Elixir (15 page)

He studies them under the bulb above, a shimmer on them. “I’ve wanted these for about four years. You’ve got to be kidding me. Where the hell did you find them?”

She sweeps her thumb and index finger across her lips, pretending to zip them. “Put them on. Let me see.” He does. She folds her arms, checking him out. “Boss as hell.”

“One sec.” He dashes across the hardwood into the bathroom and scopes his reflection in the mirror, pupils somewhat visible under the partial tints, just like in the film. Spinning to his right, he inspects the profile view.

In a bit he struts back to the kitchen and says, “Babe you killed it. Great gift. Thank you so much.” He kisses her forehead.

She bops his nose with her finger. “Now stop admiring yourself and get back to those eggs before you burn them.”

About an hour later they’re finishing breakfast, his shades still on, a Christmas oldie by Bing Crosby chiming from the speaker. He chews his last bite and says, “Time for yours.”

“My oh my, what a lucky girl am I,” she says in a Southern-belle accent, hand over her heart.

He gets up and veers toward the bedroom. He emerges with something flat and square-shaped, about three by three feet, under yellow gift paper with little red dots. “I suck at wrapping. Don’t make fun of me.” He leans it against the table. “But...I think you won’t hate what’s inside.”

“What is it?”

“Open it silly.” She puts down her fork, grasps the present, and places the bottom on her thighs. Ripping the corner of the wrapping, she notices an art canvas below. She keeps tearing to reveal a graffiti painting of the Hotel Vanessa rooftop he made himself. Over her shoulder he says, “Our first date.”

“Whoa,” she says, admiring his abstract rendition of the place.

He rubs the back of her arm. “Well?”

“Love it babe.” She touches his hand with warmth and catches his eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Merry Christmas.”

A couple hours later he’s riding his motorcycle in town, sunglasses still on, Natasha hugging him behind. She’s wearing fashionable, tribal-inspired earrings she got on her safari.

He coasts to a stop at the base of the Basilica of St. Mary of the Altar of Heaven, a big Gothic church on a high hill, a one-hundred-twenty-four-step staircase rising to the entrance, bottom half covered in sun, top half shadows.

She slides off her white helmet with pink racing stripes. He takes it from her and helps her down. She opens the cargo case, collects two boxes wrapped in the same blue gift paper his was, and says, “I’ll be just a couple minutes.”

“You sure your parents are here?”

“Yeah. My mom texted me.” Reaching into her purse, she checks the time on her phone. “They should be getting out of mass in a little. I’m gonna give my presents to them quick and come back down with both of them. They want to meet you.” She tucks one of the gifts under her left arm and holds the second in her hands. “My dad is kind of an asshole. Be ready. Just warning you.”

“Oh, you’ve told me before.” He smiles, bike rocking under him. “I’ll survive. I’ve had to deal with a handful of assholes in my eighteen years.” He removes his helmet. “I’ll be hanging here.”

She leans in and kisses him. “Be right back.” He watches her climb the massive flight, her blond head getting smaller and smaller as she gets closer to the church.

He looks around, families scattered here and there in suits and dresses, holiday greetings circulating in Italian. He can hear the choir inside, faint but clear. He recognizes the song, “Exultate Deo,” from a chapel in Shipville Mary used to bring him every Christmas and Easter. Listening to the many nuances, he figures the chorus must be large, thirty singers at least. It sounds different than the five-person crew in Pennsylvania, more complex, but the underlying heart of it is the same.

A high-pitched scream rings through the air, drowning out the music. He darts his eyes around, attempting to identify it. He spots a middle-aged man and woman standing on their toes, examining the area above the staircase. He makes out a small blue box dropping from step to step.

Jumping off the motorcycle, he hears another shriek, louder than the last. Glancing upward, he notices about fifteen people huddled by the church’s main doorway, a short old woman in a brown veil wailing among them.

He bolts up the stairs, covering two with each stride. His legs start tingling. He crosses the lower bright end of the flight into the dark top. By the time he’s done going up, both his thighs are scorching. He shoves his way through the crowd. As the bodies split, and he gets a clear view, he freezes. Natasha is flailing on the ground in a full seizure, eyes rolled back, skin drenched in sweat.

