After the Fall (9 page)

LUKE
•

I was bored; that’s why I danced with Kate. Cress was talking medicine with her doctor friends at our table; their partners were talking golf or getting drunk. I was ripe for a diversion and I found it: Kate alone and looking wistful on the opposite side of the floor.

I don’t remember what she was wearing; I’m not sentimental like that. Blue, I think, though it should have been red. What I did notice as she stepped into my arms was that there was something bright caught in her eyelashes, glinting under the disco lights like traffic signals. I actually reached to brush it off, thinking it was stray confetti or a thread from her dress, but Kate caught my hand.

“Don’t. It’s meant to be like that,” she said, unembarrassed. “It’s mascara a friend gave me, with glitter in it. We don’t go to many black-tie events, so I thought I’d make an effort.” We started moving together in silence.

“I didn’t realize it was going to be quite so obvious, though,” Kate continued after a moment. “People keep coming up and touching it.”

I laughed, and spun her hard. Kate was a good dancer and kept her feet, unfurling in a graceful circle from my fingertips. Of course she had realized the mascara would sparkle and attract attention—that was exactly why she had worn it. I was tipsy and told her so. She shrugged, smiling, not at all offended, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for her. Cressida had real beauty, the sort of looks that are all about bone structure and good breeding. She had no need for anything as obvious as glittery mascara, and would have scorned it as ridiculous. Kate, by contrast, was merely pretty. But she was also daring and vivid and there was a glow coming off her that was more than just iridescent makeup. Besides, those lashes really were surprisingly long, and she was right to highlight them. She must have felt me looking and tilted her face up. Did she mean for me to kiss her? So many women have lifted their faces to mine in just such a way that my response was reflexive. I kissed her, the tango music dying in my ears. Her mouth was soft and urgent and our feet continued to move in time, at least initially. Once I remembered Cress and went to draw away, or at least thought of it. But I couldn’t seem to do so, trapped by the nip of a little eyetooth and Kate’s hands on the nape of my neck.

CRESSIDA
•

We hardly talked on the way home from the wedding. I drove; I always do after functions. Luke likes to drink, whereas I’m not fussed, happy to be the obliging spouse. I concentrated instead, paying strict attention to traffic signals and staying below the speed limit, refusing to allow my escalating anger to compromise our safety. The minute I’d parked, though, I felt it all flood in, and, surprising even myself, I reached across and hit Luke once hard in the chest, then again when he didn’t respond.

“Hey,” he said softly in the gloom of our garage, catching my wrists to prevent a third blow. “I guess I asked for that.”

“Damn right you did,” I spat at him, struggling to get free.

“Cress, I’m sorry,” he said with a sigh in his voice, oozing remorse. “I don’t know why I did such a stupid thing, or if you can ever forgive me. I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Well, you certainly gave a good impression of enjoying it. I thought someone was going to have to throw a bucket of water over the two of you. And in front of all my friends!” My voice cracked with fury.

“I know,” he almost whispered. “I can’t believe it myself. But it didn’t mean anything. I’ll never love anyone like I love you, Cress.”

And at that, inexplicably, all my anger was gone and instead I started crying. Luke let go of my hands and held me while I sobbed on his chest, in his lap, stroking my hair while he murmured that he had been drunk, caught up by the dancing, thinking he was with me. They were not terribly good excuses but I bought them, wanting so desperately for them to be true. As my tears ebbed he carried me inside, something he’d not done in years. He laid me gently on our bed, and lit a candle on the dresser. Slowly, softly, he made love to me, saying my name over and over, telling me how he loved me, how he needed me. In bed, Luke is always passionate, fervent, but this was a side of him I’d never seen before. He was tender, controlled, far more than he’d been when he took my virginity. Afterward he held me as if I would break, kissing my fingertips and my eyelids, repeating my name again and again. For all I had been humiliated and hurt, it was a magical night.

We slept in each other’s arms that night. Luke was repentant; I was forgiving. I told him that I never wanted to catch him so much as talking to Kate again, and he swore that he wouldn’t, protesting anew that he would never love anyone like he did me. A year later I suddenly remembered that promise, and winced at how I’d been taken in. He hadn’t vowed that he’d never love anyone else, just not love anyone in the same way. I couldn’t have been listening properly at the time, or I wouldn’t have missed the duplicity. Did he mean to deceive me, even back then? Or did his words just lead where his heart would follow?

CARY
•

I hardly ever get drunk, but I did that night. Usually Kate’s drunk enough for both of us, though in fairness it doesn’t take much, just a glass or two. But why am I being fair to Kate?

