"I'm not going anywhere," he said, his voice fierce and shaking a little. "I'm staying right here. I love you, Nora."
All my friends and colleagues visited the next day, and my room filled with flowers, and Bobby stayed with me. I was in the hospital for two nights, which was more professional courtesy than because I needed to.
It was all over the news--Young Doctor Foils Home Invasion, Survives Rape and Murder Attempt. Suspect At Large. I didn't let them release my name, because I didn't want to be known as that poor thing. Bad enough that all my colleagues knew.
The police never did catch him. Apparently, he left the way he came, out my balcony. They canvassed the neighborhood, but he was never found.
I couldn't go back to the apartment.
"You're moving in with me," Bobby said. "Don't even argue about it. It was a matter of time, anyway." I was grateful. I was so, so grateful.
Tyrese, who'd wept at the sight of my face when the ambulance came, oversaw the movers.
I had nightmares and awoke drenched in sweat and gabbling with fear. I was afraid to go anywhere alone. Bobby took two weeks off--unprecedented in his career--and was absolutely, utterly wonderful. He let me talk about it. He understood when I didn't want to talk about it. He told me stories from his childhood, and I clung to the love I had for him, trying to let it wash over the ugliness, the fear, the obscenity.
I waited for the bruises to fade and got back to work. Pretended that I'd been brave, that I'd dodged a bullet and was grateful and fine.
I wasn't.
"Did you hear about that home invasion?" my mother asked in our bimonthly phone call. "Saw it on NECN. Wasn't that near you?"
"Yeah," I said. "I actually moved in with Bobby, though. I, um...I don't live there anymore."
"Good thing, I guess. You never can tell." There was a pause. "But you're good, Nora?"
"I'm fine. What do you hear from Lily and Poe?"
"Oh, they're fine, I guess. They moved again, too."
We fake-chatted some more; I told her she should come out and visit, Boston was beautiful in the spring. She reminded me that Scupper was also beautiful in the spring. "Maybe Bobby and I will come out in June," I lied. It was a relief to hang up the phone. My mom couldn't give me what I needed--she never had--but Bobby came through.
He called me during the day if I wasn't at the hospital, making sure our friends were around so I was never alone. He took me to funky restaurants, filled our days with goofy entertainment like the duck boats and trampolining. He made me laugh, cooked dinner, brought me flowers, watched happy movies and home renovation shows, because anything violent, anything about crime made me shake.
When I woke up screaming, he held me close. "I'm here," he'd say. "I've got you, babe. I'm right here."
Somehow, the words never made me feel safe. Roseline, who'd grown up in a rough neighborhood in Port-au-Prince, understood. "When something like this happens," she said, a faraway look in her eyes, "you realize this shit is everywhere, all the time. It's not that the world is different. You just know the ugly side now." She took my hand and held it.
I tried to get better. I saw a counselor who specialized in this kind of thing. She said everything I was feeling was normal, which I already knew. I took a self-defense class, the kind where you got to hit a guy dressed in padding, looking oddly like the Pillsbury Doughboy. I wasn't the only one who'd been attacked, and it helped a little to know other women had gone through this--and worse--and survived.
Bobby and I started having sex again about a month after the Big Bad Event. I'd started calling it that to lessen its impact, and because the words assault and home invasion sounded way, way too scary. Whenever thoughts of my attacker came into my head (constantly), I tried to think of him as Voldemort. After all, Voldemort dies. As for the sex, I needed Bobby to take up more space in my brain, to force Voldemort to the side.
I wanted good physical contact, life-affirming sex, normalcy. "You sure?" Bobby asked.
I was. He was kind and gentle, and I was glad when it was over. A hurdle jumped.
But things weren't the same.
My sunshine was gone, and every day seemed a little grayer. We got Boomer, a multicolored ball of fun, and truly, the only time the clouds seemed to lift was with that goofy mutt, who slept with me when I took a nap, his head resting on my hip, a paw on my leg.
Around the ten-month mark, I sensed a hint of...impatience from Bobby. He was getting tired of this. He'd felt that way about Mia the anorexic, too. Being a white knight was fun for a while, but staying a white knight...that got old.
