Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  “Torna a Surriento” soars through the restaurant. The wine and music fill him with warmth and contentment.

  “This is very different from the cafeteria,” he says, knowing the conversation has veered into different territory from hospital gossip.

  “Yes, it is. Do you know why?”

  “I think I do …”

  “So do I,” she says, leaning toward him. “It’s because we want to be here.”

  “Oh yes,” he says, and a moment later, their fingers are intertwined. Her hand is soft, warm, and he feels her fingers pressing his; a hum courses through him. Adrian’s heart swells with possibility.

  “It’s like an adventure, isn’t it?”

  Yes,” he says with a laugh. “I have a confession to make …”

  “What?” Her grasp is firmer now and her head tilts. A smile stays on her lips.

  “I’m glad for that one empty seat in the cafeteria.”

  “I’m glad, too.”

  “The second I saw you, I knew I wanted to sit there.”

  “I was watching you.”

  “Were you?” he says, genuinely surprised. “I thought you didn’t know I existed.”

  “Oh, I knew,” she says with an amused look.

  “You didn’t give me a glance.”

  “Oh, I looked. And I was thinking, too …”

  “Thinking what?”

  “I can’t tell you that now.”

  “You were very subtle, sitting there with your paperback, never looking at me.”

  “You can’t know what was going through my mind then.”

  “I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?” she says, squeezing his hand.

  At her apartment door, she moves close. The scent of her makes his knees weak. “I’d ask you in, but I’m not sure I want to go there …”

  “Go where …?”

  She smiles, touches his arm.

  A thrumming courses through his chest.

  “You know where,” she whispers, her finger brushing his cheek. His skin tingles. “At least not yet …”

  “We’ll just let things go where they will …”

  “In time, they will,” she whispers, drawing closer.

  He can smell her hair, her skin, the wine on her breath. The hospital seems forever ago, a lifetime away. Her hand strokes his chin gently; then her palms rest on his cheeks. His face is on fire. His heart flutters as he looks into those amazing eyes and knows again he could fall into them. Her scent is vaguely reminiscent of wisteria, or is it lavender?

  When they kiss, her lips are moist, full, and pliant, and the taste of her mouth blends with wine and sambuca.

  They draw away and look into each other’s eyes. Her hand rests at the back of his neck. “This is the strangest thing,” he says.

  “What’s strange?”

  “It feels like …” He shakes his head, not knowing what to say.

  “Like what?”

  “Like we’ve known each other for a long time.”

  “Yes. It does.”

  “And there’s something else,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I feel like a kid.”

  “That’s a good feeling, isn’t it?”

  “Like it’s all the first time, but I’m too old to feel this way.”

  “No, you’re not,” she whispers.

  “And …” A thousand thoughts cascade through his mind—a frenzy of words and images—but he can’t find a thing to say.

  “And what?” she says softly, her lips hovering near his.

  “How does this happen so quickly? This feeling …”

  “I don’t know. But I feel it, too,” she whispers. Then she buries her face against his chest; she looks up and those plush, moist lips press against his neck, kiss him—very gently—and his arms wrap around her, pull her so close, he feels the heat of her body, and a soft moan comes from her throat. Her lips linger on his neck, and his skin feels like it’s on fire. He tilts his head downward so their mouths come together.

  They kiss again, this time, more deeply.

  Five

  An autumn moon casts a pale wash on the forest behind the cottage. Adrian savors the taste of Megan still lingering in his mouth. Stepping out of the Audi, he marvels at how rustic the area is. It’s quite a change from New Haven, where he lived the first few years of his life in Connecticut. Except for Simpson’s town center, the area remained rural, with undulating hills, open fields, and some working vegetable and dairy farms.

  Over the two years since he moved in, Adrian’s grown fond of this quaint cottage. The stone fireplace, chestnut-beamed rooms, and wood-burning stove provide a cozy ambience, especially on winter nights. The nearest house—the Gibson mansion, for which the cottage was a gatehouse years ago—is three hundred yards away. There’s plenty of privacy.

  Inside, he’s about to plop onto the sofa when he notices a cushion is out of place. He straightens it out and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. A kitchen cabinet door is open. Adrian stands there, befuddled: he has no recollection of having opened the cabinet that morning. He was in a rush to get to the hospital and had coffee and a doughnut in the doctors’ lounge on the sixth floor. He closes the cabinet door, drinks a glass of water, and returns to the living room.

  He replays the evening with Megan. It already seems like a dream. How they’d talked about themselves and each other, about mothers and fathers, family closeness, and Megan’s sister, Erin, about being adopted, and Megan’s words about Marlee.

  A child, the little person you’ve helped create and around whom your life orbits … And here he is, forty years old, childless. Adrian’s thoughts drift to Peggy. God, what a downer it was. He’d wanted to have a child, but Peggy had jolted him out of that wish. He’s certain she’ll never have a baby. It’s ironic, because she’s still at Yale, churning ahead as an A-list gynecologist and fertility expert, of all things. He’s sure she’s still doing surgery, writing journal articles, attending conferences, and is on a meteoric rise to the top of the surgical food chain. He’d even heard a rumor that she’d been offered a top-shelf position at Harvard but had turned it down.

