The Kissing Game (17 page)

For several steely seconds, I almost forget
that the Chairman has a gun in his hand, that he wants to kill me. I just listen
with strained ears to hear what Robert has to say. Resisting the urge to know
is like resisting the magnetic powers of planets over their heavenly bodies. If
I had any, I would give up all claims to all the gold and silver in the world
to hear what he has to say right now. So I stand there, tottering, waiting, wanting
more than anything to lunge toward the door and open it and see his face and
hear him speak.  

And Robert’s voice passes through the door like
a gift, “I love you,” he says. “Now will you just open the fucking door and let
me talk to you?” And the second he says the words, I feel the icy fire of them
zinging in my spine, rushing up to tingle in my ears. To Robert, saying words
like those is like offering up his soul for inspection, not something he does
without painful, gut-wrenching contemplation. Hearing the phrase from him now
is the baptism to the naked sobbing fool inside me.

But I can’t encourage him. I can’t say it back.

“I don’t love you,” I holler back, my voice
sounding choked. The Chairman looks at me as though he approves, although his
face suggests perplexity. “I hate you,” I add weakly for effect. I hope Robert
doesn’t hear me.

“I know you don’t hate me,” Robert corrects quietly.
He sounds as if the rain drips off his lips when he speaks, and all I can think
about suddenly is how beautiful his lips are. The thought seizes me, a vision
of rapture. He’s right, I don’t hate him. I love everything about him. His
lips, his eyes, his stupid stubbornness, his weird, weird ways—

“I’m coming in,” Robert states, determined as a
fool. And before I can speak, I see he knob on the door begin to turn, the
faded brass twisting in the dark. Without pause, I lunge toward the door
handle, my arm outstretched, intending to lock it before Robert can open it. But
the door swings open before I can get to it, and I see Robert’s beautiful wet face,
his tall statuesque form standing in the doorway, looking tragically angelic, the
ghetto neighborhood of lights twinkling behind him like stars.

This is perfect vision of Robert I see just
before I hear the piercing sound of the projectile passing through the
silencer, a sound much like that of a sneeze, or of someone spitting, so tame
and meek sounding. I’m just glad I stand like a barrier between Robert and the Chairman,
I think, just before I feel the projectile enter my back, just before the hot
stabbing sensation slices through me. Falling is as unexpected as that time I
slipped in the rain at the train station and slid down the escalator on my back.
Only this time I feel myself hit the floor facedown. I hear the Chairman rise
off the couch behind me at the same time the slamming of footsteps of rises up
the stairs to my apartment.

At first, I use my hands to push myself up, my
arms are rubbery, so I roll onto my back on the carpet, where I see Robert
hurtling toward the Chairman, as if instinct has impelled him to attack. Then I
see Ted, who looks as shocked and wholly unprepared for what he sees. He stands
in my doorway wide-eyed, not leaning on anything, as if assessing the
situation. Robert and the Chairman wrestle, and I try to move, to help, but my
body feels hot and sticky and uncooperative. When I attempt to sit up, the
fiery, wet agony forces me back down. I put my hand over my stomach and feel
the warmth of blood on my shirt. I hold up my hand and see the red trickle down
my fingertips and into my palm.

Then the room twists like the night sky moving
in fast forward, and I see Robert, Ted, and the Chairman rolling on the floor
nearby. A ball of moving men. I hear the piercing sound of the gun going off
again, and then like a party of people arriving, I see two weathered policemen
at my door. They’re yelling, and all the commotion is like a dream, all watery
and disjointed and fishcolored. The policeman draws his weapon. For some
reason, I can only see flecked moon of my ceiling. I stare at it for what seems
like a millennium. It reminds me of dehydrated cheese and desiccated corpses. A
policeman leans over me, talking into his radio. He seems quite calm under the
circumstances. He looks like a nice man.

And then I see Robert’s face over me. God, it’s
wrong how beautiful he is. He glances down at my stomach. “Oh god,” he says.
Then there’s more yelling, more movement on the stairs. The policemen
half-drag, half-wrestle the Chairman out the front door. Robert is back over
me, now holding one of my favorite button-up sweaters over my stomach. It’s
going to be ruined—is all I can think. His eyes appear wet from the rain. He
yells, “Get the fucking paramedics in here, now!” Ah typical Robert. Both his
hands hold the sweater over my stomach pressing down uncomfortably. I grab his
hand because it hurts. “I’m sorry,” he says.

