A Need So Beautiful (6 page)

I shift on the exam table, thinking of Harlin in the waiting room. I’ll have to tell him something. I just don’t know what.

“Stay still, Charlotte,” Monroe warns as he ties off the thread and then grabs the scissors to snip it.

“Sorry.” I sit on the crinkling paper while he cleans off the metal tray and goes to the sink to wash his hands. When he first examined me, Monroe was quick to give me a Vicodin after getting a look at the huge, bumper-sized bruises on my thighs. It’s left me a little groggy, but that’s good. He told me I’d be really sore for a few days, but that there was no permanent damage.

When I told him not to call the cops to report the accident, he definitely eyed me suspiciously, scratching at his slightly graying five o’clock shadow. But Monroe and I have known each other forever—he trusts me. And I’m sure he’ll expect me to explain later.

When I was seven, I came into this clinic with a broken arm that I’d gotten on the school playground. Max Rothsberg didn’t want to hear that I knew he’d stolen money out of the donation basket. Instead, he pushed me down and
snap!

Oddly enough, a week later when I went back to school, he didn’t remember even talking to me about it. He’d given the money back while I was gone. I tried to tell one of the nuns right when the Need happened, but she chalked it up to childhood delusions and scolded me for lying. She said that kids can’t see visions—only God can. So after that I kept my mouth shut.

Mercy was volunteering at the clinic during those years and sometimes she’d bring me in with her. I liked hanging around. Monroe would talk with me about school. About my home life. It was nice sometimes, having a person other than Mercy care about me. Monroe’s the closest thing to a father I’ve ever known. So when I turned twelve and Monroe asked me to volunteer, I was happy to say yes.

Just being here at the clinic, I feel a zillion times better. It’s so familiar. Safe.

Monroe steps on the trash can, opening it with a metal clang. Just then, there’s a small itch at my shoulder. At the spot. I know I have to tell someone about the mark on my skin. I can’t keep this a secret. “Monroe,” I whisper, my throat dry. He pauses while removing his gloves, and looks over. I’m sure he can hear in my voice that something is wrong.

“Are you hurt somewhere else?” He shifts in his loafers, darting his gaze over my body. With a quick snap he pulls off his gloves and tosses them on the counter.

“Um . . .” My cheeks start to warm because I’m not quite sure how to say it. I have no idea how to tell him that my skin is flaking away. “It’s . . .” I can’t look at him anymore, and my shoulders slump. I can’t show him.

“Go ahead, Charlotte,” he whispers. “It’s okay.”

I look up and he’s watching me. It throws me off how he’s waiting, his lips pressed together, his eyes narrowed intently. Could . . . could he know? I start to unbutton the silver tabs on my blouse. My heart is racing. I don’t know what’s going to happen next and I’m terrified.

I push the fabric away from my skin, from the spot, and I hear him gasp. My stomach drops and I regret showing him, but he’s immediately next to me, running his finger over it, examining it. He’s not wearing his gloves anymore and I wonder if he’s grossed out.

“My God,” he murmurs, putting his entire hand over the gold, covering it up. I’m ready to cry. What’s wrong with me? But Monroe turns and his blue eyes are glassy. “It’s so beautiful.”

I blink quickly, feeling confused. “What?” I wonder if maybe I have a concussion, or if the Vicodin has made me loopy. There’s no way he just called this beautiful. I’m missing skin. It’s disgusting!

I push Monroe back and hurriedly button my blouse. Maybe I do need to go to the emergency room. But the minute I think it, there’s a knot in my gut. They would want to perform tests, call in experts. The Need is one thing . . . but golden skin? That’s not normal. Not even a little.

I raise my eyes to meet Monroe’s and his face is stoic, frozen, amazed. He slowly starts to shake his head from side to side, a soft smile on his lips. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s finally happening. It’s a miracle.”

“
Happening?
What is happening to me? You have to—”

Just then the door opens and Monroe and I both turn toward it. Harlin looks between us as he eases his way in. “Hey,” he says. “I wanted to check and see if everything was okay. You guys have been in here a while and I—” He stops, staring at Monroe. “She is okay, right?” Harlin’s unshaven jaw is tight I can see he’s about to burst from worry.

