  He’s leaving, Phoenix thought, and was bewildered by regret so sharp it was almost pain. Seized by a panic that was totally alien to her, she unfolded her legs and rose from the couch in one strong, fluid motion, waving her bottle like a flag. “Have another?” And to her own ears her voice sounded too high and just off-key.

  “Thanks, but I’d better be going.” His voice was off, too-his voice, his smile-everything seemed wrong.

  “Stay and have dinner with me.” She hadn’t meant it to sound like an order, dammit. But she wouldn’t beg. Phoenix does not beg. She strolled toward him, making the movement of her body graceful, fluid, subtly inviting.

  He watched her come, smiling in a way that for some reason made her throat ache. “It’s tempting, but…” His eyes revealed a sadness she didn’t understand. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Well-” she drew herself together and halted, her arms folding across her body in a way that felt defensive and unfamiliar to her “-why don’t you give me a call or come by tomorrow? Maybe I’ll have some information for you by then.”

  He shook his head, narrowing his eyes in that way he had, as if the light had suddenly become too bright. “Can’t tomorrow-my EMS ride-along night.”

  Anger flared inside her like a Fourth of July star burst. “Fine,” she said silkily, looking away from him…dismissing him, “make it the next day, then. Or whenever.” He was of no consequence to her. She didn’t give a flying fig what he did or did not do.

  He nodded and picked up his bottle, lifting it to her in a little salute. “Thanks for the beer.” He set it down again and turned and left her standing there.

  Phoenix stood absolutely motionless until
she could no longer hear even the squeaking and creaking of the elevator. Then she lifted her bottle to her lips and drank the last of her beer. It burned like acid going down. Burned so, it brought the tears to her eyes.

  Even after he noticed the young Doc Brown had gone on his way, Doveman stayed at the piano in the studio. Working. Playin’ around. Waiting.

  It was maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before he heard that old elevator creak and groan its way up…then back down again. “That good-lookin’ doctor left mighty early,” he said a few minutes later to the silent presence in the shadows. “I take that to mean things are not going well.” He cackled, secure in knowing he was the only person alive could get away with talking to Phoenix like that.

  Ignoring the jab, she came to the piano and slid herself onto the bench beside him. “Hey, Doveman, what you doing here so late?” She sounded tired.

  “Oh, you know… ‘Hard Sayin’ Goodbye.’ I been tryin’ out some new harmonies…thought maybe a minor key…” He played a few bars for her.

  She listened a bit, then jerked her shoulders impatiently, like a child. “You ever think,” she said suddenly, “maybe it’s the whole premise of the song that’s wrong? I mean, ‘Hello is easy’? Sez who?”

  Doveman played a minor chord and left it hanging. “Hello is easy, girl. You and the doc, you done said hello already, and it was so easy you didn’t even know you was doin’ it.” He played a few more chords, switching back and forth between major and minor. “It’s what comes after-what happens between hello and goodbye-that matters. Hard, easy, good, bad-makes all the difference in the world.”

  She watched him for a while, not saying anything or singing, or humming along like she’d generally do, just watching his bent old fingers travel over the keys. When she finally spoke it was in a voice so low he had to stop playing to hear it.

  “Doveman? He scares me.”

  Doveman shrugged. “Stay away from him, then.”

  She didn’t reply, and after a while he added, “But you aren’t going to do that, are you?”

  He was laughing softly when she left him, his old heart light with hope and a whispered “Hallelujah” on his lips. The girl-child he loved like his own was hurtin’, and he didn’t think it odd at all that this should make him feel so glad. It was, after all, what he’d been praying for, oh, Lord, for so many years.

  The lights were burning late that night in the master bedroom suite at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  “If you’d call more often,” the president of the United States was saying, “maybe you wouldn’t give your stepmother and me a heart attack.” He broke the connection, cradled the telephone and settled back into a bank of pillows, while the First Lady came to snuggle against him.

  “What’s goin’ on, darlin’?” Dixie asked in the Texas drawl she mostly saved for him alone these days.

  Rhett ran a hand through his hair-a habit he’d tried hard to kick and seldom indulged in anymore, except in private family moments like this. “Not sure,” he said, frowning. Figuring out his son never had been easy for him; times like this it seemed well nigh impossible. “You know Ethan. He doesn’t say a whole lot. It’s hard to know what in the world is going on with him.”

  “He called,” Dixie pointed out. “There must be something. Something big.”

  Rhett nodded, still feeling bemused. “He wants me to pull some strings-see if I can get some information for him.”

  “Wow. Must be something really big. If that boy is even willin’ to acknowledge he’s related to the most powerful man on the planet, much less take advantage of that fact…” Dixie was laughing when Rhett leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

  “Hush, woman. Wait’ll I tell you what he wants me to find out.”

  “Do tell.”

  “It’s about a woman.”

  “Oh, my Lord. A woman.” Dixie’s eyes were wide. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

  Rhett was solemnly shaking his head. “God’s truth. He wants me to find out everything I can about…are you ready? Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix? You mean the singer?”

  “That’s the one. Remind me to ask Mrs. Oxford tomorrow, will you? She’ll know how to go about it.”

