Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  “Wait,” Houston said, motioning for the nurse pushing Rachel’s wheelchair to halt.

  “What is it?” Rachel asked.

  The nurse grasped Rachel’s shoulder in warning. “I’m afraid there’s a bunch of photographers and camera crews outside, Miss Austin. I guess they must have found out you were being released.”

  “Oh Lord,” she groaned. “I didn’t think. And I should have. Houston, I’m sorry. If you think it’s necessary, I’m sure that hospital security would help us out.”

  He glanced down at her. All morning she’d fussed with her clothes and her hair, as if reassuring herself over and over by touch that everything about her was right. Not even Houston’s constant assurances had been enough. Except for the dark glasses she was wearing, and the small, red wounds on her neck that were still healing, her face looked the same.

  Her hairstyle was different—still well below her shoulders, but shorter after the burned parts had been cut away. The blue long-sleeved T-shirt she had on was more for comfort than style, but on Rachel, everything looked good. And instead of jeans, Houston had bought her some white sweatpants. They were a bit warm for the season, but definitely softer to the places on her body that were still sore, and more comfortable for travel.

  Houston frowned. “Don’t apologize to me, darlin’. They’re the ones who are about to piss me off.”

  The nurse gave Houston a worried look. “Should I call security, Mr. Bookout?”

  Houston looked at her and grinned. “Not unless you’re afraid I might hurt them,” he drawled.

  Rachel laughed. Oh God, she had missed this man. “Then let’s do it,” she said, waving everyone forward.

  But when the nurse wheeled her out, the sudden barrage of shouts and the clicking of dozens of camera shutters told her that once again she would be making the front page. Only this time, it wouldn’t be in quite the same style.

  “Miss Austin! Miss Austin! Can you give us a statement? How do you feel about what happened to you? What will you do now that you can no longer model? Where are you going to go now that your apartment was destroyed in the blast?”

  But something unexpected began to happen to Rachel. Bombarded by a cacophony of sounds, she could hardly focus on the questions. Without the added avenue of sight, the sounds were overwhelming. Shrieking sirens, shouts from passersby, the roar of traffic—it all fell in upon her. Unable to cope, she shrank against the back of the wheelchair in self-defense. Then Houston suddenly thrust a bouquet of roses he’d been carrying into her lap. She fumbled with them, as well as with her stuffed rabbit.

  “Hold these, darlin’,” he said shortly. “I’ll be right back.”

  Rachel clutched them, feeling the prick of thorns through the wrapping and taking comfort in the fact that at least one of her senses still functioned properly. Another wave of shouts began, and then she heard Houston’s voice over it all, and everything inside of her settled.

  “I can’t stop you from taking your damned pictures,” Houston stated loudly. “But she’s not answering questions. Now back off.”

  One local newswoman poked a microphone in Houston’s face, while motioning for her cameraman to come closer.

  “Don’t you think her public has a right to—”

  Houston interrupted. “No, because someone from that public you so righteously defend is responsible for what happened to her. Until they find him and bring him to justice, she has nothing to say.” Then he put his hand over her microphone and leaned closer, lowering his voice so only that one reporter could hear. “Look, lady. Where I come from, I was taught to be courteous to females. I was told that women are prettier than men, and usually a whole lot smarter. Now, if you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ll get this damned microphone out of my face and you’ll get out of my way. Because I’m putting Rachel in that limo and taking her home. And if we’re real lucky, someday this will all seem like a bad dream.”

  “But sir,” she sputtered. “You don’t under—”

  Houston’s voice lowered another notch, and he leaned even closer, until he and the woman were almost nose to nose.

  “Lady... you don’t want to make me mad.”

  The newswoman was startled, and her mouth went slack. While she was struggling with words, Houston spun, motioned for the nurse to push Rachel forward, and plowed his way through the throng of people who stood in their way.

  Oddly enough, although they hadn’t heard what he said, the crowd parted. Now and then someone yelled out a question, but did not push for an answer. Only after the limousine began pulling away from the curb did the newswoman Houston had spoken to begin to regain her equilibrium.

  “What did he say to you?” someone yelled.

  “He wanted my phone number,” she snapped, and motioned for the cameraman. “Let’s go,” she said shortly. “We got enough for the broadcast. Besides, what does it matter? Rachel Austin is already old news.”

  ***

  The radio was playing softly in the background. Beatty hummed along with the tune as he smoothed out the wrinkles on Rachel’s new bed. The sheets were satin, and a pristine white, as were the pillowcases over the mound of pillows he’d arranged against the headboard. The white lace bordering the bedspread barely brushed the shining hardwood floor.

  When he was finished, he stood back, admiring his own handiwork. He inhaled deeply, then smiled. The room felt alive. The red walls seemed to pulse, like the inside of a wildly beating heart, while the virgin white bed became an island of calm.

  Beatty didn’t care that Rachel would never be able to actually see it, because he’d created it for himself more than for her. She was his prize, and this room was his display case. He looked toward the door, at the picture frame leaning against the wall. One last thing to do and the room was finished. He picked up a hammer and quickly drove a small nail in the wall, exhaling lightly with satisfaction as the fresh paint was pierced. He laid the hammer aside, reached for the picture, and hung it on the wall, then stepped back. Judging it level, he dusted off his hands. It was done. Satisfied with his work, he picked up the hammer and blew the picture a kiss as he left.

