Taken aback, Reyna dutifully said, “You look wonderful.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” the professor replied, then her mouth widened in a grin. “See? I even know I’ve been conditioned to negate compliments and I do it anyway.”
“It’s hard to overcome your programming.” She sought a way to escape the conversation.
“You, Eleanor Roosevelt and I all agree on that.”
The pairing of her name with Eleanor Roosevelt’s set off alarm bells in Reyna’s mind. She hoped that none of that showed as she studied the other woman lord, what was her name?
“Irene, honey, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The other professor Dan, she recalled now was back at his wife’s side.
Irene was consummately poised. She nodded her acquiescence before turning back to Reyna. “I lent my copy of the talking points to a student and keep forgetting to ask for another. Perhaps we could find one before the evening is over?”
“Certainly,” Reyna said automatically. The alarm bells were louder, but there was nothing on which to base her fear. Unless there was a deeply suppressed but predatory gleam in Irene’s eyes, or a shared nuance of restraint. Eleanor Roosevelt had had a long-term lesbian relationship, and although most people thought of her only as a First Lady, Reyna always thought of her as journalist Lorena Hickok’s lover. Lorena had been the first woman to cover the White House for the Associated Press, and Reyna had long admired her. No, Reyna cautioned herself, no, it’s all you. Irene didn’t mean anything by it. You’re the one craving what you know you can’t have not tonight.
The party became a blur. She let herself be pulled into a what-if conversation with other staffers about elections and polling results. Normally she eschewed them as unproductive, but tonight she had an extra glass of wine and talked politics. Anything was better than the images that spun wildly through her head of a room pulsating with music and women who moved against her. She could almost hear the music, the moaning, and she made herself talk about seats that might be won and districts reclaimed, issues carried, as if any of that mattered a damn when she lived such a monumental lie
“I was wondering if we could find a copy of those talking points.”
The cool voice cut into Reyna’s schizophrenic hold on her fantasies and the conversation. She nodded. “Sure, I’ll print you one if there aren’t any in my files.”
She led the way from the reception hall through to the marbled floors of the main lobby, then along through the security door to the rear elevators. Her office was on the fifth floor, the same floor as her father’s suite of offices, but at the opposite end with the other senior research analysts. The only light was supplied from the main hallway, but she knew her way around after all the years of late nights.
She swiped her access card when they reached her door. The other buildings of the Institute campus gleamed white in the night. Sometimes the serenity of the setting, with only canyon and trees in the distance, soothed her. But not tonight. “If you’ll hold it open for me I can probably find a copy without having to phone in the after-hours code for the lights. It’s a pain.”
Irene stood silhouetted in the doorway and Reyna registered the pleasing shape but only peripherally. She was hungering for a lesbian, not just any female body. Her vision blurred for a moment, because it was easy to pretend that Irene was a lover, waiting for her to leave work behind, eager for the moment when they would be alone and together.
“I can’t find a copy I’ll need the lights,” she explained. She punched the eight-digit key combination into her phone, got it wrong, tried again. Finally, the office lights came on. She blinked at Irene, who did not look in the least disconcerted by the abrupt fluorescent glare. “They’re too bright at first, aren’t they?”
Irene let the door swing shut. “But it’s energy-efficient.”
There was no argument to be made to that, so Reyna went back to searching her file cabinet for a copy of the document Irene wanted. She knew the research coordinator had copies in her files, but they were locked everything was always locked.
“No luck. I’ll print you one.”
“Or maybe you could e-mail it to me.”
“That would work,” Reyna said carefully. They could have settled that downstairs.
Irene wrote her university e-mail address on the back of one of Reyna’s business cards and pocketed a second one. She left the address on Reyna’s desk, then looked up suddenly into Reyna’s face.
The alarm bells were back, clanging against Reyna’s already fragile nerves. Was it her or was it Irene? She didn’t want Irene, for all her charm and poise. Could it be Irene?
A flash, a crack in the perfect picture of a married university professor gone before she was sure she’d seen it. Recognition, even, not of the longing, but of the way they were both fighting it.
There was something there, Reyna knew, because they walked back to the party in the kind of silence that holds a secret, and parted once they arrived. She was able to make a departure before she gave in to the temptation of another glass of wine. Home, she would go home.
She went to the Friday night movies instead. She had turned toward home, but then caught sight of the tan sedan that had followed her out of the parking lot. Bastards, she thought, sit in the cold near the theater, then. No reason for her to be the only one who was miserable.
She was in marginal luck it was Mel Brooks night and for a while she found the energy to laugh and the nagging headache faded. Maybe she could just go for a ride, let the wind blow away some of the pain. She knew she could never get all the way to WeHo and back before the end of the final movie, when she would be missed by the private detective out front. But a quick, fast bike ride that had appeal.
She went up the dark aisle and was saved by a flash of light from the movie that illuminated the back rows of the theater and the man sitting there who carefully did not look at her. She went to the restroom and then back to her seat, fighting tears. When the movie was over she left, not lingering for the last feature. Her breath in the cold air misted her sight, but her ears clearly heard the measured steps of the detective. Tonight was not a new face, but they all looked the same, weary retired cops to whom she was a tedious assignment. She often wondered what their instructions were. Report anything suspicious? Any deviation from the normal schedule? Any time she talks to a woman?
