by Merry Jones
I held my breath, sensing where he was heading. Trying to figure out a neutral response. Something that would neither hurt him nor incite his alter ego. Wondering if he might transform into his wife’s character right in front of my eyes. Picturing it. Would he use a falsetto? Pull a knife out of his pants’ pocket? Oh God.
He was still talking. “Anyway, forgive me for sounding maudlin. But what I’m trying to say is that I’d like it if—Elle, can I see you again? I could come to the States in a few—”
Susan pulled the sliding door open. “Dr. Du Bois—it’s Jen—”
Alain let go of my hand and rushed inside.
As I followed, I heard an ear-shattering scream.
“I think she’s having a reaction to the salve.” Susan hurried, sounded scared.
“Salve?”
“The scar-prevention stuff you sent. With your nurse.”
Alain gaped at Susan. “My nurse?”
Susan looked around. “I think she left right before you got here.”
We hurried, frenzied, while Jen screamed and Susan kept talking, saying that she couldn’t remember the nurse’s name. That the nurse had said Alain had sent her because he was running so late. That moments after Jen applied the salve as instructed, her skin had gotten red and burned.
We ran through the bedroom, into the bathroom where Jen stood in the shower, belting out a litany of curses. I stood in the doorway, helpless, chewing my lip.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Susan jabbered, “so I threw her into a cool shower.”
“Get clean towels,” Alain commanded. “And washcloths. And gauze. Let me see that salve.”
Susan rushed around, assisting. Alain spoke calmly to Jen, trying to examine her, telling her not to stand directly under the spray. I felt useless. Confused. Couldn’t understand what had happened. An allergic reaction? A pharmacy mistake?
And why didn’t Alain remember sending the nurse over? Had he been so busy at the clinic that he’d forgotten? So busy that he’d even given her the wrong salve? Dammit. What if Alain had had another “moment of carelessness,” making another mistake, causing an accident that harmed Jen the way he’d harmed his wife?
Jen wasn’t cursing anymore, just whimpering. I couldn’t bear to listen. I left the room, wandered uselessly across the living room, pacing. Worrying. Thinking about the nurse.
What if Alain hadn’t forgotten about her, but hadn’t sent her? What if the nurse’s uniform had been a disguise like the maid’s uniform?
Was it possible that Alain’s other persona had dressed as a nurse, wearing a wig, keeping his face turned away so no one would recognize him? After all, she’d left moments before he’d arrived. He could have changed his clothes and come back. In fact, he might have worn the nurse’s disguise and injured his other patients earlier, at the clinic.
Oh God. Was it possible? Could Alain be that sick?
I didn’t want to think so. And in truth, I had no evidence that he was. All I had were possibilities and my imagination. But there had to be other possibilities.
I tried to think of some. Couldn’t stop picturing Alain in a nurse’s uniform, a maid’s uniform. His features were refined; he wouldn’t make a bad-looking woman. Except for his jaw. And the hair on his hands. And his prominent Adam’s apple. Susan would probably have noticed. Jen definitely would have.
So the nurse couldn’t have been Alain. And if she hadn’t been Alain—
I stopped breathing, bit my lip. Maybe it had been Alain’s wife all along. Maybe she was well enough to attack Alain’s patients, seeking vengeance on the women who’d received her nose and lips.
My mind spun. One minute I was suspecting Alain, the next his disabled wife. For all I knew, Jen’s reaction wasn’t related to either of them. It might merely have been an allergy. But, deep down, I knew better. One of them, Alain or his wife, had gone too far, had hurt my friend. And I couldn’t let that go. Had to find out.
The clinic was close to the hotel. Even limping, I could be there in ten minutes. I would pay a visit to Mrs. Du Bois and find out how badly disabled she was, how angry she was. And whether or not she was capable of doctoring Jen’s medication or slicing Greta’s face.
In the next room, Susan was soothing Jen. Speaking in mommy tones, saying that she’d be fine. Alain was telling Jen to lie still so he could apply cool compresses, then assuring her that the burns were superficial and wouldn’t cause scarring. That, even so, she’d have to change the dressings twice a day, use antibiotic cream, apply aloe. He talked on.