A shouting policeman sprints over from inside the church, dropping to a knee by her. “Ambulance,” he says to the onlookers in Italian. “We need an ambulance.” He wedges his hands under her arms and peels her convulsing torso off the surface. Another officer breaks through the group, clenching her ankles and hoisting her legs up. Her body suspended between them, they advance onto the steps, those blond locks of hers jerking in the air.

Sean tails them. “Baby,” he says, his face close to hers, his feet pacing the cops as they lug her. “Natasha.” Quiet. Nothing.

“Move away sir,” the first policeman that arrived says.

He doesn’t. “Sweetie?” He lingers on her expression, waiting for it to do something to acknowledge him. Anything. It doesn’t, the blues of her eyes hidden in her skull. The sight makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

Siren blasting, an ambulance screeches to a halt by the base of the premises, red and white lights flashing. Two paramedics storm out with a calculated rhythm, one opening the backdoors, the other heaving out a stretcher. The officers lay her on its thin tan cushion, her shaking right leg hanging off. A concerned audience of about twenty gapes at the scene from the street.

Sean lunges for her, but the cops block him, clasping his forearms. “Let go of me,” he says with hostility, his boot heels scraping against the cobblestones as he tries to escape. In their clutch he observes the first EMT slide his girlfriend’s head through a yellow neck support and lay an oxygen mask over her face. The second clamps her quivering shins, runs a thick black strap across them, and yanks it secure. He does the same with another over her stomach. As she trembles within the restraints, the metal frame beneath her squeaks and clacks.

They shove the stretcher into the vehicle, wheels ratcheting up. They slam shut the doors and climb inside. Sean watches the ambulance race off with its lights whirling, his heart banging into his ribs.

An ant climbs across the couch cushion in the dim hospital waiting room that night, Sean watching it roam the vinyl, a lopsided Christmas wreath on the wall above him. It’s silent other than two older women here for another patient, one on the verge of tears, the other trying to comfort her by whispering something.

He gets up and walks to the receptionist, putting his hands on her cold metal desk, leaning forward. “Please,” he says in the native language. “I am begging you.”

In a few moments she looks up from her paperwork, the mole by her top lip springing into sight, and says in Italian, “Sir, family only. I’ve told you about a hundred times.”

“I. Am. Begging. You.”

“Sir.” She leers at him for a while, then drops her attention to her forms, checking some boxes, ignoring him.

He stomps to the sofa and sits, pressing the tips of his fingers into his forehead. He slides them down, his temples, his cheeks, his chin. Rocking back and forth, he peers at the blackness through the window. One of the elderly ladies starts weeping, coarse guttural moans, the other patting her thigh and murmuring something he can’t make out.

In ten minutes or so the door cracks, a late-twenties nurse in the opening, a foot on the gray rug, another on the linoleum hospital hallway. She scans the room, stopping on him. “James?” He pops up. “I’ve been part of the team...caring for Ms. Vonlanden,” she says in Italian.

He examines her face for a clue. An indication of anything. “What did you find out?” he asks in the same language, voice jumpy.

“The convulsing died down.”

“That’s amazing,” he says with a grin, his posture loosening.

She doesn’t smile back, her stare dipping down. “But...that’s not an indication she’s...in the clear.”

“In the clear from what? What caused it?”

She peeks over her shoulder, then back at him, her hazel eyes narrowing. “We have reason to believe she picked something up in Africa. When she was on the safari. Although she’s the only one from the trip showing symptoms, all four of the Vonlandens are...being brought to an area where we can be certain nothing in them...spreads. A precaution.”

He processes this for a few seconds, his brow creasing. “They’re being quarantined?”

She doesn’t talk for a while, her fingers tapping the edge of the wooden door. “They’re all being driven to a clinic in Zurich, where the family is from. They’re on their way right now. More answers will—”

“What kind of clinic?” he asks, stepping closer. “What’s wrong with her?”

“We don’t know...what exactly it is yet. The safety measures can very well be unnecessary. But we just aren’t positive now.” She reaches into the pocket of her light-blue scrubs, pulls out a piece of hospital stationery, and hands it to him. “But the specialists in Switzerland will have a full breakdown. This is the place. It’s the best in the world with...making sense of these situations. She’ll be in good hands.” She tilts her chin to the left. “Do you think you can make it there?”

