“How do you like it?” she asked.
“Cream and plenty of sugar.” Before she could leave, he said,” By the way, Tracy Bernstein's my ex-wife.”
Dotti nodded. “I thought so. She seemed very upset. The last time she called, she asked me to tell you that everything is in tiny black boxes ... does that make sense?”
He compressed his face with the palms of both hands and whispered, “Yes, it makes sense. Thank you.”
After she left for the coffee, he stared long and hard at the telephone. He was totally exhausted, not remotely up to talking to anyone, particularly Tracy. But her using that phrase left him no choice ... neither of them had ever failed to respond to that private signal, no matter how angry, no matter what the situation. Now, the longer he waited to return the call, the more stymied, the more helpless he felt.
“Hope this is okay,” Dotti said, setting a steaming mug in front of him.
Gary nodded his thanks, indicated she should sit down.
She slipped into the sculptured leather chair directly across from him, and sipped from her own cup of coffee. “I've been known to be a good listener, if you need one,” she said.
Gary stared at her speculatively. She didn't look anything like Shelley, whose job she'd taken. This woman was middle-aged, ordinary looking, probably would never turn a head. Shelly? She was another matter. You couldn't ignore her if you wanted to: voluptuous curves, shapely long legs, corn-colored hair that draped around her face like finely woven silk. You had to resist the urge to touch her to see if she was real. Now, he truly saw his new assistant for the first time since he'd hired her. No glitter, no flash, but she had disarming warmth.
“Since my divorce,” he said,” everything has been a little out of whack. No ... a lot out of whack.”
She waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she asked, “How long has it been?”
He picked up one of the Lucite blocks, turned it from one side to the other, held it up to the light. “Three months and four days,” he said. “But as they say, who’s counting?”
“Was it a long relationship?” she asked, adding more sugar to her coffee.
“Nineteen big ones.” He stood abruptly and drifted over to the window, coffee mug in hand. It was a foggy day on the bay, filled with various shades of gray—moody, like a monochromatic Turner painting. “Know why it ended?” he asked, turning his head toward her.
She shook her head, straightened the lapel of her checked jacket, and pressed further back into the chair.
“I suddenly found myself the center of someone else's world for the first time in my life. I counted more than anything else. Anything!”
“Sounds like a pretty compelling reason.”
He retreated from the window and slipped back into his desk chair, put his feet up on the edge of the desk. “Yeah, well, if that had been the real reason, maybe it would have made sense. The truth of it is, I just plain got ... entangled.”
“I'm not sure I understand.”
“I got involved with the excitement of being with a new, young, beautiful woman.” He ran his fingertips along the stubble of his beard. “She made me feel so incredibly talented, intelligent, witty ... didn't second-guess every decision I made. There were so many differences between her and Tracy…”His voice trailed off, leaving his face in a deep frown.
Dotti looked at him noncommittally and set her coffee cup on the edge of his desk. “If you found the right person, what's the problem?”
“I'm not sure I did,” he said. “It all happened while I was still married to Tracy. The two of us—Shelley and I—spent most of our time either sneaking around or…” He stopped, washed his face back-and-forth with one hand, then continued in a soft voice, “…in the sack.”
“But you're divorced now, Mr. Bernstein,” she said, raising her hands, palms up. “You're free to see whomever you want.”
“You're right, I am divorced. Divorced ... and miserable.” He looked intently at his assistant, whose eyebrows were raised questioningly. “Shelley dotes on me ... hangs on my every word ... and bores me to tears!” He crashed his hand down on the desk. “Damn it! It's not Shelley. I can't sleep ... I can't work. All I do is worry about Tracy ... worry about whether she's going to live or die.”
“Die?”
“She has cancer.” He spun his chair around and looked out at the fog shrouded bay. “I feel so God damned guilty leaving her all alone at a time like this ... it's all my fault ... if I'd been there for her...” Loud, choking sobs suddenly shook his body.
Dotti rose slowly from her chair and walked around his desk to place her hands tentatively on his shoulders.
“Damn it, Trace,” he whispered. “How could I have fucked things up so badly?”
* * * *
The phone was picked up on the first ring. Tracy, in a tremulous voice, said, “Gary? Is that you?”
“Trace?” he queried, barely recognizing her voice. “What's the matter ... what's going on—”
“You've got to help me, Gary,” she interrupted. “Promise me you will.” Anguished wails exploded in the phone; she continued in gulps: “You've got to help me ... help me…”
“Tracy, stop a minute! Tell me—”
“Don't have anyone I can turn to, but you ... know I wouldn't ask—”
“Tracy! Whatever it is, I'll do it. For God's sake, don't cry! Please don't cry anymore.”
“Okay, okay!” There was a long moment of muted sobs. “I'm trying. Give me a minute.”
“Tracy? I'll come down. We can talk.”
“No! Don't do that, Gary. Don't do it! I don't have much time.”
Chapter 10
A heavy sigh escaped Faye's lips as she stepped out of Ridgewood Hospital. Dazed by a sudden sense of freedom and the cool fresh air, she looked around aimlessly at the people walking down the hospital pathways. Mostly, she was among weary nurses in white, sagging uniforms. But interspersed in the crowd were other staff, some technicians like herself. She nodded automatically, pasting a pleasant smile on her face for several people she knew.