The thought of being without him caused rivulets of panic to swirl around my bones. I would get back to my old self, that happy, successful woman with great clothes--I'd been wearing scrubs a lot these past few months, which wasn't against any rules except my own. I'd be outgoing and funny again, smart and independent. Bobby would love me with the same ferocity he'd shown at my bedside in the hospital...and even better, with the same sense of eagerness and joy before the Big Bad Event.
So I redoubled my efforts. Forced myself to do the things I'd done before. I started running along the Charles again, though now with pepper spray and a rape whistle and a big dog--Boomer grew fast. I went out with Doctors Without Spouses, threw Roseline a bridal shower, served as bridesmaid at her wedding. Did some pro bono work at a clinic in Dorchester, though I had a taxi bring me right to the door, and called Bobby as I walked in. I was so scared of seeing him or someone of his kind, of being followed, of being attacked, of another Big Bad Event...one that didn't end so well this time.
I did get better. At least, I seemed better from the outside. But those rays of sunshine that used to glow from my skin, that sense of happy wonder with my life...I had to fake that. Everything that had gotten me to where I was seemed gone. The woman who'd won the Perez Scholarship, who'd graduated in the top quarter of her medical school, who'd gotten a fellowship at one of the best hospitals in the world...the woman who'd won Bobby's love was something of a memory now, and in her place was someone who was just going through the motions.
As for Bobby, he still said he loved me. It just didn't seem as heartfelt as it once had.
The grayness stayed, right up until I was hit by the van with the giant bug on the roof.
11
"You're hired, darling. And aren't you adorable!"
I blinked. "Uh...thanks. Good. That's great." My interview had lasted four minutes.
Dr. Amelia Ames, medical director emeritus of the Ames Clinic, stood, swaying, and shook my hand. "See you...tomorrow? Did we say tomorrow?"
"Yes, we did. See you tomorrow."
I was fairly sure Dr. Ames's coffee mug did not contain coffee.
Three days after I'd moved into the houseboat, I shed my sling, found my arm to be in working condition with just a little soreness and emailed the director of the Scupper Island Urgent Care Clinic. I attached my CV and necessary paperwork. She called me last night, and here I was now. Hired.
"Ta-ta!" said Dr. Ames now, wobbling to the office door and ushering me out. "Lovely to see you again."
"We've never met be--"
"Ciao!" The door closed.
No tour of the facility, no questions on my experience.
"Hey," said a woman about my age. "I'm Gloria Rodriguez. Are you Dr. Stuart?"
"I am. Nora. Nice to meet you. I'm pretty sure I've just been hired."
Gloria laughed. "You have been. You're a doctor, you're licensed in Maine, and that's good enough. Honestly, the clinic can't get anyone out here except the interns from Portland. No one likes the quiet. Pink eye and sprained ankles aren't exactly sexy medicine, and that's 90 percent of what we do. Come on, I'll give you a tour."
Gloria was a nurse practitioner. There were four nurses on staff, a semiretired doc who took calls at night, the occasional intern and Dr. Ames. "Her family put up the money for the clinic about twelve years ago, so she's the director," Gloria said, making quote marks with her fingers as
we walked down the hall. "She doesn't practice."
"Glad to hear that," I said. Gloria was wicked pretty, with sleek, impossibly smooth dark hair and a body like a '40s pinup girl. She was younger than I was--just a year out of her graduate degree, and I liked her already.
The clinic was fairly standard, though nicer than most I'd seen, thanks to the Ames money. There were six rooms for overnight care, six urgent care bays. Once in a while, there'd be a case bad enough to require the LifeFlight helicopter to land and take the patient to Portland.
"Mostly," Gloria said, "it's the basic stuff. Strep throat in the winter, bee stings in the summer, the occasional case of hypothermia when someone stays in the water too long. Once in a while, we get a fisherman who's cut himself pretty bad. Nothing that compares to Boston City, I'm sure."
"It sounds perfect."
"Mind if I ask why you're here?" she said.
The hit-by-the-bug story could wait. "My niece is spending the summer with my mom, and I don't get to see them enough. Do you know my mother? Sharon Stuart?"
"Oh, sure, I've met her."
"Yeah. So here I am. I took a leave from Boston City, but I'll be going back in August."