  “I’ll take care of it, if you want me to,” Dixie offered-as he’d hoped she would. Well, it was more or less her bailiwick, after all.

  Rhett put out his arm and Dixie came into its curve with the sweet ease of long habit. “Didn’t we meet her?” he asked as he reached with the other arm to turn off the lights.

  “Yeah, we did. In Dallas, remember? Mama and Daddy’s ‘Feed The World’ benefit. I thought she was…” she searched for the word “…dynamic.”

  “Hmm. Not at all Ethan’s type, I wouldn’t think.”

  “Hmm…well,” Dixie murmured, “I know a whole lotta people wouldn’t’ve thought I was your type, either.” She giggled, and he felt a surge of familiar delight as his mouth found hers.

  Ethan had chosen to go back to the studio on Thursday. He told himself that. He told himself he had no reason not to, his evening was free, and, he thought, he might even get some more information to pass on to Frank and his committee. He told himself it was simply the sensible thing to do. That it was also the adult thing to do; staying away just because Phoenix had all but ordered him to come was the kind of childish game-playing he abhored.

  He told himself those things over and over again, repeating them in his mind like a difficult formula he wanted to commit to memory. He said them also like a mantra, trying to block out the other reason-probably the main reason, possibly the only real reason-for being there. Because. He wanted to.

  He’d wanted to see her again. She was in his mind, and he couldn’t get her out. She’d invaded his solitude like the noisy neighbors who’d lived downstairs during his student days, playing music at all hours of the day and night, never loud enough to warrant a complaint, just loud enough so that it was always there, eating away at his concentration, robbing him of the sleep he’d needed like an addict needs his drug. She tried to invade during his working hours, too, and the effort it took to hold her at bay left him feeling drained, every bit as exhausted as he’d been back in those nightmare med school days.

  Her face hovered like a specter on the edges of his consciousness; her eyes mocked him, haunted him with memories of the little girl he’d been allowed to glimpse for one brief moment in their depths. Her voice, her husky laughter…they played unendingly in his head, like one of those annoying bits of song.

  He’d thought-he’d hoped-that by taking some sort of definitive action he’d at last be able to put her out of his mind. So he’d called his dad. My father-the president of the United States. He, Ethan Brown, had called on the leader of the free world to get information for him about…a rock star. It made him cringe to even think about it. What had he been thinking?

  But…it had been late at night and he’d been desperate for sleep. Afterward, relieved, he’d finally drifted off with her words I don’t give out personal information echoing in his mind, only to wake up with her scent lingering in his memory, as vividly as if she’d just risen from his bed, as if she’d just that moment stepped beyond his line of sight. So vividly, he’d almost expected to find the imprint of her head on the pillow next to his, and the sheets beside him still warm from her body, to hear her voice, singing in his shower.

  Phoenix in his bed? What was he thinking?

  Oh, she wanted him in her bed, of that he had no doubt. And how, he couldn’t have said, but he somehow knew that the two did not amount to the same thing. Not the same thing at all.

  So. He’d come back to her studio tonight of his own free will, because it was the grown-up, sensible, logical thing to do. And because he’d wanted to see her again. Needed to see her, if only to remind himself of all the reasons why he’d be a fool to choose to do so again.

  Now, standing in the darkened recording studio watching Phoenix work, Ethan could only wonder what kind of fool he’d
been to think he’d ever had a choice at all.

  She didn’t know he was there, yet. She was alone in the soundproof booth, and what he could see of her, from the waist up, was dressed in a tiger-print halter top that left her entire back bare, with her hair twisted and looped into a coil on the back of her head to keep it out of the way of the headphones. She seemed to him like some rare and exotic specimen in a museum case, a creature so fragile it must be protected even from the air, so delicate it might not survive the slightest touch.

  He felt a sudden and extraordinary sadness, seeing her like this, isolated in her tiny glass island of light. Somewhere, he knew, a technician manipulated banks of controls, experimented with sound levels, adjusted the mix-terms he’d heard somewhere but didn’t really understand. Knowing that didn’t change the impression he had, of utter and complete aloneness. With her eyes tightly closed and headphones clamped over her ears, she was in her own private world…a place where, he realized with a deep sense of sorrow, he-and perhaps no one-could ever follow.

  “She should be wrappin’ it up soon.” Ethan gave a start at the sound of a voice so close by, prompting a cackle of laughter and a raspy, “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”

  He nodded at the man who’d come silently to stand beside him-a black man with close-cropped gray hair and a frosting of white beard stubble, sinewy flesh hung on a frame that had once been for a larger man but was now in the process of shrinking. Something about the way those yellowed old eyes studied him told Ethan there was no need to explain.

  “Just me, old Doveman.” He offered his hand and Ethan took it; it felt papery but strong.

  “Hi, I’m Ethan Brown.”

  “I know who you are.” The piano man sounded amused. He jerked his head toward the recording booth. “She’s been at it all afternoon long. That song been giving her fits. Just won’t come the way she wants it.” He shook his head in a resigned sort of way. “Well…she’s a perfectionist, always has been. All the great ones are. And she’s definitely one of the great ones.”