I closed my eyes. She might have a point, but… “Mom, I coveted my best friend’s wife.”
“So what? Now you’re King David, sending Bathsheba’s husband onto the battlefield to die? Don’t give yourself so much credit, dear.”
That made me chuckle in spite of myself. Mom had a thing for Biblical analogies. Given that she’d named the four of us after the Gospel writers, I suppose that was to be expected.
“Whatever you may have felt for Allison before Clint’s death, you never interfered in their marriage, not just because you’re a decent and honorable man, but because you loved Clint, too. He was your best friend. You would never have done anything to hurt him, even subconsciously. I’m sure you recommended the surgery because it’s what you would have wanted someone to do for you if your positions had been reversed. It’s only now that you can have her that you’re turning on the light and looking for the monsters. But just like when you were a kid, they’re not there. So turn off the light and stop looking.”
Chapter Fifteen
It didn’t happen the day my mother talked to me or the day after, or even the week after, but it did happen. I stopped dissecting my motivations for agreeing to do Clint’s surgery and stopped blaming myself for killing him. The operation might have been ill-advised, but one thing my mother said stuck in my head—if I had been in Clint’s shoes, I would have wanted someone to have the courage to try to help me, even if they failed. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being trapped, sound of mind, in a body that could no longer perform the most basic functions. And that was all Clint had had to look forward to. The only question was how long he would be trapped there before he died.
Allison hadn’t factored into my decision at all. The possibility that she was even interested in me hadn’t even occurred to me. I’d believed my crush to be strictly one-sided, and she’d never given me any reason to believe otherwise until after Clint’s death.
It was a relief to let go of the guilt and shame, of course, but I was still doomed to bachelorhood. I’d promised Allison I would stay out of her life, and I wouldn’t go back on my word. Especially since I’d failed so miserably at it the first two times.
I’d resigned myself to this state of affairs and convinced myself that I’d never see Allison again. Chicago was a big city, after all, and it wasn’t as though we traveled in the same circles—well, at least not once I stopped going to The Rack. As a child advocate in the family court system, she might occasionally run into Luke at a courthouse, but even that was unlikely, since corporate and family law didn’t often cross paths as far as I knew.
Which is why, when I walked into my private office after finishing a consultation with a new patient, I was convinced that the shapely, auburn-haired woman sitting with her back to me in the chair across from my desk must be a stranger who just happened to bear a striking resemblance to Allison.
Hearing the sound of my footsteps, the woman rose, clutching a large manila envelope in front of her.
“This isn’t what you think, Mark,” she said through Allison’s lips and in Allison’s voice.
For half a second, I was convinced I must be hallucinating. Except that if I were to conjure a vision of Allison, she wouldn’t be dressed in a somber, gray pantsuit with a plain white blouse beneath it. No, the Allison of my imagination was clothed—if she wore anything at all—in the flowing, feminine skirts and sundresses she’d favored when visiting The Rack, not this dull, shapeless atrocity. And that, in the end, was what convinced me that by some amazing stroke of good fortune, Allison had walked back into my life again.
“What do I think it is?” I asked. Honestly, I wasn’t thinking much of anything coherent. I was too busy processing the flood of hormonal responses that overwhelmed me in her presence.
Allison pursed her lips. “A pathetic attempt to change your mind about breaking up with me.”
Several plainly inappropriate responses tripped through my addled brain before I settled on, “It wouldn’t be pathetic.”
Her eyes widened slightly at that, but she didn’t respond directly. Instead, she stretched the envelope, which I recognized as the type normally used to transport radiographic images, toward me. “I came here to request a consultation on a case. I need your help, Mark. In a purely medical capacity, of course.”
I raised my eyebrow. The haste with which she added that clarification gave me hope.
I took the envelope and walked over to the light-board mounted on the side wall. I slipped out the images one by one—five in all—and clipped them to the board, then switched on the light. I didn’t have to look at them for more than a few seconds to come to a diagnosis.
“This patient has a pituitary tumor, probably due to Cushing’s disease, although I’d have to see the rest of the workup to be sure. Based on the size, I’d recommend immediate surgical intervention followed by irradiation.” I started to remove the films from the board. “But so would any second year med student. I’m not sure why you felt you needed my expertise.”
“I didn’t need a diagnosis. I already have that, and you’re right, it’s Cushing’s. The patient is a thirteen-year-old girl. Her parents have refused surgical treatment on religious grounds. Something to do with a prohibition on contact with blood. They’ve found several doctors to support their desire to treat the condition with cortisol inhibitors. I need someone to appear in court and state, unequivocally, that the only medically justifiable treatment for this condition is to remove the tumor.”
I handed the envelope back to her. “Well, I’m not sure I can do that. Cortisol inhibitors are considered an alternative treatment for Cushing’s, although in a case this advanced, it’s not likely to be very effective. But I can’t state, unequivocally, that the only option is surgery.”
“That’s what the last three neurosurgeons I went to see said.” She let out a frustrated sigh. “Mark, the girl wants the surgery. I’m her court-appointed advocate, but I don’t believe I can get the judge to rule against her parents’ wishes unless I can find a specialist who will testify that it’s the only reasonable course of action. You’re my last—and best—hope.”
There was something about the way she said “best hope” that tugged at my conscience as well as my heart. After everything I’d put her through, she still considered me the best person to help her.
“I can’t make any promises, but—”
I didn’t even finish my sentence. Allison flung her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. Despite the mannish suit, I could feel every luscious curve of her undeniably female body pressed against mine. The only female body I ever wanted pressed against mine, now and forever.
