by Sally Mandel
Sharlie implanted an enthusiastic kiss on the flushed cheek. “You were wonderful.”
But Brian grabbed his new bride’s arm and pulled her around to face Barbara Kaye.
“Very nice,” the older woman said with an appraising smile.
Sharlie smiled back, not knowing exactly what Barbara thought was “very nice.” “Brian’s missed you,” she blurted, and then looked helplessly at her husband. “I’m sorry, is what I mean,” she went on. Barbara looked confused. “I mean, that I kept him away from the office. With all this …” Barbara took her hand, and Sharlie wondered how a person with normal circulation could possess such a cool, unsweaty palm on a day like this.
Meanwhile Brian, out of the corner of his eye, spied Walter approaching, holding two glasses of champagne. He was already at Brian’s shoulder before he suddenly recognized Barbara and stopped in his tracks. But Barbara had seen him also. Brian watched her expression take on a familiar delighted pugnacity.
“Hello, Mister Converse,” she said, her voice carefully respectful except for the slightest stress on the mister. Walter stuck his hand out automatically, forgetting about the champagne. It spilled out over Barbara’s pale-beige skirt, leaving a dark stain in the expensive fabric.
“Oh, Christ,” Walter said, handing Brian the other glass and swiping at the mess with his handkerchief.
“You make a habit of raining on my parade, don’t you?” Barbara said.
“Send me the cleaning bill,” Walter muttered, wadding up the handkerchief and stuffing it into his pocket.
“It doesn’t matter, really,” Barbara said. And to their astonishment she began to unzip the skirt and pull it down over her hips. The silken material folded into a neat little bundle, which she crammed in her handbag. She stood regarding Walter, triumphant in her tennis shorts.
“I’ve got a T-shirt under this,” she said, lifting a corner of her elegant blouse. Walter snorted in admiration.
“Jason Lewis challenged me to a game after the reception. I hear this place has pretty decent courts.”
“You any good?” Walter asked.
“I could make you run.”
“I’ll just bet you would,” he said, smiling.
“I have a whole pile of prehistoric bones to pick with you,” Barbara said.
Walter took her by the arm and nodded at Brian and Sharlie. “Excuse us. I owe this lady a glass of champagne.”
They walked away, leaving the newlyweds open-mouthed behind them.
Once the initial crush of well-wishers had dissipated, people began to settle into comfortable knots of three and four, some sitting barefoot on the grass with faces lifted to the sunshine. Brian and Sharlie, in their first moment alone together, stood watching them happily when Dr. Diller suddenly appeared, champagne glass in one hand, the arm of a leggy redhead in the other.
“Back to work,” he said to Sharlie. “Just wanted to offer my congratulations in person.”
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be standing here, much less married.”
Diller shook his head self-deprecatingly, aware of the green eyes at his shoulder that never left his face for an instant. He raised his glass.
“To Sharlene—long and healthy wedded bliss.” He drained his glass, showed them his dazzling teeth with an automatic smile, and strode off toward the solarium, redhead in tow.
“Doesn’t count,” Sharlie murmured, but before Brian could ask what she meant, two X-ray technicians descended upon them, offering their slightly drunken felicitations.
Soon after that, Mary MacDonald reappeared. Brian had gone off to see if he could dig up a beer, leaving Sharlie with one of the nurses from ICU. Without interrupting the conversation, Mary took Sharlie’s hand. Sharlie felt the pudgy fingers slip toward her wrist and knew that her old friend was making a quick pulse check.
“Honeymoon time,” Mary said, looking around. “Where’s your husband?”
Sharlie echoed, “Husband …” as if the word weren’t part of her vocabulary.
“Sadie, Sadie, married lady,” the ICU nurse said. Sharlie smiled, her eyes searching the clusters of guests until she located Brian’s curly head.
As they drove through the gate, trailing a noisy assortment of tin cans and instrument trays from their rear bumper, Sharlie began to experience real panic. Severed from this place that had sustained her during so many crises, where she’d been nurtured by life-giving machines, attached by complex electronic umbilical cords, she was free, at least for the weekend. What on earth would they do if something happened to her so far away from the mysterious wizardry of the medical center?
She stared at Brian, and he took his eyes off the road for a moment to look back at her. His eyes reflected hers perfectly—dazed, bewildered and terrified.
“Well, that makes two of us,” she said, laughing.
The hotel was only just outside of town. Brian made Sharlie lie down on the bed as soon as the bellhop disappeared.
“To sleep,” he said.
“Perchance to dream,” she murmured groggily. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m much too hyped up…”
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her eyelids droop.
“I’m going to squish my beautiful dress,” she said, eyes closed. “Oh, well, maybe I’ll just rest for a minute…”
Brian stayed next to her for a long time. She looked to him like the lovely princess who slept under the glass dome until Prince Charming finally showed up. What was it, Snow White? As he looked down at her, it seemed as though the faint aroma of flowers rose from her body as she breathed. His gratitude at having her all to himself made him feel fierce, and he imagined himself roaring and beating his chest like some primitive jungle beast. Mine. She’s mine, and no visiting hours or resident or nurse or even death will snatch her away from me today.
