Alien Nation #6 - Passing Fancy (16 page)

Vessna dribbled lovingly onto his neck, and
urgled
softly into his ear.

M
ATT
’
S FIRST STOP
, once he entered the hospital that evening, was the gift shop. Typically for such a business, their selection of merchandise was limited and overpriced, but Matt had been too antsy to browse and shop elsewhere; once he was
off
duty, he felt the need to see Cathy as soon as he could.

He settled on a heart-shaped box of candied cauliflower. As it was being wrapped, he idly scanned the store’s limited stock and a paperback title on the solitary carousel book rack caught his eye.
Black Like Me,
by John Howard Griffin. “35th Anniversary Edition,” the cover proclaimed, and it was a nice cover too, embossed, the title big and prominent, gold letters upon a black background.

The book Dr. Steinbach had mentioned the night before.

Matt—never much of a reader, but an acute observer of his surroundings nonetheless—was a little surprised it was still in print,
very
surprised to find it stocked in a hospital gift shop, where potboilers,
Star Trek
novels, Tom Clancy thrillers, and Stephen King clones usually held sway.

Further thoughts on the matter were interrupted and forgotten as his package was returned to him, wrapped, and he paid the damage. Next he made a quick stop at the main desk to get his visitor’s pass and find out Fran Delaney’s floor.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor, went to the nurse’s desk, and announced that he was there to visit Cathy Frankel. Matt was advised to take a seat in the waiting area nearby, and another nurse was dispatched to pass along the message. Matt didn’t see the first nurse look up toward the monitor view of Fran’s room, only heard, as he sat, “It may be a little while.”

It was eight or so minutes before the second nurse returned and told him, “She’ll be with you as soon as she can.”

He tried reading magazines and had no more success at it here than he had had in the emergency room the night before. Less, really, because the sounds on the ward were too distracting—sometimes even harrowing.

He tried just looking around, but whenever he did, he found himself making unwitting eye contact with one or another of the psychiatric patients who were, with minimal supervision, allowed to roam the ward. And the minute they caught his gaze, they would start to move forward,
toward
him, to engage him in conversation. Matt had a certain intellectual appreciation of their loneliness, but it didn’t stop him from getting the creeps when they approached, even if there was no outward manifestation of mental dysfunction. Fortunately, the nurses were old hands at running interference, and Matt never got cornered for too long; but in short order, he learned to keep his eyes away from all faces but those of the hospital staff, never glancing above the chest of any person who wasn’t attired in an official tunic.

And thus, a long, dull, unnerving forty-three minutes transpired before Cathy put in her appearance.

He was prepared to vent his anger, but as he saw her approaching, his beautiful light bulb, the anger seemed to retreat, to become less important. She was in borrowed clothes, hospital issue save for her shoes, and she seemed intently preoccupied. He rose to greet her with an embrace. She returned the embrace . . . but only briefly. She let go first and slipped quickly out of his grasp.

“What’s
that
about?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Matt, I should have called you. I didn’t fully realize how this would go until I was into it. You mustn’t be here now.”

A little anger advanced into the forefront. “Cathy, you had me here waiting almost a whole hour and now—”

She held up both hands, clenching her jaw, a quick, clean gesture that silenced him as efficiently as if she’d told him to shut up.

“Matt,” she said, with dangerous calm, “this isn’t . . . about . . . you.” He didn’t feel he had quite deserved that, and his expression must have said as much, for she added,
“Or
me. It’s about what we’re trying to do for
her.
What you have to do is what you’ve been doing. What I have to do is get back. I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long. Couldn’t be helped.”

Her gaze shifted to his hand and the wrapped candy box he held uneasily. Her eyes softened momentarily.

“Oh, Matthew,” she said.

He shrugged, handed it over, very little of the intended romance in the gesture. “You’re, uh, welcome,” he said.

“Sweet,” she nodded, and tucked it under her arm. “Might even be useful,” she said. Then she put a hand briefly to her temple. “Oh, God, so soon?” she muttered. Then, directing her attention toward Matt again, said, “Next time call first. I’ll leave a message at the desk.” She gripped his arm lightly, kissed his cheek perfunctorily, and strode briskly back up the hallway, turning a corridor, out of sight.

And that was it.

The whole goddamn visit.