“Thank you, Mark, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said, peeling her arms from my shoulders. I wouldn’t be able to put more than two sentences together with her arms wrapped around me like that. “I’ll need to see her complete medical file and, of course, perform my own workup. And it’s still possible I won’t be able to testify the way you want in court.”
“Of course.” She stepped away, a flush suffusing her cheeks. “But I know I can trust you. You’ll do what you think is right for Hannah. Just like you do for all your patients.”
Allison’s whiskey-colored eyes studied my face. She was waiting for my denial. Waiting for me to say I hadn’t done the right thing for Clint. I met her gaze, level and unflinching.
“What, no argument?” she asked at last.
I shook my head. “I turned off the light.”
Her forehead furrowed with confusion. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“My mother reminded that when I was a kid, I was afraid of sleeping with the light on because it meant I’d be able to see the monsters. And I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from looking for them.” I raked my fingers through my hair, trying to gather my thoughts. “When I realized Clint’s death meant we could be together, I turned on the light and started looking for the monsters inside myself. I saw them even when they weren�
��t there. But once I stopped looking, I realized they were always figments of my imagination. The only reason I recommended that surgery was because it was the only option that offered him any quality of life at all, and that was the least I could do for my best friend.”
Allison blinked as tears slid down her cheeks. I reached out and caught one with a fingertip.
“Don’t cry, pet,” I said, not even consciously aware that I’d used the endearment. “It’s all good.”
She placed a hand on my cheek and shook her head. “It’s not what you think.”
I gave her a wry smile. “You’re beginning to repeat yourself.”
Her laugh was weak. “I’m glad you don’t blame yourself anymore, Mark. I never doubted you. It’s just that...I don’t think you can understand what it’s been like for me. First, when Clint got sick, I was afraid he was going to die. And then, as he got worse and worse, I was more afraid he wouldn’t. How awful is that?”
“It’s not awful,” I said. “It’s perfectly natural.”
“You might think so, but I was his wife, Mark. I loved him. How could I want him dead?”
I pulled her gently into my arms and cradled her head against my chest. “You didn’t want him dead; you wanted his suffering to end.”
“Those are easy words to say, but when I was taking care of him toward the end—feeding him, bathing him, changing his diapers—I’m not sure I wanted his suffering to end as much as I wanted my own to end. When you told us about the surgery and described the risks, I knew there was a good chance that Clint would die, but I encouraged him to have the operation anyway. Because I just wanted it to be over—one way or another.”
“And so did he.” I loosened my embrace and tilted her head so that she had to look up at me. “We both knew Clint—better than anyone else on the planet. And deep down, we both know that neither of us could have convinced him to do anything he didn’t want. He knew the risks, and he chose the operation anyway. Neither of us can take responsibility for that.”
She sniffled. “I’ve tried to tell myself that, but ever since that night at your house… I guess I’ve had the light on, too. Looking for my own monsters. And like you, I found them.”
“So turn off the light.”
Biting her lip, she nodded. We stood there for a long time, just holding each other.
This was the conversation we should have had that first night after Clint’s death. Instead, we’d jumped each other’s bones in a desperate attempt to reaffirm that we were both still alive and wound up suppressing the truth—a truth that could have set us free two years before. Then we’d compounded that mistake by avoiding the issue altogether when we met at The Rack, although I had to lay the blame for that more squarely at my door than hers. I’d been the one determined to confine our relationship to sex, to scening.
“Allison,” I said softly, “I’d like to ask you something.”
She looked up at me, her expression quizzical. “Of course.”
Releasing her from my embrace, I stepped back and dropped to one knee. If this was worth doing, it was worth doing it right.
“Will you marry me?”
Although I knew such a thing was medically impossible, I was afraid her eyes would pop out of her head.
“What?”
“You heard me. I love you, Allison. I was an idiot to push you away, and I’d be even more of an idiot if I let you leave without telling you how I feel. If you’ve already found someone else, I’ll unders—”
“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, fresh tears glittering on her eyelashes. She pressed her index and middle fingers over my lips to stop me from talking. “There’ll never be anyone for me but you. Not now.”
I scrambled back to my feet and dragged her back into my arms again. When our lips met, I may actually have seen fireworks exploding behind my eyelids. The kiss was both more tender and hotter than any I could recall, and the ache that accompanied it settled not just in my loins, but in my bones. We were both breathing raggedly, and there was an unmistakable ridge beneath the hem of my white coat when I finally managed to raise my head.
“Is that a yes?” I asked.
She tilted her head to one side, her eyes whiskey-dark and drunken with desire. “I’m not sure. Will you still tie me up and do bad things to me when I’m your wife?”
“Oh, pet, if you had any idea of the bad things I have in mind to do to you right now, you’d run as fast as you could in the other direction.”
She grinned and shivered. “In that case, I accept.”
“Good thing,” I said on a growl as I closed the door and pushed her up against it. “Because I’ve decided to start doing some very bad things to you right now.”
“I’m terrified,” she said, her voice tinged with a giggle.
“I love you, pet,” I muttered as I yanked open the abomination that called itself a suit jacket, sending the buttons clattering across the linoleum floor. “But you are in for it now.”
“Oh, Master, I certainly hope so.”
Oh, she definitely was. Now and for the rest of her life.
The End
Author Bio
When Jackie isn’t trying to be a writer—and even when she is—she’s a happily married mother of three who makes her living writing technical training materials for the software industry. She lives with her family in Southern California, where she was born and raised. She holds a BA in Classical Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz, and an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago.
Jackie has been telling stories since before she learned to write—just ask her mother!
You can visit her online at: http://www.jackiebarbosa.com, follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/jackiebarbosa, and friend her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/jackiebarbosa.
According to Mark Page 9