Faye stared up at the sun and when she looked away, green dots danced before her dazzled eyes. For just a moment she allowed herself to drift, to forget about Frankie, the day's smart-ass comments about her black eye, and Bob Ghent's constant nit-picking. Then she blended seamlessly with the pedestrian flow that pulled her away from the hospital grounds.
It was an eternity since the start of the day when she had donned her own crisp lab coat. She visualized it now as she had left it behind in a heap, buried in a laundry cart, grimy, heavily coated with blood.
Her mind bounced from one isolated thought to another, trying to find a focus.
Then she remembered: Carl Chapman died!
She swallowed a bubbling, metallic taste and reached to soothe the pain that stabbed her head. The realization finally penetrated her consciousness.
There’s no turning back.
On hearing of Chapman's death, a numbness had overcome her, allowing three tubes of blood to slip through her fingers; some of the dangerous fluid had splashed into her eyes as the vials shattered on a work counter. Most of the rest of the day had been a mess of getting medical treatment and filling out the necessary paperwork for documenting the accident—just in case she turned up HIV positive.
Her mind probed the horrible thought once more: Chapman’s dead!
An icy chill made Faye shiver inside her thick, gray sweater.
Nothing will ever be right again.
She forced one leg in front of the other. Visions of Chapman accompanied her on the route back to her apartment. She’d first seen him when she'd been called to help collect blood from the dying man. That ghastly face, with the haunted eyes, seemed to blame her. She'd bitten her tongue to keep from crying out, from bolting out of the room. Even now, she could see that ghostly face searching for her, accusing her.
She jumped as someone touched her shoulder. “Are you all right, miss?” a kindly old man a
sked. “You don't look well.”
She mumbled a reply and staggered away with her head down.
The raucous beeping of a car horn jolted her, made her look up. She turned and saw one of the oncology nurses waving at her from a red Fiat.
“Hey! Want a lift?”
She shook her head. “I just have a short way to go.”
The nurse laughed. “So what. Hop in!”
She hesitated, shrugged her shoulders.
The woman leaned over and opened the passenger door. “I see you up on the floor a lot, but I'm afraid I don't know your name.” She held out a hand. “I'm Gina Mazzio.”
“Faye Lindstrom,” she said with a tentative smile, then stared straight ahead.
A car pulled up behind them; the driver lightly sounded his horn. Gina gave him a winning smile and waved him around.
“You can tell me to butt out, Faye,” Gina said, gently touching her arm,” but you look like you could use a lift. That's why I stopped.”
“That's nice of you.” Her bruised eye throbbed in a stabbing rhythm with each word she uttered. She fingered the bones around it; a comfort habit she'd fallen into in the last couple of days. “But I'm all right. It's just been a horrible day.”
“One of the worst,” Gina agreed.
Faye pointed down the street. “That's my building, over there.”
“So, hop in anyway.”
After she slid into the seat, the nurse touched her arm again. “Are you sure you're all right?”
She looked into Gina's concerned eyes and tried to remember the last time she'd had a heart-to-heart with anyone—her friends just seemed to melt away when Frankie moved in. She hadn't realized until this moment just how alone and afraid she was.
“I'm fine. I just need some rest.”
Gina found a parking place in front of Faye’s apartment building, cut the ignition, and reached into her purse. “Here. Take my card. Call me if you need any help.”
Faye fingered the card, smiled when she saw the plunger of a large syringe pushing Gina's name, address, and telephone number toward the needle end of the cylinder.
Faye hesitated only for a second, but then the words just seem to fly from her mouth: “Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”
Gina looked as though she would make some excuse to get out of it, then quickly smiled. “Yeah, sure.” Her hand swept out. “Can't waste a good parking place, can we?”
* * * *
The lab tech reached out with her key but the apartment door was jerked open before she could insert it in the lock. A tall, lanky man in his late twenties, dressed in jeans and a sweat shirt declaring, THEY'RE ALL BIMBOS, stood at the entry. He'd obviously been waiting, listening for Faye.
“It's about time, darlin'. I'd begun to worry about you.”
Gina watched the woman cringe, automatically finger her eye before he turned his attention to her.
“Come on in,” he said,” I'm Frank Nellis.”
“Gina Mazzio,” she said without offering her hand.
Studying his biting gaze, her mind was flooded with images of green glacial waters. She'd been aware of the speculative gossip involving the lab tech's black eye, and she had to admit it had been curiosity more than kindness that had caused her to offer Faye a ride. Now, having met the bastard who must have hurt Faye, she felt a sense of kinship with the lab tech. Gina sucked in her stomach, pulled herself up to her full height.
“Thanks.” She turned away. “Faye, I'd love that cup of coffee you offered.”
She sat on the leather sofa while the couple went into the kitchen. Looking around, she noted everything was orderly, tasteful, and strangely empty. When she looked toward the kitchen, Frank Nellis' eyes were invading her—examining, probing with the same calculating scrutiny she'd last seen in her ex-husband's hate-filled gaze.