I try to speak but I don’t think he hears me.

“In here!” he yells toward my open door. The
rain still pummels outside. I can feel the flecks of water occasionally making
their way through the open door and hitting my face. It feels nice.

My lips move again.

“What?” Robert’s paying attention now. “What
did you say?”

            Just then, two young men shove
Robert away. They’re dressed like security guards but the stretcher they carry suggests
they’re not. 

            “What’s your name?” the one with
the glasses asks.

            “Caroline.”

            “How old are you?” the bald one
wants to know.

            “Twenty-three. Ouch, that hurts.”

            “Caroline, can you keep your eyes
open for me?”  

            Keeping my eyes open feels like
holding back the water of Hoover Dam. I feel my mouth opening and something
being placed inside. I feel air being forced into my lungs and myself moving
off the ground, lifting up and sideways. Then there’s a whooshing feeling in my
insides as if great volumes of liquid leak out of me. Someone speaks. Like an
animal shedding its skin, I feel my body evacuating itself.

            “Is this your life?” I hear someone
ask. “Is this your life?”  The voice sounds unfamiliar. And I’m labored lightly
into motion and wonder if I’m dreaming or if the voice real. An engine revs,
doors slam, and the world moves.

“De valientes y glotones están llenos los
panteones.”

Cementeries are full of the courageous and of
gluttons.

            Like in one of those old Clint
Eastwood movies, I find myself pushed out into the middle of the dusty street
by strangers. I stand alone. On either side of me, onlookers congregate outside
bars and shops, the turtle-like clanking of hooves and boots indicating restlessness.
Forty paces away, I see my opponent also standing in the middle of the dusty
road. He’s wearing boots, underwear, and a holster. Aside from that, he’s naked.
Without warning, there’s a flurry of gunfire and smoke. People cheer. I barely
have time to register the movement before it’s over. Unarmed, I look down at my
stomach and see the massive gunshot hole in my t-shirt, the blood oozing out. 
“This is a terrible duel,” I yell at the crowd. “No one gave me a gun!”

Of course, that’s when my mind that tells me
I’m dreaming. Cowboys don’t duel in their underwear. And I must be about to
wake up and realize I’m fine. No bullet holes. What a relief.

But then, as the world sinks back into me like
stones, I realize that my torso feels as though a spear-shaped meteorite has
just impaled me.

“That’s terrible,” I hear Robert say
disinterestedly. Although my eyes remain closed, I decipher the tone in his
voice—the one that pretends to be interested in what other people say but really
holds back insult by the clench of his teeth. “I’m sure you’ll heal. Broken
bones do
generally
heal, so I’ve heard,” Robert adds. The sound gives me
flashbacks to interns shuffling out of Robert’s office door, their heads bent,
their eyes all gloom, their limbs woven around themselves protectively.

            “Yeah, but my insurance is cheap,”
the stranger’s nasally voice complains. “It won’t pay for physical therapy, and
I can’t afford physical therapy on my own. I’ll have to watch Youtube videos.”
The man snorts.

            “Uh-huh,” Robert replies blandly.

            I attempt to open my eyes to
determine who Robert is talking to, but angry celebrants have gathered in my
torso, armed with their own pistols, grenades, and rocket launchers. Only this assault
urges me to open my eyes.

            “Is that your girlfriend?” the
strange voice asks.

            “Shouldn’t you be resting?” Robert
replies abruptly.

            “What happened to her?”

            “She was shot.”

            “Jesus, for real?”

            “For real,” Robert answers.

            By the time I open my eyes, the
sensation has multiplied. Beside me, I see the blue hospital curtain, the black
silhouette of a man lying in bed on the other side, and the square light of the
window beyond him. A light sheet and loose-fitting hospital gown lay over me. The
room smells antiseptic, and I feel naked. Next I see Robert. His face looks
unusually narrow and his hair is in a primeval state. He’s wearing the same
clothes he wore the last time I saw him: a light-blue t-shirt and jeans. Only before,
he was soaking wet, and the t-shirt was free of circular brown spots.

            “Who shot her?” the stranger wants
to know.

