Stolen (6 page)

W
e were sitting in Dr. Lee’s office, which looked a lot like Dr. Adams’s office, with the exception of a well-stocked saltwater fish tank, hoping the karma gods were on sabbatical or something. We were holding hands and waiting as patiently as could be.

“The waiting is the hardest part,” I said into Ruby’s ear.

She shot me a surprised look. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m used to fixing buggy software. When something is broken, all I have to do is write a few lines of code and I can see right away if it’s been fixed.”

Ruby shook her head dismissively. “No, I mean, are you really going to give me a softball like that to hit?”

“What do you mean, softball?”

There were others in the waiting room, so Ruby sang in a whispered voice the lyrics from the tune made famous by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. I knew the song well enough to have performed it myself at karaoke, if I ever sang karaoke. Ruby held up her finger. One more point for her. Add one to the tally that could not be counted. Ruby kissed my cheek and smiled.

A door opened to our right.

“Mrs. Uretsky?”

Neither of us looked up.

“Tanya Uretsky?” the woman announced again.

Ruby jumped a little as the recognition sank in. I did, too, and we both stood a bit shakily. The woman speaking was the receptionist, and she motioned us to the window.

“Dr. Lee can see you now,” she said.

For a place that dealt with cancer on a daily basis, the receptionist’s manner was surprisingly upbeat. I figured she was cheery for everybody, but decided to see her sunshiny demeanor as a sign that Ruby’s results would come back positive.

Dr. Lee, a stylish Asian woman who wore hipster black horn-rimmed glasses, had the films of Ruby’s latest imaging work.

“How are you feeling, Tanya?” Lee said, giving us both a friendly handshake hello.

“I’m doing okay,” Ruby said.

Ruby’s strained expression told me that the identity theft was eating away at her, same as her cancer.

“Well, I have your CT and PET scans here,” Lee said. “I was looking for signs of active disease to compare it to the first sets of scans we took.” She illuminated her light board so we could see the images clearly. Not that we could understand them; they looked like a Rorschach inkblot test to me.

“And?” I asked, my voice dripping with anticipation.

“And”—Lee’s voice rose in pitch, another positive sign in my book—“the amount of activity has definitely decreased. I would say, being cautiously optimistic here, that the nodes are definitely responding to the drug.”

Ruby’s face lit up in a way I hadn’t seen since the day I proposed to her, down on one knee, on the roof deck of a restaurant overlooking the Charles River.

“That’s . . . that’s good news,” Ruby said, her voice lifting with excitement.

“That’s good news,” Lee concurred, her serious expression breaking into a slight smile.

“So what now?” I asked.

“Now we keep doing what we’re doing,” Lee said. “Our plan of action is working, and we should stick with it. I’m still of a mind to schedule you for the node dissection, because there could be microscopic cancer left in the nodes, but this is definitely a positive sign.”

The plan of action was, of course, for Ruby to digest more of the illegally obtained drug, Verbilifide. When we first sought Dr. Lee’s medical advice, I had no doubt that she’d come to the same diagnosis and same recommended course of treatment as Dr. Adams. It was just a matter of going through the initial testing all over again. Throughout it all, I remained in awe of Ruby’s strength. A lesser person would have broken under the strain. Goodness knows I wouldn’t have been surprised if Ruby’s blood work revealed some sort of Amazonian lineage.

We left Dr. Lee’s office with that clichéd extra kick in our step. Ruby, smiling in a way I hadn’t seen in eons, was light on her feet and quick with a laugh. I felt extra alive and fully aware of our good fortune.
Grateful,
that was the best word to describe how we were both feeling at that moment. We were so incredibly grateful for everything, absolutely giddy with euphoria. For a brief flash we weren’t weighed down by the guilt of what we’d done, the crime we’d committed to get to this point. Rather, we were elated. I kept thinking about what Dr. Lee had said.

Our plan of action is working. . . . Nodes are definitely responding to the drug
.

My heart filled with hope and joy, and I thought back to the day I first developed feelings for Ruby. It wasn’t love at first sight for me, more like smitten at ninth sight, because it was on the ninth day of our college history class together that—in a blink—I became spell-bound by Ruby’s dazzling smile. Everything about that moment is frozen in my memory: the way her strawberry blond hair draped like a fine silk cloth over her shoulder, the green sweater she wore that made her eyes sparkle, the freckles that skirted across her cheeks. I’m probably one of the few people in the world for whom the Peloponnesian War evokes lustful thoughts.

I was sitting behind Ruby, yes, listening to the lecture, yes, taking notes, when she turned around to ask me a question. I had noticed her the first day of class, of course, but I’d never had her smile at me before. I got lost in that smile, forgot all about the Peloponnesians and their bloody conflict. When she smiled at me, the only thing I wanted to learn more about was Ruby Dawes.