Matt walked over to the nurse’s desk, irritated enough not to wait for the nurse to finish what she was doing before saying, “Excuse me. I’d like to see Dr. Steinbach.”

Not dropping a stitch in her poise, the nurse said, “I’m sorry, he’s off tonight.”

“Well, in that case I’d like his number, please.”

“Sorry again. We’re not allowed to give out that information without the proper authorization.”

Matt Sikes reached into his pocket, pulled out his ID, flipped it open, revealing the badge.

“Proper enough?” he asked.

She had left Fran in a fitful, sweaty sleep. It hadn’t lasted long, nor had it proved very restful. When Cathy slipped off her shoes, which she left parked to one side of the doorway, and reentered the detox cubicle, Fran was awake—as Cathy knew she would be—eyes bloodshot with fatigue and trying to contain her shivers.

“I thought y-you’d g-gone.” The remark had been meant to sound brazen, but fear of abandonment was clearly beneath the surface.

“Not me,” said Cathy. She sat cross-legged, close to her charge.

“Glutton for p-punishment.”

“If you can take it, I can. How you holding up?”

“C-cold. Strange feeling in the p-pit of my stomach. Can’t t-tell if I’m hungry or nauseous.”

“To be expected.”

Fran’s eyes flicked to the heart-shaped box Cathy had absentmindedly carried in and set beside herself on the floor. “Hell is that?”

“Oh, gee!” Then Cathy shrugged. “Something handy if you turn out to be hungry. Later.”

“Heart-sh-shape. I g-gather that means you’ve got a honey?”

Cathy looked down, smiled a bit, blushed a little.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Fran nodded tightly, fidgeting in her straitjacket. “That’s good. That’s nice. Couldn’t get the hang of romance mys-s-self.”

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“Human only from the waist up.”

Fran offered a small, crooked smile. Cathy gave an acknowledging nod. Under her composure, however, she was rocked by the import of those six words.

By choosing to pass as human, not only had Fran denied her heritage . . . but her very sexuality. The outward appearance of her skin and her face had been altered, but she was still a Tenctonese woman underneath, with a Newcomer’s body and a Newcomer’s desires. And she’d felt herself free to indulge neither. Intimacy with a Newcomer would have meant risking shame and ridicule. Intimacy with a human would have meant certain discovery—even danger for the unsuspecting male. For, as Cathy and Matt had themselves learned, interspecies relations were impossible without meticulous preparation and training.

Enforced celibacy. That particular wrinkle to Fran’s elaborate masquerade—an additional level of loneliness—hadn’t even occurred to Cathy before. Now it seemed depressingly obvious.

“I bet lots of men made passes, too,” Cathy said, hoping it sounded like a compliment.

“Fair share.” And then, with a hollow nonchalance she added, “Actors, mostly.” And then, unexpectedly she asked, “What’s
your
guy d-do?”

“Works for the city,” Cathy replied. Knowing instinctively that if she didn’t change the subject right there, right away, Fran would ask,
In what capacity?
and she’d be honor-bound to reply
Cop;
and Fran would ask,
What’s his name?
and she’d have to reply
Matthew;
and Fran would say,
Matthew, as in Matt? What’s his last name
?—and that was a road Cathy did not want to travel down—

—so she quickly said, “How did you handle dining out?” The segue wasn’t graceful, but as the subject of hunger had just been raised, she hoped it wouldn’t seem like too big a leap.

“You mean with members of the company?” Fran asked, and when Cathy nodded, the actress answered, “Easy one. In public I was a strict vegetarian. T-took care of raw meat protein in the morning or the evening, p-privacy of my own home.”

“Buying groceries must have been a problem.”

“You’d’ve thought so, but no. People just assume you’re entertaining friends. Don’t g-go to the same st-store too often in a row, and nobody’s the wiser.”

One more little compromise, though,
Cathy thought.

“Why’re you so fixated on food?” Fran asked, tone changing. “You hungry?”

The question surprised Cathy, and the answer even more. She hadn’t, in fact, eaten since the
Leethaag
began, and she suddenly realized she was famished.

“Actually,” she said, “I am.”

Fran pointed her chin at the box. “Go on ahead.”

“I thought I might save this for us until . . . after. Use it to celebrate—or whatever.”