Though Steve’s my friend, I think he almost enjoyed breaking the news. “Cary!” he practically shouted when he tracked me down to the veranda of the reception center, where I was talking with some people from the hospital. They’d come outside to smoke; I’d left to escape being pressured to dance. “I think you’d better come inside,” he stage-whispered, tweaking at my sleeve.

“Why?” I asked, happy where I was.

“It’s Kate,” he urged, though now he really did drop his voice, and swallowed as if not quite sure what to say.

Immediately the tone of his voice made me panic. Had something happened? Was she hurt?

I rushed back into the reception fully expecting to see Kate unconscious in a corner or trapped under one of those implausible palm trees. But she was neither, and for a second I was so relieved that she was upright and well that I didn’t take in what was happening. When I did I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. All the air suddenly left me, and I had a mental picture of my lungs shriveling like week-old party balloons. Steve was looking uncomfortable and backing away, the scandal suddenly not quite so tasty. I started toward the pair of them, struggling for air, but as I did Luke moved away himself, his back to me. Kate stood there, the dancing continuing around her, looking dazed and still beautiful in her turquoise dress. I felt tears push at my eyes and turned away in shame.

We didn’t leave, though I ached to. Instead, I carried on as if nothing had happened. I have my pride. Kate didn’t dance again. We stayed at the bar, she close to my side, uncharacteristically subdued and toying with a glass of mineral water. I ordered Scotch, which I don’t usually drink. The liquid burned my throat and reinflated my lungs till it seemed that I was almost breathing too much. Steve kept shooting me worried looks, but I stopped noticing after the first three glasses. I didn’t see Cressida or Luke again.

I’d intended to drive, but we went home in a taxi. Kate must have said something, must have apologized, but I can’t remember it. The night air sobered me up but also made things worse: clearer, sharper, altogether too large. At the front door I couldn’t find my keys. I searched for them with growing anger, then shook the door handle until the small panes of glass in it rattled. Behind me, the taxi backed out of the driveway. Its headlights lit up the scene for a moment and then were gone, leaving us in the dark. Furious at being locked out of my own house I raised one fist and knocked the glass out of the door.

I don’t really remember the rest. Kate had keys, of course, so we must have gotten in that way. I dimly recall us making love, or rather hammering myself into Kate while she lay unresisting in the darkness. Although I hadn’t noticed it at the time, I had cut my hand on the glass, and when I came to in the morning there was blood in our bed and on Kate’s body, smudged through her hair and across both breasts. She cried and I held her, apologetic in spite of myself. When she wiped her eyes she left a sodden trail of sparkles across one cheekbone, their light smudged out.

Later, I went to retrieve the car, still parked a street away from the reception hall. One of the side mirrors had been broken off, whether by accident or design I couldn’t tell. My head ached. I drove home through the Sunday-morning silence, occasionally, out of habit, glancing at the place where the mirror should have been. But there was only space, a blind spot that unnerved and misled.

KATE
•

The trouble was, the kiss worked. We fitted. There was no awkward bumping of noses, no colliding chins, no glasses sliding off into my face. In heels, I didn’t have to strain my neck or bend my knees: I just lifted my head and there he was.

Luke was a good kisser—I guess he’d had plenty of practice. Still, there was more there than just familiarity with the mechanics, knowing how long to go on or how much tongue was enough. Chemistry is an overused word. I prefer
fit
, that indefinable sensation when a man takes your arm as you move through a door, or leans into you to light your cigarette. (I gave up smoking for Cary and sometimes I still miss it.) Fit is an understanding between bodies: that you’ve been designed the same way, that you speak each other’s language, and fluently. It’s all about physical compatibility and has nothing to do with whether you’ll last or even have anything to talk about afterward; fit is no relation to the brain, and only a distant cousin of the heart. It’s something that’s clearest with the lights off or your eyes closed, delineated by the way his stride matches yours or your hips meet while dancing. As he kissed me, Luke held my hand to his cheek, our fingers interlaced in a mirror of our mouths. That’s fit.

CRESSIDA
•

The next morning I got up and went to work. Sometimes it seems like that’s all my life consists of, but I love my job and feel lucky to do what I do. I’ve never said so to Luke, but occasionally I wonder how he can possibly derive any satisfaction from selling bread or cars or panty liners. At the end of the day, what difference has he made? No one’s life has been changed, and someone else has gotten richer. He’d say that it’s the creative side that he enjoys, that he gets paid good money to daydream and make believe, and all without getting his hands dirty. Admittedly, a lot of his stuff is pretty funny and even clever. But if the outcome is simply that a few more cartons of orange juice are sold, how can you get too worked up about that? My own results were based on a far harsher currency: lives lost or saved, children restored to their families.