He glances at the paper, a Swiss address scribbled in blotchy black ink. “Of course. Are you kidding?”

She shifts her attention from him to the darkness outside. “You mean a lot to her. We were chatting just before. She knew you’d be here.” She offers him two quick, jerky nods. “You should try to get to Zurich, as soon as you can. They’ll be arriving by car early tomorrow morning.” She gives him a limp wave and retreats into the corridor.

A while later he’s on his motorcycle with his new sunglasses on, zipping about ninety miles per hour down the highway, no destination in mind, air crackling in his ears. He weaves through cars, a burst of honks behind him, one person even hanging out the window cursing. He figured the physical rush of a reckless ride would help distract him from the conversation he had in the waiting room. It’s not working.

Around eleven o’clock he’s on a stool at the corner of an almost-empty bar, a fortyish husband and wife eating turkey sandwiches at the other end, fake Christmas tree by the entrance, heating vents emanating hot air in an unpredictable rhythm of spurts and lulls.

He stares into a glass of straight vodka, skin on his cheeks a bit chapped from the cold wind when he was on the bike. He sips, the familiar beverage not tasting like he’s used to. The popular holiday jingle playing on the radio doesn’t sound like he remembers either. He recalls this feeling, when he was fourteen, the time he was battling with the guilt of Operation Golden Bear. Things he once thought were immutable, like the voices of the characters on his favorite TV show, changed as depression tightened its grip over everything, sucking out all its flavor.

He chugs the rest of his drink and sets it down. Hearing the hollow chime of the cup, the bartender puts aside his newspaper, saunters to him, and asks in Italian, “How we doing pal?”

“One more,” Sean says in the same language, a mild slur to his speech.

“That would take us to eight. I can’t do that.” He points at a blackboard behind him, names of the daily food specials jotted in red-and-green chalk. “How about something to eat?”

“I’m fine. Bring me another.”

“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t. House policy.”

“It’s Christmas man,” he says with a hiccup.

“I’m aware it’s Christmas. The roads are dangerous enough. I can’t have another person driving around with the potential to hurt someone.”

Sean stands, his chair thrusting back. Glaring at the stocky employee, he hiccups again. “You don’t know what I’m gonna do when I leave here. You don’t know me.” He pauses. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I do know you’ve had seven pure vodkas in about two hours.”

“Yeah and I want another.” Sean tries to grab the glass, knocking it over by accident. It rolls off the bar, shattering on the floor.

“That’s it. You’re out of here idiot.” The bartender crouches under the counter and marches toward him.

“What are you gonna do about it huh?” Sean asks, throwing his arms in the air. The couple eating dinner gawks at him.

The bartender, bigger than him by about fifty pounds, latches onto his wrist and tugs him to the exit, Sean’s intoxicated body not putting up much of a fight. The man kicks the door open, tosses the drunk on the rough cobblestones, and says, “Merry Christmas.”

“Asshole.” In a moment or so Sean pushes himself to his feet. Hands on the knees of his dusty jeans, he catches his breath. He lifts his head, streetlights rushing into view, hazy blurs in his discombobulated state. Straightening out his leather jacket, he wanders down the sidewalk, most of the businesses around closed, only a few pedestrians out this late on a holiday. He hums “Here Comes Santa Claus,” meandering nowhere in particular.

A half hour later he’s passed out facedown at the Roman Pantheon temple, back puffing up and down. Most people going by don’t notice him, others dismissing him as a hobo.

“Hey,” a faint voice says. Sean’s eyelids quiver, then open. A slender old man in a wrinkle-free, tailored suit hovers above him. Looking down at the boy with a comforting expression, he says, “You need to get up.” He speaks English with no foreign accent, an American pronunciation to his words.

Sean blinks for a bit, then sits against one of the columns. Rubbing his forehead, he asks, “Are you a security guard?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “No.”

Sean stretches his legs in front of him with a groan. His chin is numb from being on the cold surface. “How long was I out?”

“You didn’t suspect I was watching you this whole time, did you?”