“I sympathize with your grief, Balthazar, as I am experiencing it as well,” I said. “But we must hope for the best. I am confident that our Abigail will soon awaken from her slumber and that you shall enjoy the depth of your rapport with your beloved daughter once again.”
But Balthazar just nodded and glanced away at the heart monitor.
As I was able to delegate practically all of my work to the very capable Ms. Anastasia Goldfine, I had sufficient free time to see Abigail nearly every day. By then, Dr. Bird and I had become great friends. When he was not present, I would sit beside Abigail’s bed and either quietly hold her hand or read to her, my words punctuated by the rhythmic beeps emanating from the heart monitor. By the third week, I had gone through The Great Gatsby and the first third of Anna Karenina, both of which I knew she had already read. The reading proceeded slowly, for the attending nurses and doctors frequently interrupted me.
On one such night, when I was alone with Abigail, I put the book aside and gazed at her. In spite of everything, she looked beautiful to me. I gripped her hand, stroked it, and leaned close enough to whisper in her ear.
“Abigail,” I said in a soft voice. “It’s Archer. I must tell you something. I do not know if you can hear me but perhaps you can and maybe one day you will remember what I am about to say.” I paused for a moment and placed several strands of her hair behind her ear. And then I told her how I felt about her. Sadly, I fervently wished that I had done so when she was conscious.
When visiting hours concluded, I reluctantly made brief appearances at the office specifically to water Dean Fletcher’s orchids. Fortunately, the plants in question managed to prosper in spite of my lack of proficiency and experience.
One evening, as I was watering the damned plants, Eliot stuck his head in, as the door was ajar. “How goes it, Archer?” he asked.
“Quite well,” I said. “So much work to be done.”
“Yet your desk appears to be devoid of paper.”
“Quite correct. I have found that the one task that Ms. Goldfine performs with alacrity and skill is the filing of papers.”
“Very true.”
“But, as you so helpfully warned me, she is utterly hopeless at all other duties, so I perform these myself, tiresome as that often is.”
“By the way, Archer, I heard about your student, Ms. Bird,” Eliot said. He had solemnly lowered his voice. “Such a terrible tragedy.”
“Indeed,” I said. “How did you learn of it, if I may ask?”
“The local paper, of course,” Eliot said. “This sort of thing is big news in Highland Falls. It said you led the police to the site of her accident.”
As I did not wish to arouse suspicion regarding my relationship with Abigail, I fabricated a denial. “Balderdash,” I said. “The newspaper must have misquoted the sheriff. The fact is, Ms. Bird had mentioned to me in passing that she frequently journeyed to that very spot to relax and sometimes to read. The police were able to deduce where it was, not I.”
Eliot gave me a look of profound skepticism. “Is she making any progress?” he inquired.
“I think not,” was my reply.
Eliot nodded. “You must come over for dinner sometime, Archer. I suspect you’re existing on junk food or skipping meals entirely. You look very pale and undernourished.”
His perception was quite correct. “That would be delightful,” I said. “Thank you, Eliot.”
“I’ll ask Sandra about a date and time,” he said in a kindly voice before departing. “In the meantime, get some rest, Archer. You look like hell.”
One humid morning, I happened to espy Mr. Williger approach me. At the time, I was making an effort to unlock my bicycle from the rack that stood a few feet from the building that housed the English Department. I attempted to ignore him, for I was in a hurry to hie to Abigail’s bedside
But he was jogging quite rapidly toward me. Arriving at my side, he said, “Hold on, Professor.”
“Ah, Mr. Williger,” I said in a tone that was more polite than authentic. “So nice to see you again.”
“Hey, guess what? I got my diploma in the mail,” he said. “My father was really impressed. He didn’t think I could do it. Graduate, I mean. It’s all thanks to you, Professor.”
“Glad to be of service,” I said. “But having received your diploma, why on earth are you still on campus? It is summer vacation.”
“I decided to stick around. I have a girlfriend who lives in town.”
I suspected that he might be referring to Sandra, although at forty she could hardly be considered a girl.
Rather than continue the conversation, I concentrated on opening my bicycle lock, which was hopelessly intermeshed with the tire spokes of the bicycle beside it.
Mr. Williger squatted next to me. “Let me help you with that, Professor.”
I welcomed his aid. To my amazement, he accomplished this task in a few seconds, which I found embarrassing as it indicated the depths of my ineptitude.
“That thing doesn’t look too safe, Professor. Your tires need air and your handlebars and pedals look a little loose. A few spokes are bent too.”
“Be that as it may, it manages to transport me to my various destinations often without incident, although I confess that I am somewhat maladroit at times.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I owe you one, Professor. Bring it by the Delta House on College Lane and I’ll find some tools and fix it for you.”
“Truthfully? You would do such a thing for me?”
“I don’t wanna see you hurt yourself, Professor.”
I looked at him. He was a surprisingly affable young fellow. I regretted that I had misjudged him in class. “I shall do that, Mr. Williger. Most kind of you to offer and I appreciate your concern for my physical wellbeing.”