I’m being hard, particularly when it’s those extra cartons of juice that pay our mortgage. Public hospitals are no place to get rich, and my area of specialty doesn’t lend itself to private practice. And even if I had my doubts about his work, Luke was incredibly supportive of mine. He often told me he was proud of me, and he loved boasting that his wife cured kids with cancer, even if that was only true about half of the time. He’d always put up with the long hours too, the weekends when we couldn’t go away because I was on call, the bedroom sessions interrupted by my beeper. Now, as I got ready to leave, Luke was still asleep. Sunday morning, eight o’clock. I wasn’t due in until nine, but there was a particular patient I wanted to see and Luke wouldn’t be up for hours. I dropped a kiss on one warm shoulder, then hurried out before he had time to stir.

Despite the events of the previous night I was in a good mood as I drove to work. I always love that time of morning: the streets empty, the traffic flowing. A fresh start. Coffee shops were setting out tables, joggers were stretching or fiddling with buttons on their watches. All was in readiness: no matter what the previous day had held, a brand-new one was about to unfold. On a sudden whim I turned off early and parked near the zoo, then walked across the surrounding gardens to the children’s hospital.

It wasn’t that I didn’t mind that Luke had kissed Kate, and in such a public and passionate manner. If I let myself think of it the pain and anger were still fresh, adrenaline racing down my limbs to pool, hot and itchy, in fingertips and toes. But I didn’t let myself think of it, concentrating instead on the way he had held me through the night. Never had I felt so close to Luke, I reflected, as some tropical bird called out from an aviary in the zoo behind me. Just remembering the lightness of his hands on my face and between my legs made me shiver, made my thighs warm and heavy once again. By the time I reached my ward I was flushed, but not from the walk.

When I stopped in to check on my patient she was sleeping quietly, and I smiled to myself as I read over her charts. At times it had looked grim, but I hadn’t felt that this one was destined to die, even as her hair fell out and the white-cell count rose. I’d never been wrong before. I suppose it was bound to happen eventually, but not with this girl. Her mother, sleeping awkwardly in a chair beside her daughter’s bed, woke as I put down the file.

“She’s better, isn’t she?” she asked me immediately, pushing tired hair out of her face.

“There’s still a long way to go yet,” I cautioned, “but I think she’s moving in the right direction.”

“I knew it,” said the mother, unheeded tears suddenly incandescent at the corners of her eyes. “Around midnight the color started coming back into her face, and she asked for her teddy.”

I just nodded, and together we watched the young girl in silence. Most of my patients toss and turn in pain and fever, or lie, almost comatose, in a drug-induced stupor. This one had been through both stages, but now lay sleeping the sound and rhythmic sleep of the healthy child, limbs curled around a beloved soft toy.

“Oh, God, I couldn’t bear to have lost her,” said the mother suddenly, her hand coming up to her mouth as if she might vomit.

“I know,” I said quietly, reaching out a hand, then taking the woman in my arms, where she sobbed, shuddering, against my shoulder. As part of my training I’d worked in obstetrics, and seen some wonderful things. But for all its pain, this job was better, for how many children are reborn? There’s no happier ending than a second chance.

Later that day, one of the nurses remarked in passing that there was a delivery for me in the ward clerk’s office. Chocolates and gifts from grateful parents weren’t an unusual occurrence, and, feeling hungry and hopeful, I went to have a look. At first I couldn’t see anything for a clutch of nurses surrounding the desk, leaning over something vivid and rustling. For one ridiculous moment I panicked, thinking a patient was being resuscitated. But then one giggled and they parted, revealing an enormous bunch of deep red roses. There must have been at least four dozen, with velvety petals as large as a child’s fist. The card in the center of them was addressed to me.
To my darling Cress
, it read for everyone to see,
the most beautiful woman in the world. I’ll love you always, Luke
.

“You must have done something right,” one of the nurses joked as I stooped to pick up the enormous bouquet. Maybe what happened wasn’t so bad, I thought to myself as I smelled the flowers. Maybe it could even bring us closer, remind us of our love for each other. Maybe in the dark he did really mistake her for me. As I went to tuck the card back in my fingers brushed something soft hidden among the thorns. I pulled it out, and almost cried. It was a tiny bunch of pink daisies, incongruous amid the other regal blooms, but infinitely more precious.