She whirled suddenly. “I’m going home.”
She had startled him. A flicker of chagrin crossed the weathered, lined face. “That makes it easy for me.”
“I don’t really care.” She headed for her car, sorry she had broken her promise to herself to ignore the detectives.
His voice followed her. “I’m a big Mel Brooks fan, so thanks. Next week is mother-daughter flicks maybe you could take in a regular movie at the cineplex, for my sake.”
She didn’t intend to respond, but the words escaped before she could literally bite down on her tongue. “I can’t wait for mother-daughter films. And fuck you.”
Good move, she told herself, as she squealed away from the curb. Now you’ve got one of them mad at you.
She drove sedately homeward, hating the headlights in her rear-view mirror. She parked in her assigned space and trailed upstairs, feeling tired, depressed and empty, and knowing it was never any different.
It wasn’t until she slipped her cell phone into the charging cradle that she remembered she’d turned it off in the theater. She switched it on and went to check her messages, even though she wouldn’t do anything about them until morning. Her cell phone rang even as she listened to the message from the nurse damn it, damn it left over three hours ago. She grabbed the cell phone off the cradle.
“Her condition is improving, but you should come right away,” the nurse it sounded like Jean said urgently. “They were able to remove the tube about an hour ago. She’s asking for you.”
“I’m on my way. I went to the movies,” she said irrelevantly. She flipped th
e phone closed and raced out the front door and down the stairs to the parking garage, all while still repeating to herself, “I went to the movies.”
She hated herself with every stoplight, cursed herself and any progeny she might ever have for her selfishness. Only today she hadn’t been able to stop herself wondering when this might happen. Rationally, she knew that fate didn’t work this way. She had almost been wishing her mother’s suffering and your own, she reminded herself harshly, as if they could possibly be equal would soon be at an end. But that was not the reason her mother had had a severe seizure. She would never believe that God worked that way.
Maybe, she prayed, she hoped, maybe it wasn’t too bad. Jean had said her condition was improving. She pushed the light at Commons and then squealed up to the parking lot of the University Medical Center. If the detective was following her it was at a distance because she seemed all alone as she ran across the asphalt to the main doors. Maybe this seizure was just like the last one, severe but short-lived. Maybe, she prayed, she hoped, this isn’t it. She didn’t want it to be, truly she didn’t, she had never meant it. And she still ran, knowing the quick route through the staff entrance and on to the less-used rear elevators. Seventh floor, rheumatology, no, what was she thinking? That was arthritis and joint pain. Not dermatology, that was skin rashes and they had no night staffing. The internists were on three, the neurologists on six intensive care. She needed to be on the fourth floor. She ran down the stairs.
“Reyna!” Jean’s voice called her to the left when she emerged from the stairwell. She felt dizzy and her mouth was dry.
“I was at the movies,” she said and then she was very quiet because the swirling voices in her head reminding her of where she had wanted to be, what she might have been doing when this happened were threatening to drown out the calming effect of Jean’s words.
“She’s stabilized, and her vitals are recovering. They think it was the antimalarial regimen she began it doesn’t work for everybody. Dr. Basu was here a few minutes ago and he was really pleased with her turnaround. She’s been awake for about thirty minutes.”
“I was at the movies,” Reyna offered, aware at the same time that she was disconnected from what was happening.
Jean put her arm around her shoulders. “Coffee first. My lord, you’re shivering. She’s fine. Come on, let’s get some coffee. You don’t want her to see you like this.”
It was too sugary and needed milk, but Reyna felt better halfway down the cup. Jean had been right. Her mother’s condition would hardly be helped by seeing Reyna in a panic. Jean reappeared from the secret recesses of the hospital, where she had worked from time to time, with a cheese sandwich. Reyna made herself eat it, wondering if it was tasteless because she was so numb or because it was hospital food.
“Your color’s back, that’s better,” Jean commented.
“Thank you. I’m not even your patient.”
“You’re welcome. I bet all you’ve had since dinner was popcorn.”
“I skipped dinner. Had some hors d’oeuvres and wine around seven. And Raisinets.” She met Jean’s gaze for the first time. “Bad night to go to the movies.”
“Don’t think that way,” Jean said firmly. “Your mother worries about you. Worries that you work too hard, that you don’t get much fun. Tell her where you were she’ll be happier for it, I promise you.”
She nodded, knowing that Jean’s understanding of her mother no doubt surpassed her own. She got to her feet and felt steadier. “If I haven’t thanked you lately for the wonderful care and support you give my mother, let me rectify that thank you.”
Jean’s smile further warmed her eyes. “Your mother makes it easy to care. Go on in now.”
“Do I look okay?” She put a nervous hand to her hair, suddenly aware that she’d been in the same clothes for nearly twenty-four hours.
“You’re fine,” Jean assured her.