“You’re expec-t-ting a whole lot of me, C-Cath.” In the midst of this bizarre situation, it did not escape Cathy that that was the first time Fran had addressed her by name. “Forget c-celebrations. Have a bite.”

“Feels rude. Feels funny. Especially since you can’t have anything until . . . until we’re done here.”

“I’ll watch you and live vicariously. T-tell me how it t-tastes.”

A little gratefully, a little sheepishly, Cathy unwrapped the box. She lifted the lid. The assortment looked wonderful, and the smell of chocolate was strong.

Too strong for some, as it turned out.

Suddenly paler and swallowing, Fran gasped, “Well, at least I know
I’m
not hungry,” and Cathy leapt to her feet, the candy forgotten, rushed to grip Fran by the shoulders and all but dragged her to the toilet.

Without a moment to spare.

In the end, a reasonable compromise was reached: Rather than give Steinbach’s number to Sikes, the head nurse dialed it herself. As it turned out, this was a more expedient route, for when there was no answer at his home, she dialed the code that would activate his beeper, wherever he was.

Within a few minutes, the phone at the desk rang. Steinbach checking in. Quietly the nurse informed him that there was a Detective Sikes wanting to speak with him and, no, it was not a medical emergency. From the expression on her face after that, Sikes got the distinct impression that Steinbach was angry at having been interrupted for an ancillary matter.

Well, tough,
thought Sikes.
It’s important to me.

The nurse handed him the phone, tight-lipped. Well, all right, there was some sympathy in Sikes’s soul—for
her
—so he opened the conversation by saying, “Don’t take it out on the help, Doctor. I didn’t give her much choice.”

“Sikes, no mistake, I think you and your lady are nobility incarnate, but I’ve got me and my lady to consider, too. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve been able to just cool out and see a movie together?”

“I’m sorry to have pulled you away from the big screen. What were you seeing?”

“Batman Five.
Right near the end, too.”

“The end? He wins.”

“. . . Thanks.” And a sigh. “What’s up, Sikes?”

“Actually, that’s
my
question. As far as I know, Cathy and I haven’t had any rocky times recently, but since she’s been taking Fanc—I mean, Fran—through detox, she’s irritable, dismissive. It’s like she doesn’t want to
know
from me. It’s not like her and I don’t get it.”

As the words left his mouth, they sounded petty to Sikes. He had felt Cathy’s rejection profoundly, still did; but giving voice to the frustration seemed to diminish it, made it sound as if he wanted help with a domestic squabble. He started to regret having barged into Steinbach’s evening and fully expected the man to say, “You called me up for
that?”

But he didn’t. Instead, with quiet import, the intern said, “Sikes, I’m sorry. I thought you understood.”

Aware that the conversation had taken a more serious turn than he had ever anticipated, Matt unconsciously straightened, stiffened.

“Understood what?”

“Let me ask you something first. When you spoke to Cathy just now, aside from her being brusque with you, anything odd happen?”

“Yeah. She touched her head, said ‘Oh, God, so soon,’ and then goodbye.”

“She knew she was needed. She’s beginning to bond with Fran. It’s part of the process.”

“What are we talkin’ about here, some kind of psychic connection?”

“Yes and no. Look, we don’t understand
everything
about Newcomers. They have a lot to learn about themselves, too. But as far as we can determine, this is a physiological phenomenon of the species. You know about humming, I guess.” Matt grunted affirmation. Humming preceded the act of love between or with Newcomers; its purpose was to work into a mutual vibration. “Well,” Steinbach continued, “shared stress induces a sympathetic reaction, too, not unlike the sympathy pains a husband might have for his pregnant wife.”

Matt vividly remembered the day he helped deliver George’s baby, Vessna. The sweats, the desperate need to keep panic at bay, reaching into George’s pouch to turn the baby around—and the vague pain in his own abdomen, seeming to echo the infinitely more acute agony George must have been feeling. Matt swallowed, collected his thoughts.

“How . . . how intense do these ‘sympathy pains’ get?”

“Varies from case to case. If Cathy’s withdrawing from you, I think she expects it to be pretty severe. What she’s doing is tuning out distraction, keeping her mind clear. She has to focus on Fran’s emotional and physical wavelengths—ride them, the same way you might ride the levels of a tape recorder at a rock concert.”