“Yes,” I say quickly, and hop down from the table, the deep bruising of my thighs making me wince. “Monroe stitched me up. How many did I need again?” I try to sound light. It’s more pretending. Lying. But I don’t want Harlin to know about how the spot has changed. Not yet.

Monroe takes too long to answer and then finally, like coming out of a dream, he whispers, “Four stitches.”

“Damn,” Harlin says, putting his arms tenderly around me. “What were you doing out there? I’m gonna buy you an ankle monitoring bracelet.”

I laugh.

“You’re free to go,” Monroe announces in a choked voice. He stares as if asking me to stay, but I can’t. I’m overwhelmed and confused. I just want to leave with Harlin.

I don’t talk as Monroe robotically recites stitch care instructions, and instead I just rest against Harlin. My mind is turning over Monroe’s words, trying to understand why he called the spot beautiful. Why he didn’t seem surprised or freaked out when he saw it.

When Monroe’s done talking I turn in Harlin’s arms, my body completely exhausted. “I’m starving,” I say. “Can we go grab something to eat?”

He sighs, like it’s the last thing he feels like doing. “It’s after ten.” When I bat my eyelashes, he laughs. “Fine, we’ll go to Sid’s. I think they’re still open.”

“Thanks,
honey
,” I say.

“Don’t pull out the ‘honey.’ That doesn’t work on me.”

“The eyelashes did.”

He squeezes me and nuzzles his face into my neck. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers against me, and I feel the playfulness slip away. My worry grows. Could Harlin love me if he knew what was wrong with me?

There’s a sound of riffling papers and I look up to see Monroe holding sheets out to us. “Instructions,” he says. “Call me if there are any new . . . developments.”

I nod before taking Harlin’s hand and turning toward the door. Just before we leave, I glance back at Monroe and he’s watching me, his skin pale like he’s just seen a ghost.

Chapter 6

I
can’t eat. Harlin’s talking about how he’d driven all over the city looking for me, and I’m holding a greasy slice of cheese pizza, but I’m not listening. I’m staring out the window at the blinking Gold’s Gym sign, only the
’s
is out, so it says: Gold. Gold. Gold.

I turn my head from side to side, trying to loosen the muscles in my neck. The Vicodin has made sounds echo in my ears and I’m starting to feel sleepy. I glance across the booth at Harlin and he’s still talking, using his hands to accentuate how frantic he was during the search. And I smile because right now I have no Need. Just him.

“Hey,” I whisper. He pauses, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth open. I just stare at him until he laughs and leans back in his seat, shaking his head.

“You’re a handful, you know that, right? You make me completely crazy.”

“I know,” I say, and take a bite of pizza. “I make myself crazy.”

“I’m not gonna just let this slide, Charlotte. Not this time. You have to tell me where you were going tonight.”

I reach up to touch at my stitches, no idea how to answer. Sometimes I think it’d be worth losing him, just so I didn’t have to worry about losing him. But I know I can’t live without Harlin. I meet his eyes.

“I was checking out an old warehouse on Broadway,” I say. “I saw the flyer in Plato’s and I heard they were remodeling the building.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“Nothing. I . . . I thought maybe it’d be something you’d want to be involved with. Some original artwork for the lobby or something?”

Harlin looks me over like he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth. “You don’t mention anything to me? You just sneak out?”

“That was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” he repeats calmly. “I spent the night looking for you, completely freaking out. But you’re sorry. That’s nice, Charlotte.” He goes back to eating his pizza, no longer looking at me.

I’m so tired that I feel like I could just confess everything to him. The nights I’ve been out. The things I’ve seen. The people I’ve saved.

Harlin’s face is hard, but then he looks me over and his eyes weaken. It’s like he just remembered I’m injured.

“Damn,” he says. “I’m an ass.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. I’m sorry.”

I know that I’m the one who should be apologizing, but I take a bite of pizza instead. I just want to forget about today.

“How’s your head?” Harlin asks, the softness of his voice making me melt a little.

“Hurty.”

“And your legs?”

I smile. “Bruisy.”

Harlin’s foot touches mine, and heat shoots up my leg. I’d forgotten what we were doing just before I’d left his apartment. I bite my bottom lip and narrow my eyes. I want him. He reacts, taking in a breath, and then blows it out with frustration.

“Completely crazy,” he says with a laugh. “And we’re not . . .” He motions to my body, then groans longingly. “Not when you have stitches in your head.”