“No sweat,” Mr. Williger said. “In the meantime, try not to hurt yourself.”
Part Four
Chapter Thirteen
As July concluded, my anguish deepened, for Abigail still displayed no signs of wakening from her deep slumber. I continued to read to her, hoping that the resonant passages of the great classics would somehow bring her to consciousness but thus far my efforts had been fruitless.
“I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’re doing for my daughter, Ishmael,” Balthazar said on one occasion.
“Think nothing of it, Balthazar.”
He took a moment to consider his next statement. “I don’t mean to pry, but I take it that your relationship with my Abigail exceeds mere friendship.”
“It does indeed.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “I’m happy that she found a man such as you,” he said. “I hope both of you can continue your relationship one day.”
“This is my hope as well.”
“You certainly have my blessing.”
As the days passed, I continued to whisper my declarations of affection in Abigail’s ear but this exercise had thus far accomplished nothing that I was able to perceive, not so much as a blink or a twitch, although I still entertained the hope that she would recall my words upon awakening.
Since Dr. Van Buren had suggested that the introduction of certain sense stimuli might hasten an arousal, I endeavored to perform this strategy by playing Abigail’s favorite music, such as the Moonlight Sonata and various Mozart concertos, but none of my musical selections achieved the desired effect. One day, I brought several strips of bacon to her hospital room and held them beneath her nose but this strategy also produced no result. I could think of little else to do but wait patiently. The days passed with no progress.
The dressing that covered Abigail’s surgical scar was removed a week later. Neither Balthazar nor I was present at this unveiling, although we saw the result the fo
llowing morning. The jagged four-inch line of tiny stitches that appeared on a small shaved part of her cranium was ghastly to behold. My poor Abigail, I thought. The next day I purchased a baseball cap to cover the area. I found it difficult to look at this surgical evidence, not because I was squeamish but rather because it nearly made me weep. Yet, in spite of the shaved area and the stitches, my Abigail still looked exquisitely gorgeous to me.
Regrettably, I was at home, engaged in conversation with Felix and therefore not present at the hospital when Abigail at last regained consciousness. Constance, who had ventured to the hospital to recover a cell phone charger that she had accidentally left there the day before, called my cell phone to convey the thrilling news. At the time, Dr. Bird was not present.
“Her eyes just popped open, Ishmael!” Constance said. “It looked as if she had suddenly awakened in the middle of a nightmare.”
I was exuberant. “I will depart for the hospital forthwith!”
“There’s just one thing, Ishmael…”
“What?”
“When Abigail looked at me for the first time, she called me ‘Dolly,’ and she is still calling me by that name.”
“Dolly?” I said. “Hmm. Perhaps she was referring to a childhood plaything, a doll, as it were. Perhaps a toy commonly known as Barbie.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Constance said. “When I told her that I was a friend of yours, she didn’t seem to recognize your name.”
This was indeed odd. “I will be there momentarily!” I said.
As I raced to the hospital, I began to worry. Yes, it was a considerable relief that Abigail had finally awakened, but I was concerned about this Dolly business. Could she be suffering from one of the delusionary or hallucinatory syndromes that I had been cautioned about?
Twenty minutes later, when I entered Abigail’s hospital room, she looked at me, smiled brightly, and said, “Why, my dear Count Vronsky! What brings you here at this early hour? I was under the impression that you were in the process of preparing your horse for the regimental race.”
Constance shrugged in perplexity and summoned me closer. I quietly informed her that Count Vronsky was a character from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. I also postulated that Abigail was most likely under the impression that Constance was Princess Darya Alexandrova Oblonsky, otherwise known as Dolly.
Constance looked at me blankly. “Did you read her the book?” she whispered. “Anna Karenina?”
“I confess that I read her the first third of it.”
Abigail then cleared her throat and said, “Why are you silent on the matter, Count Vronsky? Is something amiss?”
I stood there silently for a moment as Abigail stared at me, no doubt expecting a response to her query. But what was I to do? Should I participate in this charade and take up the identity of Count Vronsky or attempt to persuade Abigail that I was in actuality, Ishmael Archer?
Involving myself in her fantasy seemed to be the most sensible strategy, as she appeared to be growing impatient. Impulsively, I said to her, “I decided that I had to see you, my beloved Anna, before the race.” This appeared to please her so I continued. “I find I simply cannot endure long periods of time without gazing upon your incomparable beauty and hearing your delightful voice. Just being by your side makes my heart beat with immense joy.”
“As does mine,” Abigail said. “But as you know, my dear Count, I am still conflicted about the wisdom of our romantic liaison.”
“Of this I am aware, my dearest,” I said. “I completely understand and feel great sympathy for your plight.”
“And that is my only salvation. My heart overflows with deep and enduring passion for you.”
Of course, the words we spoke were not identical to those in the novel but they conveyed the true passions that the characters felt for one another. My responses seemed to please her, so I said, “A deep passion that I too feel at the very core of my being.”
Pensive, Abigail continued. “At times, I feel as ill as poor Kitty, though for different reasons.”