Chapter 42
She slept for two hours without moving, her face so still that Brian watched carefully to make sure she was breathing. Finally she stirred and opened her eyes.
She never seemed surprised to see him there beside her when she awoke, even after anesthesia or a long period of lying unconscious. As usual, she started talking as if they were in mid-conversation.
“I love you with all his heart,” she said solemnly.
He laughed, and leaned down to kiss her.
She held his head near her face. “What was that lecture you got from Diller after the ceremony?”
“He said I shouldn’t let the operation stand in the way of a normal sex life,” Brian answered. “To be unintimidated, unabashed, unrestrained, et cetera, et cetera. That the only thing to fear was fear itself.”
“How come he didn’t tell me that?”
“Because you’re the sweet young virgin bride.”
“Uh huh,” she said, pulling him down for another kiss. After a moment she extricated herself from underneath him and disappeared into the bathroom. Suddenly Brian heard her cry out.
“Sharlie?” he called. She didn’t respond, so he got up and opened the bathroom door. She was standing in front of the mirror in only her bikini pants, her dress in a heap around her ankles. She was sobbing into her hands, and when he tried to pry them away from her face, she held them there as tightly as she could, refusing to look at him.
After several minutes of gentle but unsuccessful prodding, he finally almost shouted at her. “Now cut it out and tell me what’s the matter.”
She dropped her arms and lifted her anguished face to him. “Look at me,” she said, and her voice rose to a scream. “Look what they did to me!” She held her arms out. The livid scar sliced from her throat down to her abdomen.
Brian reached for her. “Honey …” he said softly, but she fell in a crouch to the floor, doubling over to hide her disfigurement. He stroked her back until she was quiet.
“Haven’t you ever seen yourself before?”
She shook her head, face hidden.
“Well, I�
�ve seen you,” he said. “More than once.”
“I look like the Bride of Frankenstein,” she said in a muffled voice.
He ran his finger down her spine. “Your battle scar is indelibly etched into my most tantalizing sexual fantasies.”
He heard her choke. She muttered, “Don’t make me laugh. I don’t feel like laughing.” Then she sniffed and said, “Hand me some toilet paper, will you? My nose is dripping on the floor.”
“Postnasal drip does not qualify as a tantalizing sexual fantasy,” he said, handing her the tissue.
She wiped her nose and looked up at him with a red face, eyelashes matted together with tears. “I think I’m stuck,” she said, trying to unbend. Brian stood behind her and lifted her by the arms. She was very light.
“Okay. Let’s look.” He turned her around to face the mirror, and she stared at herself with revulsion. Then she pulled away from him and went into the bedroom to wrap herself up in a bathrobe.
In the middle of the night she woke him, talking in her sleep. She was thrashing back and forth and hit him sharply in the shoulder with her fist.
“How come they always, they always, always …” she was murmuring. Finally Brian shook her arm gently. For once, she woke up disoriented. She stared blankly at him in the dim light, and he could see the confusion in her eyes. The shadows made them look haunted and wild.
“Do you remember what it was?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “Not exactly. But it was about …” She hesitated. “Brian, would you mind turning on the light for a minute?”
He leaned over her and flicked on the lamp. They both blinked in the sudden glare, but some of the fright passed away from her face, and her rigid body began to relax under his hand.
“About what?” he asked again.
“Just crazy nightmares. It’s probably the drugs.”
Brian held her next to him. Her body was soft, and he began to run his hands along her back. He kissed her but she was stiff and unresponsive.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sharlie …” he began, then stopped, trying to silence his frustration.
“I’m not the same person I was before,” she said.
“I’m telling you that you are the same. Exactly. Except that you’ve got warm feet and a ribbon down your front. And a future.”
She had turned her face away. After a moment he said, “Goddammit,” and got up to go to the bathroom. When he came back, the light was off, and she was curled into a little ball with her back to his side of the bed.
The next morning Sharlie woke up early. Last night’s nightmare seemed unimportant now, and she was relaxed and drowsy and delighted to begin the morning in a nonhospital bed next to Brian. His hand moved against her breast in his sleep. She took his palm and moved it gently back and forth, feeling her nipples stiffen. Then she got out of bed and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and swallow her six A.M. medication.
When she crawled back into the warm spot beside him, he was beginning to wake up. She pressed herself to him, kissing him until he reached out an arm and encircled her.
“You smell wide awake,” he murmured.
“Pepsodent,” she said, pushing her tongue between his teeth.
He yawned. “I’d better go brush mine if I’m going to kiss you.”
“No,” she said, holding him down with a leg draped across his knees. He stroked her body, first along the hip and down the outside of her thigh, and then, gently prodding with his hand, felt the softness between her legs. The hair was silky and fine, like the hair on her head, but a paler color, ashy gray. He felt her flesh grow damp and swollen under his fingers, and her legs fell apart now without urging. She arched her back, reaching toward his hand with her hips. For a moment she opened her eyes to look at him. He smiled at her, and she whispered, “Oh, my goodness,” and closed her eyes again.