  It wasn’t the best picture of her he’d ever seen, but it said it all. In full color, and cut straight from the front page of The National Gossip, was a photo of Rachel Austin coming out of a charity function on Jules Farrier’s arm. She was looking up at him and smiling when the camera snapped, forever catching her moment of delight at something he’d said. Beside it was a picture taken in Rachel’s hospital room. With her injuries in prominence and tubes coming out of her mouth and nose, the contrast was sharp and ugly.

  In the kitchen, he put away his hammer and washed his hands. As he was drying his hands, he glanced at the clock. His heart skipped a beat. It was just after six P.M., past time to call the hospital and check on his girl.

  He knew the number by heart, and patiently waited as the phone began to ring. When the nurse answered, he smiled to himself. He liked this nurse. She was always friendly and sincere in her efforts to pass on the news he so desperately needed.

  “Fourth floor nurses’ station.”

  “Hello,” Beatty said. “I’m just calling to check on Rachel Austin’s condition.”

  The nurse’s voice rose in delight. “As of this morning, she’s no longer a patient at Bellevue.”

  Beatty’s stomach turned, and he caught himself swallowing bile as he stuttered over his next words.

  “Wh-What do you mean? She didn’t take a turn for the—”

  The nurse hastened to add, “Oh no, sir. She’s fine. She was released.”

  No, no, no, no. “Y-You’re kidding, right? She c-can’t be gone. She was coming with me.”

  The nurse frowned. “No, sir. I’m not kidding. If you’d like, I can transfer you to our public affairs officer.”

  Beatty started to sweat. “No, no,” he muttered. “I don’t need to talk to anyone else. Just tell me, where did she go?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,�
�� the nurse said. “Maybe you could check with her agent.”

  Beatty started to shake. Then, because he could no longer hold on to the phone, he hung up.

  Everything inside him began to give way. He shuddered, then felt a sudden warmth on the inside of his leg. He looked down. A puddle was forming around his left shoe.

  He grabbed at himself, but it was too late. It was instinct that made him look up, half expecting his mother to appear in the doorway with a disappointed stare. But no one was there. Then he remembered: His mother could never berate him for anything again. In fact, he was guessing that right about now, she was in much worse shape than he was.

  He staggered out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room, stripping off his clothes as he went. By the time he reached his bed, he was naked. Without his clothes to disguise his lack of manly stature, his slight build and pale, thin body looked almost juvenile... until you looked at his face. There all the ravages of the years and all the disappointments of his life showed most clearly.

  He walked to the closet like a man in a trance and began pulling out clothes, dressing himself in whatever he put his hand on first, with no regard for style or match. When he was decently covered, he headed for the front door. Just as he opened it, the door across the hall opened, too.

  “Why, Beatty, hello! How is your dear mother? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Beatty jerked as if he’d been slapped, staring in sudden confusion at the old woman who lived across from his apartment. It took him a moment to remember that her name was Marjorie. Marjorie Carl.

  “She’s gone,” he said shortly, and started toward the elevator.

  Marjorie’s bushy white eyebrows shot upward. Her mouth suddenly dropped, elongating the field of wrinkles time had plowed through her face.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  Beatty didn’t bother to stop. “South, to Florida,” he muttered. “Got tired of the cold.”

  Marjorie tutted. “She didn’t say anything to me. Why didn’t she say something before she left? I thought we were friends.”

  The elevator opened. Beatty leaped on. The old woman was still talking as the doors closed. He took a deep breath and then rubbed his hands across his face. He needed to think. Where would Rachel go? He suddenly realized that he knew nothing about her beyond the people who’d come to her Manhattan apartment. But they wouldn’t be coming there again. He’d seen to that. He slapped his hand against his thigh in frustration. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

  A few minutes later he dashed out of the building and into the street, staring about him with growing confusion. A bus came rumbling past, and he looked into the windows, searching the faces of the passengers inside. A cab sped past the curb where he stood, and impulsively he stepped into the street for a better view of the fare in the backseat. A horn suddenly blared, and he jumped back just in time to keep from getting run over.

  “Watch out!” a man yelled, and then gave Beatty the finger.

  Beatty’s face turned a dull, angry red, and he shook his fist at the taillights of the disappearing van. Without looking either left or right, he stepped off the curb and into the traffic, his gaze fixed upon the steps leading down to the neighborhood subway station. He would go the apartment building. There was an empty apartment on the fifth floor; that was where she must be. It wasn’t as large or as nice as the penthouse, but that probably didn’t matter anymore, since she couldn’t see her surroundings. All the way across town he kept thinking Rachel’s name. By the time he emerged from the subway and started toward the apartment building, his fantasy had become his reality.

  Yes, by the time he reached the building, she would be standing there waiting for him. She’d hear his voice and feel his hand upon her arm, and she’d laugh, asking why he’d taken so long.

  But as he turned the corner and the building where he worked came into full view, it was painfully apparent that Rachel wasn’t standing under the gold and black awning—or on the steps.