  They’d met at Yale-New Haven Hospital. From the first moment they spied each other, the attraction was high voltage. She ignited something incendiary inside him. It was erotic overdrive. How insatiable their appetites—a lust-driven hunger—were for each other. They were married for two years when the idea of a baby came up—he can’t even recall how it did.

  “I hadn’t really planned on it,” she said, “but I’m willing to give it a try.”

  So they tried, and after eight months, nothing happened.

  “It’s not my fault, Adrian,” Peggy said. “And I don’t want to start the whole sex-on-a-schedule thing. I could never think of anything more boring.”

  “Isn’t that what your patients do?”

  “Yes, the ones who want to ruin their sex lives.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “Maybe you should get tested,” she said.

  “Why not both of us?”

  “I’ve already gone to the best fertility clinic in the state. Mine, right here at Yale. And there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Gen-Health Labs was in a nondescript, four-story building on State Street in New Haven, a few short blocks from the hospital. With her connections, Peggy got him an immediate appointment.

  First, there was a form. A million questions: his family, ethnic background, health issues, medications, anything affecting seminal fluid, sperm count. There were tests for motility, viability, and an impregnation index. He was a one-man study in reproductive capability.

  Then came a physical examination—head to toe. And then prostatic massage, blood tests, urinalysis, and x-ray imaging of his bladder.

  Then he made a “deposit.”

  The results: a fine sperm count—great little soldiers, indomitable infantrymen ready to charge uphill.
r />   Four months later: still no pregnancy.

  “Why not give us five or six samples?” said the lab director, Dr. Lefer, a short, frosted-blond woman who wore a starched white lab coat and large, oval-shaped glasses. “We’ll store them and then use a concentrated dose when Peggy’s ovulating. It’s artificial insemination, but with your own sperm.”

  A megadose—millions of soldiers marching to the front.

  Four more samples.

  Result: no pregnancy.

  Still plenty of deposit left over for another try.

  “What will be, will be,” Peggy said.

  Peggy was losing interest. Lovemaking—by then indolent, rote, and rehearsed—screeched to a standstill.

  Peggy got home at nine thirty that night. “A grueling day in the OR,” she moaned. “Hysterectomies … C-sections. I’m wrecked.” She tossed her purse on the table as she trudged to the bedroom. “I need a shower. Let’s order in. Pizza’s fine.” He could hear weariness and burnout in her voice.

  It had been months since they’d done the Manhattan restaurant thing or been to a show—either on Broadway or at Long Wharf in New Haven—and Peggy was working later than ever. And coming home exhausted—wrecked and wasted were her favorite words. Sexually, she was distant, remote—completely uncaring. The marriage seemed spiritless.

  The pizza arrived. Same delivery boy—a tall, greasy-haired kid wearing Reebok basketball sneaks and baggy jeans whose crotch hung between his knees. Poor fucking kid, Adrian thought. He can still picture him standing at the doorway with iPod buds in his ears.

  No small bills in Adrian’s wallet.

  He opened Peggy’s purse and extracted a twenty. “Here. Keep the change, kid.”

  Returning Peggy’s wallet, his gaze fell on a beige plastic container. A logo was etched on the plastic cover: “FemCap.”

  He snapped it open. Inside: a thin, thimble-shaped rubber object.

  He heard Peggy—out of the shower, tramping around the bedroom, opening and closing dresser draws—and he saw her shadow in the slit of light beneath the door. His hands shook violently as he rummaged through her purse.

  A tube of ointment: “GYNOL II.” Douche or antifungal preparation? They’d barely had sex in weeks … no, in months.

  He booted up the laptop and typed “FemCap” on the Google search engine.

  It came up: “Cervical Cap (FemCap) condom, diaphragm. Contraception. Female Cervical Cap.”

  His hands went weak, cold. His scalp dampened.

  FemCap. Inserted into the vagina—best done some hours before intercourse—fits snugly over the cervix, provides a barrier to sperm, preventing fertilization.

  His heart hammered while his thoughts swirled.

  Highly effective; acceptable to both partners—the man won’t feel the device if it’s properly inserted.

  Discreet, comes in a makeup-like container enhancing portability.

  Ready to wear, he thought. How versatile.

  His body hummed and his hands shook. A few typed letters and a couple of clicks: Drugs.com.

  Gynol II. Vaginal spermicide: a gel inserted into the vagina before sexual intercourse. It damages and kills sperm in the vagina.

  His skin prickled. His heart thrashed in his chest. A sick feeling filled him.

  Moments later, Peggy was in the living room, wearing a bathrobe, her hair damp and limp. Adrian smelled terry cloth, Pantene with aloe in still-wet hair, rose-scented body wash—all melding in a sickening wave of nausea. When Peggy saw the FemCap container, she turned ashen.

  Adrian pointed to it, feeling his chest would implode.

  “How long’ve you been using this?”

  “For a while,” she whispered and looked away.

  “And the blood tests, the sperm count, I’ve been jacking off in a jar … in the lab? Your lab.”