Her breathing grew rapid, and Brian held his hand still, frightened by her gasps. But she moved against him and murmured, “Don’t stop.” Suddenly her body shuddered, and she cried out, “Bri …” never completing his name. She reached for him, curling against his chest in exhaustion. He stroked her hair, and after a while she said matter-of-factly, “Well, I’m not dead.”
“No,” he said fervently.
“Now I’m supposed to say I can give it all up and pass uncomplainingly into the great beyond. Now that I’ve had this experience.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said.
“I think I’d just as soon stick around and try it again.”
He laughed. Her knee rubbed up against his penis. It was hard, and she touched it tentatively with her fingers.
“There’s somebody else in here with us,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“He’s taking up practically the whole bed,” she said, holding him in her hand.
“Flatterer,” he said.
“You know, it’s funny.” She propped herself up on one elbow to look at his penis curiously. “I felt inside like you look outside. Do women get erections?”
“Hmm?” he said dreamily.
“Oh, do come in,” she said, letting go of him and hooking her leg around his hips.
He swung around, holding himself over her with his arms for fear of crushing her. He entered her gently, watching her face. She seemed to grimace, so he stopped instantly.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No.” She shifted her hips and grimaced again.
“You sure?”
“It’s not pain. It’s …” Her eyes began to fill with tears, and she smiled up at him. “Together. I’m so happy.” She urged him further inside with her legs.
“Oh, God, Sharlie,” he said softly, and found that he was crying, too, as they pressed against each other over and over again until they lay exhausted and sticky on the rumpled bed.
Diller had insisted that the honeymoon be local and brief and that Sharlie check back into the hospital in three days. By the time Tuesday morning arrived, both Brian and Sharlie were secretly ready for a respite from each other. Brian delivered her to the nurse’s station on the eighth floor, and she gave him a kiss.
“Come and get me at dinnertime.”
“You sure you don’t want me to wait around?” he asked.
She shoved him toward the elevator. “Go,” she said. “You’ll find something to do.”
Brian turned around just before he stepped into the elevator. She was watching him. She made a face, and the doors closed.
On his way down to the lobby Brian decided that the worst thing to do was analyze the situation. What’s one weekend in a hotel room three thousand miles from home with somebody who just got out of the hospital? Hardly representative of his future married years. He had stared at Sharlie so intensely these past three days that now he could hardly imagine her face—like back in high school when he’d replayed a favorite record over and over again until eventually it became so ingrained that it lost its impact. He’d listened the song into meaninglessness just as he’d stared Sharlie into a mosaic of memorized lifeless features.
Some people stay married for fifty years. He’d thought of that this morning as he gazed at her sleeping face on the pillow. Was she going to be with him all the time?
He thought he’d seen relief on her face, too, when he dropped her off. Maybe it was like this at first for everybody.
He pulled the car out of the hospital lot and turned toward the beach road, figuring he’d spend the whole day as far from people and as close to the sea as he possibly could. Water and sky. Space.
What must she be feeling? She seemed preoccupied so much of the time, and he almost felt that she was listening to a voice he couldn’t hear. He’d urge her to talk to Dr. Rosen.
The rest of the way to the beach he thought about the legal complexities of the Los Angeles case. He was supposed to go to L.A. at the end of the week for settlement discussions. Maybe he’d make the trip on his own. Oh, he
ll, he thought. Four days married, and I’m already plotting to run away.
He parked the car and slid down a rocky embankment to the narrow strip of beach. He would lie by the water and stare into the future so that whatever happened, he’d be prepared, or resigned, or maybe even pleased.
He took off his shoes and socks, burrowed his back into the warm sand, and stared up at the pale-aqua sky. And planned. He visualized the possibilities in outline form—cool, measured, logical:
A. Sharlie is pronounced well. Thus:
1. They would proceed to Los Angeles on Thursday. He would appear in court on Friday morning.
2. They would mess around L.A. on Saturday (maybe Disneyland; she’d like that).
3. Back to New York on Sunday. Unbelievable.
or:
B. Sharlie is pronounced unwell.
And here there were several ramifications, depending on the degree of unwell. Either (1) He would wait until she was better and got herself released; (2) He would return to New York without her, she to follow later; or (3) Unmentionable, ungraphable, except in the most shadowy fashion. Too many subcategories, too many overlapping emotional responses exploded by even the hint of it.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to enumerate: (1) unspeakable grief; (2) exhausted relief; (3) guilt; (4) freedom; (5) a future forever loveless.
He picked up a fistful of sand, letting it slowly dribble out onto the beach. Bullshit, he thought. Anticipating his response to her death was like trying to determine the intentions of God. Or what was beyond the end of the universe. Not to be found in the current New York Civil Practice Law and Rules.
The sun made him drowsy, and the sound of water washing against the shore was soothing. Soon his mind drifted to fantasies of Sharlie sharing his apartment on Third Avenue. He imagined her hairbrush on his dresser and was touched—tangible evidence of their future intimacy. Her underwear, her clothes, her toothpaste, all the assorted oddments of her daily routine tumbling into his lonely space like the brightly colored jewels of sunshine he glimpsed through the filter of his eyelashes.