            Robert looks angrily at the
curtain. I watch him and contemplate whether I want to interrupt this discussion.
Perhaps I should feign sleep so I can hear him lecture the man on the decency
of keeping one’s distance in public spaces, but my pain rejects this idea.

            “Can you get me the nurse?” I
interrupt.

            Robert’s head jerks toward me, and
he leans forward, as if checking to see if I’m really talking.

“Sure,” he replies. His chair skids as he rises
and bounds out of the room.

I’ve never seen him walk so fast, not to
depositions, not to important meetings, not to his favorite lunch spot. Seconds
later, he has commandeered a nurse into my room. Her hands hold tubes and gear.
She’s dark-haired, in her fifties, heavyset, but clearly not immune to Robert’s
bossiness. Is anyone immune to Robert’s bossiness? I could write a dissertation
on the subject.

            “It hurts,” I confess to the
discombobulated woman, who instantly understands my woes. She strides over to
the counter, where she puts things down. For a second, Robert locks his
pitiful, lashed eyes with mine. The nurse walks around the medical equipment.
Instantly I realized I’m attached to tubes and wires. She approaches my bedside
with a tilted head.

             “On a scale of one to ten, ten
being the worst pain you’ve ever felt, what are you?” she asks.

            “Maybe a twelve or thirteen,” I
complain. “It’s all fire and brimstone, radiating to my spine and down my legs.”
I have the urge to cup my stomach and lean forward, but I know this is a
terrible idea.

            “Okay,” she hesitates, glancing out
the open door toward the hub of nurses clacking away on computer keyboards and
speaking with doctors. “The doctor must give me the dosage on your morphine. I
can’t give you any yet. You’re not scheduled for another dose till noon.”

            “How long will I have to wait for
the doctor?” I ask, feeling as though the pain blooms volcanically. Meanwhile,
concern grows on Robert’s face.

            “It’s hard to tell, could be any
minute or a couple of hours.”

            “That’s unacceptable,” Robert butts
in, shaking his head. “Is not the primary objective of the physician to do no
harm?” He glares at the nurse. Poor woman.

            “Yes, um, of course, but I can’t
prescribe her morphine myself, and her next dose isn’t scheduled yet. I’ll get
the doctor right away.”

            “Yes, I recommend you do that,”
Robert says.

             As the nurse grabs her bags and
departs, Robert follows her, and I suddenly worry he will do something rash. With
everyone gone from the room, minus the now silent patient on the other side of
the curtain, I lie there wishing and praying for pain relief as though it were the
only thing in the world.  Before I begin my second round of “Dear God, Dear
God, Dear God,” Robert is already back in the room, a short young doctor following
him like a sheep.

            He approaches me while Robert
stands over both of us, a judge over a trial. The doctor soon injects me with
the succulent of the gods.

Robert asks, “How do you feel now?”

            “Great,” I answer because I do.
Fire and brimstone all gone.

The doctor tries to ignore Robert’s presence,
which is like ignoring a fire-breathing dragon hovering over your shoulder, if
that dragon were beautiful.

“You’re a fortunate young woman, Caroline,” he
says, disposing the needle and his gloves in the trash can. “For someone who’s
just been shot, you look remarkably
alive
; aside from that stitched hole
in your stomach and back and the drain tube in it, you could look almost normal.”

I don’t like the sounds of “a drain tube” but
decide not to focus on the negatives of the situation, especially while I’m floating
on a river of clouds. The doctor waits for me to speak. I can’t muster words.
My mouth feels detached from my face, so he continues.

“You’re going to be with us here for a few
days, just to make sure you don’t develop any infections, but you’re lucky,” he
says, using his fingers to count. “You got to keep your stomach, your spleen,
your liver, and both kidneys. You lost just the tiniest portion of your large
intestine. Regardless, I’m sure you’ll live a long, healthy life, provided you
avoid jumping into the path of anymore oncoming bullets.”

He and Robert exchange words before he exits.

Before long, Robert sits down next to me and
scoots his chair up close. The hospital bed beneath me floats as he whispers,
“I think now might be a good time to tell me
why
the Chairman wanted to
kill you.”

He waits for a response. God, he’s beautiful. Oh,
that. I had almost forgotten. Robert doesn’t know everything yet. He hasn’t
been told.

“I broke into the Chairman’s house,” I whisper.