"Nice." Gloria glanced at her watch. "You want to have lunch? It's really quiet this time of year, and if anyone comes in, the receptionist will let us know. We can go to the Red Fox. It's just around the corner."
The receptionist hadn't been in when I'd come in an hour earlier. It was Mrs. Behring, mother of Joey, who'd been in Luke Fletcher's circle of friends.
"Hello, hello," she said warmly. "I'm Ellen Behring, so nice to meet you! I heard a new doctor was interviewing today! What brings you to Scupper Island? Will you be staying here long?"
Another local who didn't recognize me.
"Hi, Mrs. Behring. Nora Stuart. I went to school with Joey."
Her face flickered. "Oh! So you did. I...I didn't recognize you, Nora. You look so...different. Are you a doctor?"
"I am. I'm here for the summer," I said.
"Oh," she said. Confusion was written all over her face.
"We're going to the Red Fox," Gloria said. "Give us a shout if you need us, okay? Can we bring you something?"
"I brought my lunch from home," she said, still puzzling over me. I was pretty used to it by now.
It was a beautiful day for May--the blackflies were kept at bay by a stiff wind off the water, and the sky was blue and pure. In two more weeks, the summer season would officially begin.
"How did you end up on Scupper, Gloria?" I asked.
"My family's from Boston," she said, "and we used to come to Maine for vacations once in a while. Kennebunkport, Camden, Bar Harbor. I always loved it here. And I had this romantic vision of me coming out and falling in love with a lobsterman--"
"Every woman's dream," I murmured.
"Exactly. Which hasn't happened just yet by the way. But still. It's really pretty, the people are nice, the money's not bad. I've been here for about a year."
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"I rent a house on Rock Ledge Street. A little two-family place, a peek at the water."
The Red Fox was new (to me). We got a seat by the window, since there was hardly anyone else here.
"Welcome to the Red Fox," said the server. "How are you--oh. You. I heard you were back."
It was Amy Beckman, Queen of the Cheetos, once the nemesis to anyone bigger than a size 2, and, all through high school, Sullivan Fletcher's girlfriend.
She looked almost exactly the same--bright blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, athletic build. She seemed to have dropped her addiction to tanning, since her skin was no longer orange. Age had given her some gravitas, too, and pretty had become beautiful.
Still a little scary, too. How many times had she made me cry? Mocked my clothes? Snickered as I walked past in the cafeteria with a salad, knowing I'd binge-eat cheese when I was home?
"Amy," I said with all the enthusiasm of a dead squirrel on the side of the road. "How are you?"
"So you guys know each other, obviously," Gloria said. "Amy's in my book club. Hey, you should join, Nora! It's more of a drinking club, but we'd love to have you."
"Maybe I will." I wouldn't. "Thank you for the invitation."
Amy was still staring at me. "What can I get you?"
As ever, the old instincts to choose my food based on potential judgment flared up. A salad? No, that would be too much of a throwback. A cheeseburger to prove I could handle calories now (if I did an hour of Pilates back home, which my scapula and knee didn't want me to try just yet)?
"I'll have the lobster salad over arugula," Gloria said with a smile. "Seltzer water with lemon, please. Thanks, Amy."
"Same for me," I said.
"Great," Amy said, snapping her leather-bound notebook shut. "Be right back."
"I'm getting a vibe," Gloria said. "Did you spread typhoid? Are you a serial killer? Sleep with everyone's husband?"
"Have you been reading my diary?" I paused. Gloria seemed great, but...well, I'd known her for half an hour. "Sometimes I think it's hard when a person leaves a close-knit place, you know?"
"Oh, God, yes," she said. "My family, they're Mexican, right? You would've thought I'd chewed off my baby nephew's leg when I said I was leaving Newton. My mother cried, made a shrine in the living room, lit candles to the Virgin so I'd change my mind, my father didn't talk to me for a month. You'd think I was going to Mars."
"That's kind of sweet, though. That they were so sad to see you go." Unlike my own mother, who'd barely seemed to notice.
"Holy shit, is that you, Nora Stuart?"
Gloria and I turned. "Xiaowen?" I said, my mouth dropping. It had to be. She looked exactly the same.
"You gotta be kidding me!" she said. "How are you, bitch?" She came over, extended her arms for a hug, smiling from ear to ear.