The respiration monitor greeted her with its steady pulse. She tiptoed to the edge of the bed, taking in the signs of the removal of the breathing tube and the adhesive that clung to one reddened cheek. Her mother appeared to be dozing, but it wouldn’t last for long. Painkillers were required for deeper, sustained sleep.
She sank down in the chair that was never close enough to the bed and still managed to gently lay her head near her mother’s feet. She was so tired.
It was about three o’clock in the morning, the witching hour, she mused. Utterly drained, she prayed to the compassionate god she believed in for what she needed most: strength to bear whatever she must if it gave her mother the will to endure. What were her petty problems compared to her mother’s daily agonies? So she had to associate with people who if they really knew her wanted her dead or invisible or brainwashed. Big deal. It was nothing compared to the pain that ebbed and flowed with every breath her mother took. She was lucky to have one outlet, to be able to find a few hours of relief and escape. Her mother’s only escape was drug-induced oblivion.
“Reyna?”
She sat up. “I’m here, Mom.”
“I’m glad.” Her voice was quite hoarse, a byproduct of the tube that had been in her throat.
“I was at the movies, you know, the Friday all-nighter.”
“What did you see? Was it fun?”
Reyna swallowed hard. After what her mother had been through tonight, she could still concern herself with Reyna’s life. “Mel Brooks movies. He has his moments.”
“All by yourself?”
“I couldn’t find anyone to go with me,” she answered, omitting that she hadn’t asked.
“What about Jake?”
“Jake’s a dork.” It was out before she could stop it, she was that depleted.
Incredibly, her mother laughed, then was shocked into silence as joints all over her body responded with needles of pain. After two deep breaths, she said, “Like Jimmy Peters?”
“Just like.” Jimmy Peters was the high-school pest who wouldn’t stop coming around no matter what Reyna said. What a fun year it had been, though, that short year of freedom. She remembered that her mother had seemed more friend than anything else. They had only grown apart when she left for college. If she’d stayed home, not run off to Berkeley for more freedom, she might have noticed her mother’s butterfly rashes that had first attracted the attention of doctors. She could have been there for support during the lengthy and troublesome diagnosis.
“You’re too good for these political puppets. Dr. Basu is very nice. He’s single.”
Reyna got up to offer water and hopefully change the subject. “I wish they hadn’t had to put the tube in.”
“Me, too.” Her mother sipped carefully from the straw.
There was a long silence and Reyna wanted to take her mother’s hand, but it would hurt more than it comforted.
“Honey?”
“What can I get you, Mom?”
“Nothing.” She turned her head slightly toward Reyna, who was struck anew by dark shadows under her mother’s eyes. “It’s just that sweetie, I want you to be happy. Whatever makes you happy, that’s what I want for you. I wasn’t always this wise, but the pain sometimes the clarity of thought is amazing. I used to just want you married, as if that would somehow make up for the fact that I wasn’t when you were born.”
“You know I don’t care about that.”
“Neither do I, not anymore. I made my choices. They became your realities, but you’re so strong. Honey, I just want you to be happy. Otherwise what was it all for, all the feeding when you spit out the strained peas, and making you wear a sweater when it was cold? I wanted the best for you then, and I do now. I want to see you smiling again.” Her voice grew so weak Reyna had to stoop to hear it. “Before I go. “
“Don’t talk that way.” All the blinking in the world wouldn’t hold back the tears.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere.” Her mother sighed. “I’ll cost your father a fortune, to be sure.”
“He can afford it,” Reyna said shortly. She mopped her eyes with her sleeve.
“Use the tissues, dear.”
She dutifully pulled one from the box on the bedside table. “I will try harder to be happy.”
“No more dorks. Go looking for a prince.”
“I don’t want a prince, Mom.” She wanted to say more the truth she had never shared. She had been planning to tell her mother about Kimberly at the next break, all those years ago, but by then Kimberly had been rendered moot. It had been hard enough to pretend that leaving her beloved journalism behind for political science and governmental affairs was the happiest decision of her life. “Princes have problems.”
“So do we all.” Her mother’s eyes closed. In the half-dark Reyna could see the familiar outline of her mother’s profile. The beauty that had smoothed so much of her path in life was now stretched to the point of breaking.
“Do you want to sleep?”
“Yes. I told Jean to hold back until I’d seen you. I just wanted to say to say what I said.”
“I love you, Mom. Don’t go dying on me, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
The kiss she pressed to her mother’s roughened cheek was as light as she could make it, and she hoped the gesture had not brought any pain with it. She was so self-absorbed, to be craving the hard pleasure of another woman when even the lightest caress caused her mother discomfort.
Jean promised to keep her informed and Reyna wandered wearily toward the parking garage. Not exactly a false alarm, because the seizure had been serious enough to require forced respiration. But not the horror she had expected, either. She would have to have a long talk with Dr. Basu about the antimalarial regimen, though. He had been so hopeful about it.
She was driving again, intending to go home, but instead went deeper into the canyon, past the Institute, winding around familiar switchbacks to the vista that of course had always been known as Lover’s Leap. The tires crunched on the gravel as she pulled off the road and coasted to a stop.
Substitute for Love Page 13