I didn’t tell them where I was going, didn’t want Alain to object or try to stop me. Besides, I’d be back before they even knew I was gone. I hurried to my bedroom to get my shoes, so focused on what I was about to do and what I might learn that I didn’t pay attention to anything else. So I didn’t see the nurse hiding by the door, and I’m not sure which happened first, the flash of white light or Charlie’s voice calling my name.
“Come here, Elf.” Charlie sounded comforting. “Let me hold you.”
Charlie was with me. Did that mean I was dead again? Damn.
“Charlie?” I tried to speak. I might have, wasn’t sure. Thoughts and actions seemed to have merged. “Where are you?” I couldn’t see him, couldn’t open my eyes. But I felt his arms around me.
“Nobody else ever mattered to me. I compared every other woman to you. They never came close.”
“Stop bullshitting,” I told him, or thought I did. “It’s too late. It doesn’t matter any more.”
“Of course it matters. We have the entire future.”
He continued, but I didn’t understand what he said next because it was in Spanish.
Wait. Spanish? Charlie didn’t speak Spanish. And I was answering in Spanish, which I didn’t speak either.
Damn. Did people speak new languages after death?
Even in my confused state, I realized that it made no sense. If I were able to speak a language, I would also be able to understand it, wouldn’t I?
I faded for a moment, resting in Charlie’s arms. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”
See that? I thought. He’s speaking English again.
I listened as he’d told me to stay still.
Susan yelled. “What’s going on? Oh God—Elle? What the hell—”
A man said, “Get out.”
A woman yelled, “No, do not move. Stay right there.”
So the man’s voice hadn’t been Charlie’s. And the woman’s hadn’t been mine. So whose were they? Where was I?
“Charlie?” I tried again.
“What’s happened to Elle?” Susan demanded. She sounded far away.
It was a good question. What had happened? Slowly, I took inventory, starting at the top. The back of my head hurt. Oh, and my eyes were closed. Cautiously, I opened one. Saw a broken lamp. And fabric—The hem of a bedspread. I closed the eye again. Reasoned that I must be on the floor beside Becky’s bed. That my head hurt because someone had hit me with the lamp.
The man and woman kept arguing. Back-and-forth. Spanish and English, English and Spanish.
“Ponga la cuchilla. Por favor. Venir aqui.” The voice was Alain’s.
“No. Yo le voy a matar.”
“You don’t want to kill her. She’s no one to me. Just a tourist.”
“Don’t you think I can see her face? Look at the wounds. I can see that you destroyed her, too.”
“No, she’s not a patient.”
“Liar. She’s one of your women. I can see your trademark in her scars. I can smell you on her skin.”
“Please, Inez. Te amo.”
Inez? I opened my eyes, turned my head. A woman in a nurse’s uniform crouched over me. Holding a long, thin knife over my chest.
“Te odio,” she hissed. “You ruined me. You made me ugly, and now you spurn me.”
“It’s not true, Inez—”
“You think I’m not good enough for you. You go to other women instead.
Women you’ve made beautiful. Well, no more. Es terminado. I’ll finish them. Or I’ll make them as ugly as I am—”
“Inez,” I could see Alain’s feet step closer to the bed. “You are my only love. Solo le amo.”
“Really? Then tell me: how come you help every woman but me? You take crows and make them swans. But me you leave ugly. Why didn’t you just kill me? Then at least I wouldn’t scare children and repulse everyone who sees me—”
“Don’t say that, Inez. It’s not like that. I’m trying to help you. Everyone at the clinic is trying.” He tried to sound soothing, but his voice was unsteady.
“The clinic? Hah. You sent me there so you wouldn’t have to look at me. Admit it.”
“No. It’s not true.”
“Anyway, they can’t help me. How are they going to take away my disfigurement and give me back my face?”
Alain sighed. His feet moved closer.
“No—stay back. And you—don’t move.”
“Okay. I’m not moving.” Susan’s voice came from outside the door.
I turned my head slightly, tested my fingers and toes. The knife was just a few inches above my breastbone. If I rolled over, she’d miss my heart, hit my side. Maybe puncture a lung—or was it a kidney. I couldn’t remember anatomy. Couldn’t think of parts of my body that hadn’t been injured yet. My head buzzed. Inez’s knife was inches from my heart. I didn’t dare move, and yet I had to if I wanted to escape.