“I’ll have them for, like, two weeks.”

He freezes, looks around the pizza place and then back to me. “Two weeks?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right, Charlotte,” he orders, nodding toward my food. “Hurry up with that pizza. I’m not going home until I finish kissing you.”

“You sure?” Harlin asks, his mouth against mine as we stand in front of my building. “I could come in for a few minutes.”

I kiss him back, my hands tangled under his coat in his T-shirt. His fingers find the bare skin just above my jeans and dig in, pulling me close. I sigh. “Can’t tonight.”

“No fun,” he murmurs, not letting me go. “What if we fall asleep and Mercy comes home or something? She’d kill you. Like stab-your-balls dead.”

He pulls his head back. “Mood killer, Charlotte.”

I smile and peck his lips again before dropping my arms and motioning toward my apartment. “I should go in,” I say. The night around us is dark and starless and Harlin is the only beautiful thing in sight.

“Tomorrow’s going to suck for you,” he says, glancing at my thighs as he backs toward the curb. “Call me when you get up. Maybe if you’re a good girl I’ll take you to VooDoo Donuts for a bacon maple bar.”

I laugh. “You know me so well.”

He winks and climbs on his bike. I stand, watching him leave, and I miss him the minute he’s gone. I have reasons other than Mercy to not let Harlin upstairs, the main one being my golden skin. I have to find a way to fix it. I have to—

“Charlotte?”

I jump at the sound of the voice and turn quickly. Monroe walks up from the sidewalk, his car parked down a few buildings. He’s still in his loafers and work clothes, so I wonder how long he’s been waiting here. The clinic closed nearly two hours ago.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I gasp. “Maybe you could have called first?”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

I go to check my pocket and remember that I’d left my coat, with the phone in its pocket, at Harlin’s.

“Can we talk inside?” Monroe asks, stepping closer. His blue eyes are serious and I’m suddenly frightened about what he’s here to say.

But Monroe didn’t run off when he saw my skin at the clinic. He’s a doctor. And unless I want to become Oregon’s newest science experiment, it seems that Monroe might be the only person who can help me.

I look him over, fear and anticipation prickling my skin, and then I take out my key and lead us inside.

Sitting uncomfortably on the wooden stool at the kitchen counter, I face the living room as Monroe searches through his coat pockets, looking for something. No one else is home. Mercy’s working, Alex is with his boyfriend, Reggie, at a party somewhere in the Pearl, and Georgia . . . she’s wherever it is that she goes at night. Right now there’s just me, Monroe, and the hum of the refrigerator.

“Ah,” he says as he pulls a small black journal out of his pocket and takes a pen from inside the worn pages. I’ve seen him write in it before. His medical journal. He jots something down and then sets it next to him on the couch. After a long pause, he looks over at me.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’ve finally come.”

My black shoe slips off the rung of the stool and I almost fall. When I right myself, I’m shaking. “What are you talking about? You’re freaking me out!” My fingers tremble as I grasp the edge of the counter, trying to keep steady.

“Don’t be scared.” He holds up his palms, his expression full of compassion. But I
am
scared. I’m terrified. “I’m going to help you through this.”

“Through what?” I demand. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Wrong with you?” He laughs to himself, though his eyes are shining with tears. “That’s the thing, sweetheart. This isn’t wrong—even if it feels that way right now.”

I’m offended that he’d even say that. I push my shirt off my shoulder, exposing the golden area. “Look at me!” I yell, but a new worry grips me. Doctors don’t make house calls like this. “Wait. Are you here because I’m dying? Oh God. Am I dying?” I cover my mouth with my hand. I start to cry until I notice the tears brim over his eyes and run down his cheeks. He looks away from me, wiping harshly at them.

“Please don’t,” he says, his voice cracking. “Don’t cry, Charlotte. You must be strong right now. This is going to be very difficult and you have to be strong.”

Dozens of diseases run through my mind. Cancer, MS, leprosy. “Please,” I whisper. “Help me.”

“I’m trying.”

We sit quietly for a second, both sniffling. Then Monroe clears his throat and picks up his medical journal, placing it back in his jacket pocket. He pulls out a bottle of pills and shakes two into his hand. He tosses them into his mouth and swallows them dry. After he puts the bottle away, he turns to me, his face solid and serious. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says. “At least, not in the way that you think.”