After class I asked her out on a date, pizza at Captain Nemo’s in Kenmore Square, and she promptly agreed. Over cheese slices we talked about school, my passion for climbing, and her love of the outdoors. The subject of parents came up, and so we bonded over having both lost our fathers. It wasn’t a heavy conversation, more like we’d been friends for a long time and there was comfort in rehashing our realities.

She knew a lot about music. I credit her with introducing me to some old school bands: the Pixies, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Guided by Voices, and Jane’s Addiction. She considered herself alternative on the inside, because the way she dressed, sporty casual, didn’t fit the image of a brooding, darkly dressed, cutting-edge music aficionado.

We left Nemo’s and went back to my apartment, which at the time I shared with two Italian exchange students, who were trying—sadly, without much success—to master my native tongue. We hung out in my bedroom for a while, talking about things people who are attracted to each other talk about, which amounted to just about everything except the one thing we both wanted to do, which was to kiss. When our lips finally touched, I had a pillow between us. I don’t know how that pillow got there, but I decided to keep it there, as a barrier to prevent me from trying to push things too far too fast. It was Ruby who pulled that pillow away.

“It’s okay, John,” she said between our intensifying kisses. “I want you to touch me.”

We didn’t make love that night, or even that month. What we did was get to know each other better. She became my best friend, a soul mate. Our attachment was instantaneous and never wavered. I remember when I first told Ruby that I loved her. It was a spring afternoon, just like the one we stepped into from Dr. Anna Lee’s air-conditioned offices.

“What should we do to celebrate the good news?” I asked Ruby as we strolled down Harvard Avenue.

“I vote for a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a DVR marathon of
Ellen,
” Ruby said.

It was a little slap of reality. Our combined elation didn’t mean that Ruby’s stamina had improved. Thanks to Verbilifide, Ruby’s stamina had all the staying power of an ice cube in the desert.

“Hot fudge?” I asked.

“With rainbow sprinkles,” Ruby said.

“Done deal,” I said.

“What I really want is a kiss,” Ruby said.

I obliged, with much tenderness.

“I love you, John.”

“I love you, too.”

We both breathed in the day as we walked the few blocks toward our new home. With each step, I let that good feeling linger, savoring it greedily. We arrived back at the apartment, carrying a single bag of groceries containing the ice cream, hot fudge, and of course, the sprinkles.

While I was putting the groceries away, the telephone rang. Instinctively, I reached for my cell but realized it wasn’t my cell phone that was ringing.

My heart thrummed in my chest.

The phone in the apartment had never rung before, and for good reason. We used our cell phones to call the people we needed to call. We checked messages on our voice mail at the old apartment. The only reason this apartment phone worked at all was that I wanted to have utility bills in Uretsky’s name. I obtained online access to Uretsky’s health insurance account after I took over his identity. The helpful customer service representative who doled out Uretsky’s account numbers reset the online portal password using a new Yahoo e-mail address that I had created.

From that portal I was able to change Uretsky’s address to the P.O. box I’d rented from Post Boxes Unlimited, and the phone number to the new one I got for this apartment. I checked with the phone company to make sure my new number couldn’t be traced back to this address. That meant the only one with access to this number was an official representative from UniSol Health.

The phone rang again. The way the phone sounded—long rings, clattering bells (it was a corded Trimline phone)—made an especially ominous noise.

Maybe it’s a wrong number,
I said to myself.

It rang again.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Ruby asked.

“It’s probably a wrong number,” I said.

Ruby grunted and pushed past me to answer the phone. She put the phone to her ear.

“Hello. . . . Hello? . . . Anybody there? Heeellloooo?” I watched her eyes dance about confusedly as she waited. She hung up.

“I guess it was a wrong number,” I said.

She gave a quick shoulder shrug as if to say, “Oh well.” A feeling of relief swept through me. Then the phone rang again.

This time I picked it up.

“Hello,” I said, speaking quickly.

I don’t know why, but the hairs on my neck started to rise.

“Hello?” I spoke the word like a question this time. “Is anybody there?”

A voice answered me, raspy and deep sounding.

A chill ripped through my body and my skin prickled when I heard a man say, “My name is Elliot Uretsky, and I believe you stole my identity.”

M
y body went rigid, freezing my jaw open and my eyes wide. Ruby, who was standing nearby, gripped my arm, fingernails digging hard into my skin, prying for information. She leaned over, putting her face close to mine, willing me to look at her. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ruby’s mouth saying the words, “Who is it? Who is it?” I held up my hand, a wave.
Leave me alone,
I was saying to her.
I’ve got to think! Holy crap!
I switched the phone to my other ear, keeping my back to Ruby. She moved in close, her body pressed up against mine, ear attuned to whatever snippets of conversation could be heard.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number,” I said into the phone.

A long pause ensued that seemed to drag for eternity. My stomach clenched, releasing a wave of nausea through me.

“We both know that’s not true,” Uretsky said. His resonant baritone voice sounded throaty and coarse, while his vocal inflection, if graphed, would come out flat like the EKG of a dead man. Calm as a windless sea.