“Ah, Kitty. My heart weeps for her,” I said, fully cognizant that internal organs cannot shed tears. “Yet I confess that I treated her in a dastardly way and I shall always regret it but I did not love her.”
But Kitty no longer concerned Abigail. “Tell me you love me, dear Count,” she said. “I desire to hear those exact words emanate from your lips, for they uplift my spirits so.”
I stared at her for a moment before replying. How I loved hearing my Abigail give voice to those words, although I realized they were actually spoken by Anna Karenina. Yet perhaps if I told Abigail-as-Anna that I loved her, Abigail-as-Abigail might one day recall my declaration. “I do indeed love you, Abigail,” I said with a sincere tone. “With all my heart and soul and any other part of my anatomy that is able to feel love.”
Constance looked at me and smiled. She knew that this was indeed true, that I truly loved Abigail, though I had never voiced this sentiment before, except during Abigail’s long slumber.
But Abigail furrowed her brow. “Who is this Abigail?” she asked with some irritation. “What an odd name. Dolly called me by the same name earlier. I do not understand. I assure you, Vronsky, I am not this woman of whom you speak. Are you perhaps engaged with another woman?”
“No, no, no, of course not, dear Anna!” I quickly said in order to distract her from my error. “You are my sun and my moon.”
“But not your stars? Do people not generally say ‘sun, moon and stars’?”
“Yes, I suppose they do, Anna,” I said. “It was thoughtless of me to omit this significant part of the galaxy. Astronomy has never been my forte. My sincere apologies.”
“Accepted,” she said. “But you have not answered my query, Vronsky.”
“Which query would that be, my darling?”
“I wished to know why you used this foreign-sounding name, ‘Abigail.’”
“An inaccuracy, for which I apologize. It is the name of my…um…prized steed. I have recently come from the stables.”
“Such an odd name for a horse.”
“Perhaps.” As I did not wish to continue this equine banter, I returned to the issue that had preceded it. “But Anna, you have not replied to my words of affection.”
“And so I shall, although I trust you already know what my response will be,” she said.
“True, my darling, but I wish to hear the words from your beautiful lips.”
“And so you shall,” she said. “I love you as well, Count.”
I studied Abigail. Apart from the fact that she was occupying a hospital bed in upstate New York, clad in a hospital gown and a baseball cap, she did bear some small resemblance to the Anna I had always visualized in the book, a woman whose kind heart and honesty were reflected in the depths of her bright flashing eyes and in the confidence of her bearing.
Abigail turned to Constance. “Tell me, Dolly,” she said. “How did Stiva find Levin? I have heard that he visited the poor soul at his farm.”
Constance looked at me quizzically. “Um…”
“I have heard that Stiva found him quite well,” I said, rescuing Constance. “But as you know, Dolly and Stiva are not speaking to one another due to Stiva’s indiscretion.”
“Ah yes,” Abigail said. “That awful young governess.” She turned to Constance and continued, “You must forgive the poor man, Dolly. It was merely, as Vronsky says, an indiscretion, a diversion. It is you that he loves with all his heart. I am convinced of it.”
“I am certain that, over time, Dolly will take him back to her bosom,” I said. “Is that not correct, Dolly?”
As I surreptitiously nodded to her, Constance said, “Yes.”
“Splendid!” Abigail said. “One must always think of the children.”
At that, Constance cleared her throat meaningfully, and I suspected tha
t she wished to engage in a private conversation with me before Abigail proceeded to travel any deeper into the Dolly and Stiva controversy.
I faced Abigail. “Will you pardon me for a moment, my dear Anna Arkadyevna Karenina? I have some urgent business to attend to. I shall return momentarily.”
“As you wish, Count,” she said. “Please hurry back to my side. The mazurka will begin soon and I would very much like to dance.”
“Thank you, my dear Anna,” I said with a bow. A mazurka? I wondered where she thought we were? A ball?
“Come to me and bid me farewell, Count,” she said.
“But I shall not be gone for long.”
“Be that as it may,” she said, “I still wish for you to embrace me.”
I hesitated. But after observing the profound expression of yearning in Abigail’s eyes, I lay upon her bed and took her in my arms. How I had longed to do this! I lay beside her for more than a few moments.
“Will you not kiss me, Count? Do your lips not ache to touch mine?”
“Of course. Nothing would give me more pleasure.”
Our lips met. It was a glorious moment for me, spoiled only by the realization that I was enjoying this with Anna Karenina and not Abigail Bird.
“That was sublime, my dear Count,” she said. “You leave me quite breathless and…” Her voice trailed off and I noticed that she was blushing.
“And…?”
“Dare I say it? I feel a distinct… stirring in my loins.”
Fearing that Abigail might then request a sexual encounter, I looked at Constance and motioned my head toward the door.
“You are leaving me as well, Dolly?” Abigail asked.
“Just for a moment, Abigail,” she said. “I have to use the commode.”
“Why do you insist on calling me by that name?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “One wishes to be called by one’s proper name and not by the name of one of Vronsky’s steeds.”
“I’m terribly sorry…Anna,” Constance said. “It will not happen again.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 15