* * * *
“How many times have I told you I don't want your stupid friends here,” Frank hissed in Faye's ear as she fixed the coffee.
“I'll bring home anyone I want. This is my place,” she said in a rare flash of anger. “Remember?”
The pig is going to foul up everything.
He gently took her arm and pressed his nails into the soft flesh. She tried to shuck him off but he curled the nails deeper.
“Gina?” she called out in a quivering voice. He quickly released his grip. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black is fine,” Gina called back.
Faye slipped by him with the coffee tray, her shoulders squared.
In the living room, he sat with them and half-listened to their silly conversation, nodding at appropriate moments.
Mainly, he watched Gina, taking her inventory:
Not bad looking, if you like the grease-ball type; thirties; tall, maybe 5-10, or more; sturdy; solid. Too bad. Like my women soft, compliant.
This one holds her chin up. Alert. Ready to spring. The bitch would fight, if she had to. Quick and dirty. Get wanted her out of the apartment, Faye. And don’t you ever bring her back!
* * * *
Faye closed the door behind Gina.
It took her a moment to find the courage to turn around to face Frankie. All the defiance she'd felt minutes earlier had evaporated.
“Why did you bring that bimbo here?” Frankie said, tugging gently at her hand, pulling her away from the apartment door back toward the living room.
“She's just one of the nurses at the hospital.”
“I could see that, darlin'.”
“She offered me a ride, Frankie. Don't be mad.”
“But baby, I'm not mad,” he said, unbuttoning her skirt, pulling off her sweater. “We practically live on top of the hospital, darlin', why’d you need a ride?” His arms drew her to him; he kissed her neck, murmured soft sounds into her hair with a husky, swollen voice.
This was the Frankie she'd fallen in love with months before all this bone marrow stuff started. Tears filled her eyes. “Frankie, the Chapman man died today,” she whispered.
“Served the son-of-a-bitch right,” he said, entwining her hair around his fingers. “All he had to do was pay. It's not our fault he was so stupid.”
“But Frankie—”
“Pull my clothes off, baby.” He yanked gently at her hair as she undid his pants. “Put your hands in there ... yeah ... that's good ... that's great!”
“Frankie, I'm scared.” His lips moved over her body, his fingers probed all her tender parts. “I'm ... just ... so...”
He laid her on the floor and began to tongue her nipples. “Did you get the note to the Bernstein broad today?”
She nodded her head over and over. She would be a good girl; she couldn't allow him to go away again; she couldn't stand being alone. “Help me, Frankie ... please.”
“Oh, I'll help you, baby. Yes I will.”
He entered her with an explosive thrust. Her hips lifted and jammed into his.
Everything was going to be all right again.
Chapter 11
Gina pressed the heels of her hands tightly against her temples, but the throbbing continued.
Drowning her sorrows in alcohol the night before hadn't helped relieve the peculiar emptiness that gnawed at her. She'd been through this type of depression before, and knew her feelings were directly related to the loss of Carl Chapman. She also knew that no matter how much Chapman had meant to her as a person, her memories of him as an individual would fade from her mind. Soon, he would become part of the mass of now anonymous patients whom she had seen die.
There was a coldness in that, and it bothered her.
She was a fighter and she'd chosen this type of nursing because there was a combativeness involved. She and the patients could join together to defeat the common enemy.
Today, she had her doubts.
Today, she felt defeated.
Only her private time—time away from work, time with Harry and his offbeat humor—seemed to make any sense at all.
Harry make sense?
Instead, she sat at the nurses' station, head in hand, and meticulously charted her 8:00 a.m. meds.
She didn't hear her name called until Helen tugged at her sleeve and almost shouted in her ear.
“It's him again, Gina. You'd better go, thank God he's yours.”
“Not the brat?” Gina asked.
“Yeah,” Helen said, shaking her head,” the brat!”
“Damn it!” she muttered, hurrying down the corridor.
It would be nice to have one day without Vinnie Capello behaving like an idiot. He acts more like a ten-year-old than eighteen.
Outside his door, she slowed herself, took a deep breath, and casually strolled into the room.
Two male nurse assistants were trying to keep the skinny teenager from yanking out the IV line in his chest.
“That's enough, Vinnie,” Gina said calmly.
The patient pulled his arms free, glaring first at her, then at the aides.
“Thanks a lot for taking care of things, guys,” Gina said,” but I need some time alone with Mr. Capello.”
“Are you sure you won't need some help with this one?” one of the aides growled.
“I'll call if I do. Thanks again.”
She circled around the room, rubbing the back of her neck, still trying to relieve the nagging headache.
“So, Vinnie,” she said as soon as they were alone,” do you suppose it's just because I'm Italian I get the privilege of being shafted by you all the time?”
“Whadda you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean—having to babysit 'the brat' just because he's Italian, too.”
He sneered at her.
“You can drop the tough-guy act, kid. After four weeks we know each other pretty well.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “And we both know you're a straight A student, with perfect diction.”
He continued to glare at her, but she could see he was fighting back tears as he swiped at beads of perspiration on his forehead with the back of his hand.
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