I took in a deep breath but found it impossible to slow my racing heart. Fear rode the back of my throat as I flashed on what was to come. Uretsky would phone the police, we’d be arrested, and Ruby would lose access to her medication. My subconscious acted on behalf of my frozen thoughts, doing what I’d trained it to do since I started taking climbing seriously—look for an escape route. Only, I couldn’t see any way off this particular mountain. Through a twisted reversal of fortune, I’d become Brooks Hall, swinging pendulum-like from a rope, hovering helplessly above the infinite, while Uretsky assumed the role I had once played, wielding that knife, angling to slice the safety line in two.

I pulled the phone away from my ear, readying myself to end the call, but something made me stop.

We could run,
I was thinking.
We’ll run! But how will Ruby get her medication?

I felt Ruby’s nails digging harder into my shoulder.

“Are you still there?”

Uretsky’s voice made me shudder, the way a dark storm cloud could whenever it slipped over a ridgeline to make an unexpected appearance.

You can’t hang up on him,
I thought.
He called you for a reason. He could have just gone to the police directly. Why did he call?

Ruby swiveled me by the shoulders, forcing me to face her.

“Who is it?” Ruby demanded to know. “Who?”

I mouthed the name “Uretsky” and watched a look of terror stretch across Ruby’s face. Her features contorted—eyes gone wide and wild, mouth falling open as though her jaw had come unhinged. Her hand went to her mouth; next, her color blanched.

“Please,” I said into the phone. “Please, let me explain.”

“Oh, I’m interested in your explanation,” Uretsky said. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” His voice filled my head like an enveloping blackness, a suffocating smoke that made it impossible to speak. “I’m waiting,” he said.

“My wife . . . my wife is very sick.”

“Yes, I know,” Uretsky said.

I recoiled as though I’d just been hit in the face.

He must have called UniSol and gotten access to the account again. That’s how he knew about Ruby’s cancer. That’s how he found our phone number. Our only saving grace was that he couldn’t know where we lived. Our home address was nothing but a post office box, and the phone number he called couldn’t be used to trace us to here. But he still could go to the police, and if he did, it wouldn’t take much to find out our real identities.

“Mr. Uretsky,” I said.

“Elliot, please,” he said, with a slight chuckle, chilling as a moonless winter night. “We should at least be on a first-name basis. After all, you’re me. But you know my name, and I don’t know yours. Your real name, that is.”

“Elliot,” I said, swallowing hard. “What I did was very, very wrong, and very stupid. But I did it out of desperation. My wife has cancer, and we didn’t have insurance for the drug she needed. There was no way we could afford her medication without better health insurance. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear that’s true.” I started to speak quicker because I was struggling for breath and on the verge of hyperventilating. “Please, you’ve got to understand. We were desperate. You’re married. What if it were your wife?”

“The old walk a mile in your shoes, eh?”

I nodded emphatically, though of course, Uretsky couldn’t see me.

“Yes. Yes,” I said. “Think about if it were your wife who was sick.”

“Hmmm . . . that’s a good idea. Let me think about that.”

The only sound to punctuate the lengthy quiet that followed was Uretsky’s own heavy breathing. The sonorous breaths were like that of a sleeping man. Was he heavyset? I wondered. All I had to go on was his Facebook avatar, which was nothing but a picture of Mario from the video game
Super Mario Bros.

I glanced over at Ruby, who appeared to have gone catatonic. She sat on a stool at the kitchen island, kneading the fingers of her hands; her eyes, unblinking, remained fixed on an empty spot on the hardwood floor.

Eventually Uretsky let out a long, protracted sigh—a signal to me that he had come to some sort of a decision.

“I’m done thinking,” he said.

“Please . . . Elliot . . . don’t report us to the police. We’ll work something out.”

“I have no interest in reporting your crime—to the authorities, or anyone else, for that matter,” Uretsky said.

I breathed out a protracted sigh of my own.

“Thank God. Thank you, Elliot. Thank you for being so understanding.”

“Oh, I never said that I was understanding. I just said I’m not going to report you to the police.”

I stammered before speaking. “What do you want? What can we do to make this right?”

My blood was burning now, like I had downed a pot of coffee with several Red Bull chasers.

“Do you like games?” Uretsky asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Games. Do you like games? How much clearer can I be?”

“I . . . I guess . . . but to be honest, I don’t really see what you’re getting at.”

“Well, I like games,” Uretsky said. “I like games a lot. Online games especially. They’re so much fun.”

Of course Uretsky was a game fanatic. I’d seen how many hours he logged playing
One World
. I felt the room darkening, an illusion, just a trick of the eye, I knew, but still, everything around me seemed to dim. I sensed what he was going to say next. Don’t ask me how, but I just knew—gut instinct. I asked the logical next question, anyway.

“Tell me what you want,” I said.

“Naturally, I want to play a game.”

I took in an uneven breath as my eyes closed tightly.

I was right.