Alain kept talking, trying to calm her. Asking her to put down the knife. Swearing his love for her. “You are still beautiful to me. Mujer bella.”
“Oh, yes. Very beautiful. Except, if I am so beautiful, why can’t you make love to me anymore? When’s the last time, Alain? You can’t remember, can you?”
“I will, mi amado. I’ll make love to you now. Let’s go home. Haga el amor conmigo.” Alain stood near my head. “Come to me, Inez. You are the love of my life.”
The love of his life? Charlie’s exact words. Did all husbands say that to their wives? Or just all cheating husbands?
“Lo siento. Es demasiado tarde.” Inez turned, met his eyes with fire and raised the knife, ready to plunge it into me.
Reflexively, I thrust a hand onto her arm and a knee into her hip, surprising her, diverting her aim, unbalancing her. She glared, recovering, swinging the blade at me, shouting, “Te matara,” as Alain pounced, trying to disarm her. He reached for the hilt, missed, caught the blade, yowled. Dived onto her. Susan joined in, grabbing Inez’s legs, pulling her away from me.
As they struggled, I managed to sit up, felt a bump on the back of my head. Inez turned and twisted, still wielding her knife. The light was on, so I could see pretty well. And as closely as I studied her face, I couldn’t see the slightest trace of a scar.
Susan and Alain finally pinned her down. Inez panted and muttered in Spanish, spat when Alain spoke to her. But, finally, she stopped resisting and seemed to quiet down.
“Where’s the knife?” Susan looked around.
She sat on Inez’s knees; Alain’s torso covered her shoulders.
Alain shifted his weight, peeking under the dresser. When he did, Inez wriggled her arm out from under him, raised her fist, stuck the blade into his side. Alain slumped on top of her. Air rushed out of his lungs. Susan screamed my name, telling me to do something. I grabbed hold of the bed, pulled myself up. Saw Inez pulling the knife up, ready to stab him again. I lunged at her wrist, took hold of it, and yanked. She spouted torrents of Spanish, fighting to get free, but I held on, squeezing and rotating it.
“Inez,” Alain breathed. “What have you done?”
Inez ranted.
“What the fuck?” Jen stood in the doorway, gaping. She must have heard the struggle and come to investigate. Her nose was covered with a wide gauze patch, her robe hanging open, revealing other patches on her breasts and belly. “Holy fucking crap.”
“Call,” Susan was out of breath. She struggled to hold Inez down with her legs and grab a t-shirt from Becky’s open suitcase. “Call for help.” She pressed the shirt onto Alain’s open wound.
“Jesus God,” Jen stood frozen, gaping.
“Use the hotel phone,” Susan barked. “Now!”
Jen left.
“Inez. You’ve killed me,” Alain wheezed.
“No, she hasn’t,” Susan told him. “You’re going to be fine.” She looked at me with eyes full of shock and the heightened strength of adrenaline. And doubt.
My whole body hurt. I was tired of twisting Inez’s wrist. I was just tired. With a final effort, I tugged her arm back and landed my full weight on it with the knee of my good leg. I heard a crack. She howled, dropping the knife to the floor. I pushed it out of reach, even though Inez wouldn’t be able to pick it up. Then I grabbed a towel and helped Susan put pressure on Alain’s still gushing wound. Everyone was making noise—Alain moaning. Susan soothing him. Jen calling that help was on the way. Inez ranting in Spanish.
“Por favor, Señora.” She moaned, looking at me.
Was she talking to me?
“I don’t want them to see me.”
She was looking at me. Urgently. Must be talking to me.
I pressed on Alain’s ribcage. Wondered if he would die.
“Señora?” Inez persisted. “Please. When they come. Cover me?”
“What?”
“Can I have a scarf? A shawl? Even a towel? Something. Please. I can’t let people see.”
See what? “You’re fine.” My head hurt. I touched the place where she’d slammed my head. It was tender and lumpy.