Robert’s eyes remain on my face, but he cannot
hide his curiosity. “Why?”

“Grand failure,” I say. “I broke in to get the
tape back, but it didn’t work …You have the eyes of a beautiful woman.” He
really does.

He frowns at me. “Why would you do such a ridiculous
thing?”

“I was trying to keep you from getting tired,
and now the Chairman has security footage of me breaking into his house, and
now I’m going to jail,” I say calmly, but really, somewhere down beneath the
fluffy clouds is a sober me screaming in fear. “How long do you think I’ll be
in prison?” I ask Robert.

“You mean ‘keep me from
getting
fired.’”

“Yeah, I’m so sorry about that.”

“But why would he want to kill you for breaking
into his house?” Robert wants to know.

“He thinks I saw something I shouldn’t have.
It’s a long story, but the short version is he’s into some seedy business,
child
pornography,”
I whisper the last two words.

“What makes you think so?” 

Just then the clomping of footsteps catches my
attention, and I notice Ted in the doorway. He stands there holding a bouquet
of yellow daffodils.

“You’re awake,” Ted says striding toward me in full-on
Ted Bundy-esque sweater and jeans. Robert still sits there beside me, the look
of annoyance at being interrupted. I can’t help but notice the contrast between
the two men. Sure, Ted looks attractive, scholarly even in his off-white
sweater, but Robert looks all the more glorious in comparison, even with his
wild hair and stained shirt.

“Hi,” Ted says to Robert out of courtesy.

Robert nods as though Ted’s interruption has
just wrecked the day.

“I brought you some clothes. Your apartment
door was still open, so I figured you could use some stuff. I hope you don’t
mind. Toiletries, clothes, slippers, stuff you might need,” Ted explains,
setting a bag down on the counter.

“Thanks,” I say. “That was sweet.”

Robert thrusts himself up from the chair beside
me. “Let’s put those in water.” He extends his hand to take the flowers from
Ted who releases them as though they were kittens Robert might drown. Ted and I
observe as Robert takes the plastic hospital-standard pitcher, fills it with
water, and places the flowers inside. He sets them on the counter and turns
around, blocking the flowers from view.

“What’s the verdict?” Ted asks me.

 “The bullet went through her, no internal
organs damaged. They put a drain tube in and stitched her up. She’ll be let out
in a few days,” Robert answers for me. I wonder if he knew this information
before I did. Hospitals have rules about only informing family members, so I
consider whether Robert bullied the information out of someone.

“You need a ride back home after you’re
released? I can borrow a car and come get you,” Ted offers with the eagerness
of a boy scout.

“I’m giving her a ride home,” Robert clarifies.

“You are?” I ask.

Robert nods at me.

“She could probably answer for herself,” Ted
clarifies, glancing back at Robert.

 “She could,” Robert says. 

I hear a snicker behind the curtain.

“Before I forget, I also brought your cell
phone. It’s in the bag. There’s a bunch of messages on there,” Ted says.
Suddenly the thought of Ted going through my apartment and looking at my cell
phone seems a little serial-killer-esque, but the daffodils have already won me
over.

“Thanks for coming, and for the flowers. You
always have a way of showing up at the right times,” I say to Ted, who seems
woefully aware of Robert’s presence. As if to annoy Robert, Ted takes my hand
and says, “I’m so glad you’re okay. There were a few hours there when I thought
you weren’t going to make it. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot,” I say. “But good. The
pain medication feels as if it will last for forty years.”

He nods. “You’re lucky. You could’ve died.”

“I suppose.”

“You know that bed and breakfast still awaits us,”
Ted says. “We can still go.” His feelings seem all warm and bent in my
direction. He smiles and squeezes my hand.

A voice inside me tells me to check on Robert,
so I glance at him just in time to see his blue eyes catch the light and look
fiery. There seems a chink in his armor.

“We can talk about it later, Ted,” I say. “But
thanks for coming, bringing all my stuff. I was so busy bleeding that I didn’t
think to grab anything before the paramedics took me away.”

Ted chuckles. Robert doesn’t. I sense a reckoning.

“I should get some rest,” I say, seeking to
send Ted away.

“You should,” Robert asserts bossily.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Sweet dreams,” Ted
says as he bends his head down and kisses me on the forehead.