Authors: Elizabeth Brundage

The Doctor's Wife (49 page)

BOOK: The Doctor's Wife

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“You’ve already done that.” She gave him a look and left the room.

THEY HADN’T SPOKEN for over a week. She felt bereft, lost. The idea of never seeing him again made her physically ill. Finally, she broke down and called him. “I need to see you.”

The air was cold, the sun cruel and bright. The lake shimmered behind the motel. He was waiting for her when she arrived, sitting on the edge of the bed with the radio playing. He gazed at her dispassionately. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

She stood there, awkward. “Your wife went to see Michael. She went to the clinic.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“She knows, doesn’t she? She knows about us.”

He looked at her. “No, she doesn’t know.”

But Annie didn’t trust him. “I think she’s dangerous.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m afraid of her.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling I have. I can’t explain it.”

“You have nothing to fear.” He patted the mattress. “Come sit here next to me.”

She went and sat down on the bed, but she did not remove her coat. “I’m sick.”

“What is it?”

“All the time. I just feel sick.” She wiped her tears. “It’s hard for me. This whole thing.”

“It’s hard for me, too.”

Annie nodded, her heart twisting.

“I can’t leave her, Annie.”

“I never expected you to.” The comment made her angry. It wasn’t that she wanted him to. She didn’t know what she wanted. She had gotten herself into a situation and now she did not know how to get out of it.
Walk out,
a voice told her. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

“You said it yourself. We would never work out together.”

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “This was a mistake. Admit it. Admit that you regret it.”

“I don’t.”

“It was a stupid thing to do.”

“It changed you, I can see that. You’re a different woman. We’ve both changed.”

“Not for the better.”

“I know you don’t really believe that.”

“I don’t love you,” she lied.

“Love has nothing to do with it. It never does.”

She didn’t know what he meant, but it made her stomach tight. “I should go. I shouldn’t be here with you.”
I hate you now.

Then he kissed her hard, angrily, and she kissed him back with equal vigor, and they fell back on the bed and he climbed on top of her. She wanted to feel his weight on her, even though it made her insides squeal, even though it made her guilt fester. But as she lay beneath him his eyes seemed distant, his movements mechanical. “Let me up!” She shoved him hard, but he would not be deterred, and his hands worked swiftly, opening her blouse, snapping off her bra, and she hit him, she slapped him all about the face and chest, and she cursed him, and he cursed her back with his spit flying, and he grappled to contain her, capturing her wrists and holding her still until she looked at him and he looked at her and their eyes did not waver. “Let me up! I have to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

It was almost dark when she finally left the motel room. Driving out of the lot, she noticed a red pickup truck in the parking lot. There was a man sitting in it, wearing mirrored sunglasses, and just as she turned the corner she saw him raise the long lens of a camera and take aim.

Halfway home, she stopped at a gas station, overcome with a spell of nausea. She retreated into the bathroom to be sick. What a time to get the stomach flu, she thought. But afterward she joined the dinner crowd at the fast-food restaurant next door. With the abandon of a teenager, she ordered a cheeseburger, French fries, and a strawberry shake and consumed the entire meal in less than five minutes. When she was finished, she sat in the plastic chair, watching the people come and go through the glass double doors. Queasy again, she walked out to the parking lot for some air. A minivan pulled into the spot next to hers and a man and his pregnant wife got out. Annie had to wait for the woman, who was so big she needed to open the door all the way. Drawn to the woman’s belly, Annie suddenly realized what was wrong with her. It wasn’t the stomach flu after all.

WHEN SIMON GOT HOME that afternoon, wearing the scent of his angry lover, he found Lydia waiting for him in the kitchen, a glass of Scotch before her on the table. The room was dark, she hadn’t bothered to turn on a light, and he could see she’d been crying. The wind had picked up and he could hear her chimes wrangling on the porch. “I know I haven’t been much of a wife,” she said.

He waited.

“I know you’ve never really loved me.”

“That’s not true.”

She finished her drink. “I know about Annie Knowles. I’ve known for a while.”

Methodically, he went to the cupboard and brought down her pills and filled a glass with water. He set the pills and the glass down before her. “You’re delusional,” he said. “You’d better take your medication.”

“You’re going to be sorry, Simon,” she said. “You’re going to be very, very sorry.”

He walked out and was not the least bit surprised when she threw the pills at his back and they fell out, like rain, all over the floor.