  She swallowed and said nothing. The silence was sustained, ugly.

  “This has all been a lie, hasn’t it?” His insides felt like they were being yanked apart. Tears burned the back of his throat.

  Peggy plopped onto the sofa, her lips a thin, bloodless line. One leg crossed over the other; her foot dangled and jiggled.

  “You’ve been playing me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. The foot kept jiggling. Her eyes couldn’t meet his.

  “And why’s it in your purse?”

  She blinked wetly; her chin trembled.

  “Adrian, I just don’t see a child in my life …” She still looked away.

  “I could’ve lived with that.”

  More silence, penetrating. Peggy’s eyes darting left and right.

  “Peggy …?”

  No response.

  “The fucking purse … why?”

  “Adrian, can I be completely frank with you?”

  No righteous outrage—no explosion, no theatrics, though he trembled with fury.

  “I’ve been thinking about our marriage …”

  His mouth tasted metallic—something coppery.

  “I … I …” She halted.

  “C’mon, Peggy, just spit it out.”

  “It’s not that our marriage is bad … It’s … it’s something else …”

  “What’s that?” Something bubbled inside him.

  “It was mostly hormones that brought us together,” Peggy said, and then she inhaled deeply. “I guess I chose to ignore that marriage might mean having a family …”

  “So, Peggy—”

  “Adrian, our sex life’s turned into a baby-making chore.”

  The edges of the room darkened. The room swayed.

  “I … I never considered the commitments of marriage. It really comes down to this: I just can’t be with only one man.”

  “So you’ve been having an affair?”

  “Yes …” Tears snaked down her cheeks. “Adrian, I still love you, but … I just can’t live the kind of life you want … kids … a house in the burbs …”

  He could have launched into a rage-filled rant, a poisonous blitz … Words crashed through his brain like an avalanche, tumbled wildly, and littered his thoughts like swirling confetti. So you lie … pretend there’s a sperm problem … I have to jerk off in a jar … and you’re using a device? And I’m just a cuckolded sap, and you … you mind-fucking bunko artist … you played me like a mandolin.

  But he said nothing, just shook his head, his mouth desert dry. A tide of memories swelled through him—of places they’d been, things they’d done, songs they’d shared. They’d traveled the same road—together—but with different destinations.

  It was just so over.

  Six

  “Someone has an admirer,” Barbara Conte coos as Megan enters the neonatal unit. She’s just returned from the cafeteria, where she’d hoped to see Adrian. But an OR nurse had said, “We have wall-to-wall patients. He’ll be tied up all day.”

  “These came while you were at lunch,” Barbara says, pointing to a vase of gladioli. Tall spikes of red and white blossoms rise sequentially from long stems. Sword-shaped foliage protrudes from between the florets.

  A wave of astonishment washes over Megan. A lovely gesture, but really reckless of Adrian. The human resources handbook is crystal clear about hospital romances: they’re a huge no-no. When it happens, it’s discreet, beneath the administrative radar. In the two weeks they’ve known each other, things have gotten pretty intense, but flowers to the unit? It seems unlike Adrian to do that.

  A tag identifies the plant as a Lucky Star gladiola, and there’s a small envelope. She opens it. The script looks like a woman’s cursive writing.

  It says, “To Megan, with love.”

  But there’s no signature—very discreet.

  Megan wonders: why today? Then it’s clear: it’s the first time Adrian hadn’t called early in the morning. No doubt, he rushed off to an emergency. So he sent flowers. Probably made a telephone call to a flower shop between surgeries, she thinks, smiling inwardly. The card is from George’s Flowers, near the hospital. A qui
ck call and a credit card number was all it took to get them delivered.

  During the afternoon break, Megan’s cell phone rings. It’s when Adrian calls if he’s not stuck in some patient’s chest cavity. She checks the caller ID and sees it’s him. Glad she’s alone in the nurses’ lounge, she flips the cell open.

  “Well, hello,” she says in a half whisper. “How’s your day going?”

  “Hectic …”

  “I knew that when you didn’t call this morning.”

  “An emergency … The heart waits for no one.”

  They talk for a while—about their schedules, dinner this coming Saturday night, and how he can’t wait to meet Marlee—but nothing about the flowers. She knows Adrian is short on artifice; gamesmanship isn’t in his playbook. He’s a straight shooter, no duplicity.

  “I got the flowers,” she says.

  “Flowers?”

  “Didn’t you send gladiolas?”

  “No …” He sounds bemused, but with a hint of astonishment.

  A chill slithers down Megan’s spine. She suddenly recalls that years ago, after one of his rages, Conrad had stormed out of the house and disappeared for two days. There was no phone call, no note—nothing. Then flowers arrived—not gladioli, but roses—followed by a telephone call. He apologized, begged to come back, and said he’d been a total ass and would never scream at her again. And like a fool, she’d taken him back in.

  “Don’t tell me I’ve got competition,” Adrian says half-seriously.

  “Oh no,” she says with a dry throat. “It’s just that …” And she stops.

  “What?”

  “Flowers came to the ward … and …” She falters.

  “What, Megan?”