"I'm good," I said, standing up to hug her back. "It's great to see you! Wow!"
"You look amazing. You're not fat anymore. You're fucking beautiful. Okay, not beautiful but, shit, you look great! Look at your hair! I would sell my soul for that shine. Store-bought or what? Spill, or I'll cut you."
"An hour with the hair iron," I said. I gestured to Gloria. "Do you guys know each other?"
"No," Gloria said. "Gloria Rodriguez. I'm a nurse at the clinic where Nora's going to be working. Why don't you join us?"
"Xiaowen Liu. Thanks, I would love to. I usually eat alone when I'm here, which gets pretty fucking boring. I'm on the island for work, but I don't really know anyone here anymore."
Xiaowen's accent had faded a bit, and I sure didn't remember her having such a colorful vocabulary, but it was so nice to see someone genuinely enthusiastic about my presence.
"So what brings you here, if you have no friends?" I asked with a smile.
"I'm a marine biologist," she said. "I work out of the Darling Marine Center, but I live in Cape Elizabeth."
"What do you do, specifically?"
"Well, as the saying goes, I am the shit. New England's leading expert in the rejuvenation of the mollusk population. Right now, I'm growing oyster beds about a mile off the coast to replace the overfished areas. Cool, right? Saving the world through shellfish." She looked at me, her eyes smiling. "You always knew I'd be a badass."
"I did," I said. "She had badass written all over her, Gloria. A total Gryffindor."
Xiaowen laughed. "You're still a Harry Potter geek, I see."
"Yes. Of course. I would never betray Hogwarts." I felt it, that flash of my Perez self.
"Are you married, Xiaowen?" Gloria asked. "Did I say that right?"
"You said it fine. Nope, not married. I was engaged, but I dumped him. But that, my friends, is a story best told over martinis. You should come to my house, Stuart. Both of you. Gloria, you're not a serial killer, right? You can come, too. But, Stuart, you have to tell me. What the hell are you doing back here? To say you left skid marks on the pavement would not have been an exaggeration."
&n
bsp; I gave her the same vague answer I'd given Gloria--family, a minor car accident that left me slightly injured.
Amy brought our food, grunting at Xiaowen before going back to the kitchen. It was clear Xiaowen and she weren't friends. That made the petty part of me feel good. How many times had Amy and the Cheetos made my life miserable, after all? By the end of lunch, Gloria, Xiaowen and I had a date to get together at the houseboat for wine and cheese later this week.
I picked up the tab, telling the other two they could get it the next time, and left Amy a fifteen percent nothing-was-terrible tip. Twenty percent was my standard. Points off for surly attitude.
We parted ways in the parking lot, and because my knee and shoulder weren't killing me, I decided to walk the few blocks downtown. My mother had opened a post office box for me, and I had to check it.
Maybe Bobby had sent me something.
I squelched the thought. But next week, I'd see him--it was our first trade-off with Boomer.
Daffodils and tulips bobbed in front of most of the stores on Main Street, and a few businesses had already filled their window boxes with pansies, though a hard frost wasn't out of the question. I went past the bookstore, which I would hit on the way back... I needed something to read on the quiet nights on my boat (in addition to Harry Potter, of course). Nothing scary, though. Stephen King would have to woo me back in a few months.
Scupper Island General Store was the jewel of the downtown businesses. It was the original general store on the island--wooden floors shiny from a hundred years of footsteps, a woodstove in the center, shelves made of oak. It was laden with things a person might actually need, like laundry detergent and dish towels, but also with old-timey goods--blue-and-white tin mugs, hand cream made from goat's milk, homemade cookies, cast-iron frying pans and lots and lots of lobster-eating tools--shell crackers and picks and giant white enamel pots, strainers and serving spoons and little tubs for drawn butter. They also sold plenty of postcards, served ice cream out the back window in the summer and carried T-shirts depicting mosquitoes carrying away children. Business had always been good. For townies, the Fletchers were well-off.
I went to the other half of the building, to the post office, which held a hundred brass boxes with twist combinations.
I got my mail--an envelope addressed in Roseline's pretty handwriting, bless her, and, dear God, a note from Bobby! A handwritten note from my ER physician boyfriend?
Now That You Mention It Page 13