  He gritted his teeth and began saying her name a little faster. This would make everything right. He almost laughed. How could he have been so silly? Rachel was a celebrity—or at least had been a celebrity. She wouldn’t be waiting on the front steps, but at her front door instead. He’d knock and she would ask who it was, and then cry because she couldn’t see. He would take her in his arms and tell her not to be sad, that he would take care of her. He would be her eyes on the world.

  When he reached the apartment building and darted under the striped canopy, his thoughts were so focused he almost ran into Binalski, the doorman on duty.

  “Hey, Andrews, what are you doing here? I thought you were off today.”

  “Forgot something,” he muttered, and hurried inside.

  He reached the front desk and then grabbed the register, startling Frances, the clerk. She was short but substantial, and her wild, flyaway curls always looked uncombed.

  “Beatty? What do you think you’re doing?”

  He looked up. Frances was frowning. She was always frowning. It reminded him of his mother. He frowned back.

  “Checking to see if anyone moved into the empty apartment.”

  Frances took the register out of Beatty’s hands. “No, nobody has, and it wouldn’t be any of your business if anybody did.”

  “Someone I know was looking for a place to stay. I was just checking,” he muttered.

  Frances snorted delicately. “No one you know could afford to stay here.”

  Beatty sucked in an angry retort. Bitch. It’s a damned shame you weren’t up on the penthouse floor when it blew. Then he tried a different approach. Maybe she’d heard something that would help him find Rachel.

  “Say, have you heard anything new about Miss Austin? Like, is she moving back here anytime soon?”

  Frances grinned and shoved a newspaper into Beatty’s face. “I doubt it, and if something like that happened to me, I wouldn’t come back here, either.”

  Beatty grabbed the paper and began reading the caption beneath the picture at the head of the gossip column. As he read, a new wave of panic began to spread. In spite of the dark glasses she was wearing, he could tell that the woman in the wheelchair was definitely Rachel. He’d know her anywhere. But what he didn’t know was, who was that strange man with her?

  “Don’t run off with my paper,” Frances grumbled.

  Beatty didn’t bother to respond. His entire focus was on the caption beneath the picture: Rachel Austin, the recently injured Timeless girl, leaving Bellevue Hospital with an acquaintance from her hometown of Mirage, Texas. The man, identified as Texas oilman Houston Book-out, is rumored to be more than an old friend.

  Beatty cursed. She’d done it again. And right beneath his nose. All the time he’d been working so hard to make everything right for her homecoming, she’d been planning to sneak off with another man. The expression on his face turned cold as he started out the door, muttering to himself as he went.

  “Rachel Austin, you just made a very big mistake.”

  “What did you say?” Binalski asked as Beatty stepped out beneath the striped awning.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  Binalski chuckled. “Better watch that. Someone might think you’re crazy.”

  Beatty paused, then turned.

  Crazy? They might think him crazy?

  His mouth parted into a wide, gaping grin. The longer he stood there, the wider the grin became.

  Crazy.

  Finally he was staring at Binalski and laughing aloud.

  Binalski frowned. “It wasn’t that funny.”

  But Beatty’s laughter was turning into hysterical shrieks. Even after he’d walked out of sight, the doorman could still hear the sound of Beatty’s laughter. He shuddered. Maybe crazy wasn’t that far off after all.

  Houston leaned toward Rachel as their plane

  touched down at the Midland-Odessa airport.

  “Another hour and we’ll be home.”

  Rache
l nodded, letting out a slow sigh of relief as the prop plane thumped, bumped, and finally rolled to a stop.

  She’d heard the phrase “flying blind” all of her life, but she doubted if the common connotation was even close to the truth as she now knew it.

  Feeling weightless and powerless, as well as accepting the fact that the earth was thousands of feet below, was frightening, especially to a woman who’d rarely been in an airplane. But to experience the same sensations without any point of reference to anchor her, except the voice of the man at her side, was terrifying. And even though she couldn’t see, just knowing she was on solid ground was, for the moment, enough.

  “Passengers, please wait until the pilot turns the seat belt sign off before getting out of your seats.”

  Rachel leaned back and sighed. She sensed Houston was staring at her, but right now she was too relieved to be on guard. His announcement that he was taking her home to Texas had been the most beautiful words she’d ever heard. She’d come with him willingly, because the familiarity of her old life seemed safer than the uncertainty of her new one, and because she so desperately loved him. But in allowing him to bring her home, she also felt shame. Once again she was using him to make her life easier. But there was another truth she had to bear that was more painful than her own. Surely Houston’s offer had come out of pity, and maybe a sense of honor, but not love. She’d ruined that between them forever.

  “Houston?”

  “What, honey?”

  “Let’s wait until the others are off, okay?”

  “Sure, whatever you want,” he said, and slipped his hand in hers.

  The scent of weary travelers was thick in her face as she sat quietly in her seat. She could hear Houston gathering up their things, and she felt stupid and useless. The odor of urine was suddenly strong as someone walked past her with a baby in need of a dry diaper. The child had fussed and cried more than he’d slept. Rachel could only imagine the parent’s relief in getting out of the plane.