Raquel's Abel (5 page)

“Embarrassing?” I glared at him. Who did he think he was? “You break into people’s houses and take their clothes, and you assume
I’ll
be embarrassed?”

He stood and held his hands out. “Please, I don’t mean to scare you.”

“You come into my bedroom in the middle of the night, and you didn’t mean to scare me?”

He folded his hands together in front of him and looked at his feet. “You are quite right.”

The outline of his form in the dim light clouded up. There was a haze and then nothing.

“Where did you go?”I jumped out of bed and ran my fingers through the thin air where he had once stood. “I must be going crazy.”

I sat on the bed and thought about the man who’d been here. I liked him. He seemed so sure of himself, yet he wasn’t arrogant. His hair was blond, yet his eyebrows were dark, making him look like he’d spent time in the sun. I breathed deeply. He was very handsome. I should forget him, though. Undoubtedly he wasn’t real.

I had recently published a biography on Isadora Duncan, and it had sold very well in urban areas. In fact, a bookstore very close to the White House had requested that I appear for a book signing.

I took the train from Richmond to Union Station, and then took the Metro to a stop near the bookstore. The escalator took me upward to the bustling streets of Washington. I loved this city with its professional air, as if everyone walking the street were a lawyer or a senator or a congressman. There was a coldness, though, that I’d never felt in slow, Southern-styled Richmond. Along the DC streets, yuppies paraded past me with their iPod wires hanging from their ears, wearing their expensive gray and blue and brown suits with designer tennis shoes, their dress shoes in their briefcases.

I had only walked a block when I had to stop to catch my breath. The thought of having that operation where they’d cut off part of my stomach scared me to death. It seemed like one minute I was determined to have it, and then a few minutes later, I had decided I’d never go under the knife. I leaned against a brick wall and watched people veer around me with irritated looks on their faces. I struggled to catch my breath so I could regain the strength to continue. Maybe I’d have to start that heart medication sooner than the doctor thought. In a few minutes I’d recovered and continued slowly.

When I got to the bookstore, I trudged to the back and practically collapsed into a chair. Thankfully, it was a sturdy one. I waited for my heart to stop beating as if I’d run a marathon and tried to wrap my mind around my biography of Isadora Duncan. I'd entitled it, “Isadora: a Lady Ahead of Her Time”. She’d lived an interesting life, then had it cut short when she was strangled by her own scarf.

Writing about a woman who saw the world so differently had been sheer joy. As I wrote about her dancing her way through Europe in the 1920s, I felt as if I were she. I’d admired her spirit and wished I were as adventurous as she had been. She was bold and grabbed life by the horns. She would have had that surgery a long time ago, I thought. I needed to be more like Isadora.

It was time for the book signing to begin. I walked out and warmly greeted the people who had come to hear me speak about Isadora. I started off talking about the profound impact one freethinking person had on the privileged people of her time. I read a few passages in the book, then finished with my favorite Isadora quote: “Dance is the movement of the universe concentrated in an individual.” I thought it really summed up her attitude toward life and living.

“Questions?” I asked. A few wrinkled their foreheads as if trying to formulate questions. Then I saw some hands shoot up.

“Yes.” I pointed to a woman with honey blonde hair sitting in the front row.

“I was wondering if you had tried those new diet patches they've come out with.”

Even though I was good with words, I'd never been able to formulate a proper comeback for things like this.

Another hand shot up behind her. “Do you have a question?” I said cheerfully hoping we could get back onto Isadora Duncan.

“You know it's all in what you eat.” She raised her eyebrow at me letting me know the path I should take.

“Well, I must have covered Isadora's life very well since there are no questions or comments about her.”I tried to remain composed, then turned around and walked straight back to the employee's area without saying another word.

If I stayed, they’d continue to give me unsolicited advice. I gathered my things and headed out the back door. I was disappointed that the book signing had gone so badly. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time it had happened.

Sitting on the train back to Richmond, I thought about the book signing. At least I hadn’t signed any of their books. They hardly deserved that. Maybe this was a sign, though. I was going to take action. I dug around in my purse for my cell phone and dialed that number. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like to make an appointment with the doctor.”

“And what will be the nature of your visit?” the receptionist asked.

“I would like to have the gastric bypass surgery.”

The next morning, Regina called and said she was coming by. Supposedly, she had good news. It could only be one thing—she had a new boyfriend.

She walked in wearing an outfit I could only dream of fitting into. The top was sleeveless, black, and glittery. Her slacks stopped just below the knee and her sandals had tiny rhinestones on top of them.

“Glad you finally decided to stop by.”

“You’re not going to spill anything on me are you?” She sat down in the overstuffed chair and crossed her legs as if someone were here to see.

I didn’t respond to her accusation.

“Well, I met someone,” she announced.

“That’s nice,” I said, trying to be positive. “Where did you meet him?”

Her mouth expanded into a tight-lipped smile. “I was having a drink in one of those places in Shockoe Slip and he came over and introduced himself.”

I forced a smile and nodded.

“The rest is history.” She ran her hand over her clothes. “He bought me this entire outfit last weekend.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Of course. His name is Barry and he’s a lawyer.”

I tried to keep my eyes open as she talked about her new beau, but I’d heard it all before, except the guy had a different name.

As she droned on, my thoughts drifted to my next biography. I was pretty sure I’d be writing about Theodore Roosevelt. I’d enjoy writing about a man who was as comfortable rubbing elbows with politicians in Washington as he was helping cowboys in a cattle roundup.

Finally Regina had had enough of telling me about her new conquest and excused herself.

I loved my sister, but since she’d never gotten an education, talking with her was as boring as staring at a wall. Would she ever stop going from man to man?

A few days later, I’d had the appointment with the doctor regarding the gastric bypass surgery. Even he’d pointed out all of the risks involved. People had died from it, although not under his care. He said that if I were serious about it, I’d have to be examined by a gastroenterologist, have a psychiatric exam, and I’d have to have neurological tests. If I passed all of their tests, and I was still interested in having the surgery, he’d perform the operation.

I contemplated what that meant as I drove to the University of Richmond to conduct an interview. Yes, I was nervous, and yes, I was still excited about having the surgery, but I still wasn’t completely convinced it was the right thing to do.

As I continued to meet the professor, I forced myself to concentrate on the subject of my next biography. I’d already read quite a bit about our 26
^th
president. While police commissioner in New York, he was the first to allow Jews and women to serve as police officers. He was also quite a visionary, leading the armed forces to a more global perspective, which may have enabled the United States to win both world wars. So far, he appeared to be the kind of person I wanted to write about. The professor I was meeting with claimed to be an authority on Teddy Roosevelt. I hoped he’d be able to give me even more insight into his character and motivations.

The professor’s office was on the fourth floor, so I entered a crowded elevator that began to screech half way up. A horrible metallic sound worse than fingernails on a blackboard ran through the shaft, then the elevator ground to a halt.