She wouldn’t stop. “I beg you, señora. If you have any humanity, a shred of kindness, understand my shame.”
The shame of stabbing her husband? “You mean you’re sorry?” I could understand that.
“Don’t mock me, señora.”
Mock her? Alain’s moans were getting fainter. Susan grunted, pressing on his torso with bloodied hands, sitting on Inez’s thighs.
“Don’t make me show my face,” Inez was still talking. “The scars. Please. Let me cover them.”
“Mrs. Du Bois, honestly,” my voice was flat, “I don’t see any scars.”
She kept talking. “Of course, you don’t believe it, but I was once beautiful. My husband—he did this.” She turned her head to show me a cheek. “Please don’t make me display my disfigurement in public.”
I stared at her cheek. It was smooth. Soft. The skin was unmarred.
“Please, out of pity. Lend me a towel. Anything.”
I met her eyes. This woman had murdered both Greta and Claudia. She’d attacked others, including Jen and me, and she’d stabbed Alain. But her pleas were so despairing, her tone so mournful, that I stood up and went to my suitcase and took out a shawl I’d bought as a souvenir.
“Gracias.” She smiled, then grimaced in pain, trying to move her arm. “Please—tie it. Hide my face.”
Susan watched me. Alain was silent. Was he dead? Unconscious?
Jen kept repeating, “Help’s coming,” until she looked at me, draping my shawl around Inez’s head. “WTF, Elle? What are you doing?”
I shook my head, shrugging. I wasn’t sure why I was doing it, but I draped the shawl around her face. As I did, I noticed a white mark the width of a hair and the length of a fingernail on the side of her chin.
Or did I? Maybe it was just a flicker of light.
I was wary of knives. Done with them. When Susan began slicing limes, my leg, cheek, and collarbone tingled. I thought of Inez and Greta, and I couldn’t watch. Couldn’t be in the same room as the splitting of skin, the squirting of juice.
I backed away, but she stopped me.
“Don’t be so queasy.” She handed me three shot glasses and the tequila bottle.
It was late at night. Or, no, early in the morning, sometime before dawn. Alain had been taken to the clinic. Sergeant Perez’s officers had taken Inez. Jen was sprawled on the living room sofa under compresses, no longer in pain. I’d been examined by
one of Alain’s colleagues, who said I had a bump on my head but no serious damage.
Susan, Jen, and I passed around the bottle and lime slices, downing shots.
“Take another.” Susan commanded. We took tequila as if it were medicine.
Susan leaned back in her easy chair, let out a long breath. “You owe me, Jen.”
Jen didn’t move. “Fuck, I do.”
“If I hadn’t tossed your ass into the shower, you’d be a skinless wonder.”
“What was it?” I asked. “Some kind of acid?” I hadn’t been there for the explanation. I’d been in my bedroom, getting knocked out.
“Alain thought it was bleach or oven cleaner. She put it in skin cream.” For the nine hundredth time, Jen picked up her robe, peeked under a gauze pad. “Damn. Who knew bleach could burn like that?”
“Well, you’re not supposed to rub it onto fresh wounds.”
Jen swallowed another shot.
Susan picked at her fingernails. “I feel like Lady Macbeth. I’ve got blood permanently under my nails. It soaked into my cuticles.”
“Bleach gets blood out,” Jen suggested. “Use some of my skin cream.”
“Maybe I’ll just paint my nails red.”
We sat silent for a while. Jen asked if it would be worth it to go to bed. Susan said no way. She wasn’t going to close her eyes until the plane landed in Philly. I said we wouldn’t be able to sleep anyhow with all the adrenaline in our blood.
We put on the television and watched programs in a language we didn’t understand. We talked about what we’d do when we got home. Susan cringed, dreading all the Christmas shopping she’d have to do. She asked Jen if she’d bought Norm’s gift yet.
“You bet I did. I got him a flat tummy and new boobs.”
“How very Neanderthal,” Susan said. “After all your years of marriage, you still think he loves you for your body?”
Oh, here we go, I thought. I poured another shot of tequila and curled into the cushions.
“Why are you such a bitch, Susan? Norm loves me for me, and part of me is my body—”
“But he’ll love you more if your boobs are perky?”