PART FIVE

Prayers

THE BOYS WERE HAVING more fun than the girls. Now, why was that? Lydia loved watching the boys as they ran across the muddy field, leaping over puddles, grabbing hold of one another with their heads thrown back in the sun. She loved the boys. She loved watching the boys. But the girls just stood around in circles. They stood around, staring glumly at the dirt, secret thoughts tingling with judgment. She felt a memory of her own school days creeping in, the schoolyard full of callous girls in faded uniforms, scheming hateful tricks to play on her. Lydia squeezed her brain shut and concentrated on little Rosie Knowles, skipping around the puddle with her little friend.
Ring around a rosie, pocket full of posy.
The child resembled her mother, Lydia noticed, with her gangly legs and wild hair. Absently, she wondered what it was like being Annie and having the little girl for a daughter.

The school bell rang and the children began running into the building. The two teacher’s aides who covered recess had moved to the doorway and were waving the children inside. Lydia started down the grassy hill toward the playground. She only had a minute or two before the aide would notice that Rosie had not come in with the group. Lydia felt a smile filling up her mouth like too much chocolate. She took the picture of the Knowles’ golden retriever out of her pocket and held it up. “Hey, Rosie,” she called out.

Rosie stopped and looked at her, confused, but then she saw the picture of her dog and smiled and ran over to her. “Did you find Molly?”

“Yup. Want to see?”

Rosie glanced around uncertainly.

“She’s right up the hill. See that car over there?” Lydia pointed to the white Taurus she had rented for the occasion. It was parked at the curb. “Let’s don’t stand around talking about it. Don’t you want to see her?”

The little girl nodded. Lydia took her hand and led her up the hill to the car. The little hand in her own was small and perfect.

“I don’t see her,” Rosie cried.

“She’s hiding. Get in the car.”

“Why?” She started to cry.

“Just get in, Rosie. Just do what I tell you.”

The child studied her face.

“Don’t you want an ice cream?”

“Okay.”

Lydia helped the child into the car and strapped on her seat belt. The key turned and the engine started. Lydia tried not to look at the little girl, who seemed so small all of a sudden. She was whimpering a little, tears running down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry.”

Fists rubbing her eyes. “You said you had my dog.”

“I do. Not in the car, you misunderstood me. Don’t worry, she’s safe.” Lydia sniffed. “Just sit back and be quiet and try not to make me mad.”

The pills she’d taken before this little excursion were making her nose run. Rosie Knowles was crying. It made Lydia think of a sick pig. “Stop your crying!” she shouted. “Stop or I don’t know what I’ll do next.”

Rosie Knowles sucked the air, she squealed like a little dying pig.

The Dairy Mart was down Holby Road. Reverend Tim had taken her there once. Lydia pulled into a parking spot on the side. “What kind do you want?”

“Kind of what?”

“What flavor?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be impolite. I want to buy you an ice cream. You say, ‘Yes, thank you, I’d like strawberry, please.’”

“I don’t
like
strawberry.”

Lydia took a deep breath.
Spoiled brat.
“What do you like?”

“Chocolate.”

“Stay here, or you won’t get your dog.”

Lydia got out. She stuck her hand through the handle of her pocketbook and shoved the purse up her arm. She flipped her hair back behind her ear. It was something she’d seen Annie do in class. She flipped back her hair and went up to the counter, where a pimply-faced boy scooped the ice cream. Lydia ordered a chocolate cone and paid the boy. “Excuse me, ma’am, but there’s something wrong with your nose.”

“What?”

“It’s bleeding.”

Connecting the dots of his pimples she said, “What did you say to me?”

“Your nose, ma’am.” He handed her a tissue.

“Oh, my
goodness,
” she said, the blood dripping onto her blouse, the tissue soaked with blood. She hurried back to the car. “Here you go.”

Rosie’s eyes were red. She took the cone with a face that said she didn’t want it.

“You eat that cone, miss,” Lydia said.

Rosie started eating it and Lydia slipped back behind the wheel but didn’t start the car. She stared ahead out the windshield at a garbage can overflowing with trash. Why hadn’t somebody emptied it, she wondered.

“Can we go now?” Rosie squeaked.

“I just have one thing to do,” she told her. “With this red marker. See? Then we can go. Do you like tattoos?”

BOOK: The Doctor's Wife

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