Freudian Slip (18 page)

J
ULIAN
S
HAW SAW
a white light. Then he heard an unfamiliar voice.

“His pupils are reacting to light. I think he's coming out of it.”

Out of what?

“Julian, I'm Dr. Marc Levinson. If you can hear me, move your index finger.”

Move my index finger?
Julian struggled to open his eyelids. Drugs. He was definitely on drugs. It reminded him of his heroin days when the smack would make him think he was carrying on entire conversations, only to finally open his eyes and realize he wasn't even speaking aloud, let alone speaking to a person.

Julian moved his finger ever so slightly, caressing the sheet and wondering what the hell happened to him. He tried to remember, but all he could recall was blackness. Nothing.

“Okay, Julian. Now you're breathing with a
ventilator. You were hurt, but you're going to be okay. All right? Just try not to panic.”

Why did those words sound familiar to him? And even as he hard them, panic was spreading through him. Julian opened his eyes wide, and the first thing he felt was a tube in his throat. It hurt. His throat. He wanted the damn thing out.

“Relax, Julian, okay? Don't fight the ventilator. We'll get you off it as soon as possible, okay?”

Julian turned his head slightly, taking in the room, the doctor, two nurses. The machines. The fucking machines. He wasn't breathing. They were. The machines. Christ, what the fuck happened to him?

He looked up at the doctor questioningly.

“Someone shot you, Julian. You lost a lot of blood, and you've been in a coma. But you're going to be all right. Can you feel this? If you can feel me poking your toes, blink.”

Julian blinked. He felt that. But he didn't understand. Shot? He fought to reclaim his memory, but nothing. Blank. How long had he been here like this?

Julian tried to relax, and a nurse came to his bedside with an injection, which she put right into the IV line. He felt himself sinking back into the haze.

 

T
WO DAYS LATER
, Julian's ventilator was completely out. He still had a catheter in. Still didn't understand what had happened to him, despite the doctor explaining it. Twice. Three times.

He stared at the ceiling. A crack squiggled along like a river with splintering tributaries. He wanted to kill himself. He couldn't even muster up a desire for tequila. He was getting all the fucking morphine a former heroin addict could want—and he didn't care. They came with his “happy” shot, and he felt a spike of languid calm, only to sink lower.

They told him depression was normal. But this was worse.

It wasn't the pain. It wasn't that he couldn't walk or had a tube up his dick. It was something bigger than that. Something was missing. Something more than nerve endings connecting to whatever he needed to move his legs. Something, some piece of him was gone.

And for the life of him, he had no idea what it was.

K
ATE WOKE UP
and stared at the ceiling, dreading the day. Finally, she rose, washed up and brushed her teeth. She didn't turn on the
TODAY
show. She couldn't bear it. The day.

She dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, stuck a handful of twenties in her pocket and put on her sneakers. Then she left her apartment and started walking downtown.

She loved New York. For as long as she could remember, it was part of her. Like her father was part of every memory of her childhood, so was the city. She and her dad spent father-daughter days taking the subway, going to Yankees games, or seeing the Knicks at the Garden. They went to the circus every year it came to town—even when she was nineteen and twenty and twenty-one. But as much as she loved events with him, as she grew older, she realized it was something more. She liked being with him in this town. This unique corner of the world.

The city had an energy. Standing at a street corner, watching yellow cabs fly by like magic carpets on speed, she felt an elation she couldn't quite describe. She liked the bustle, the shops on Fifth Avenue and the trannies on Christopher Street.

Restaurants, bodegas, guys selling knock-off designer purses on the sidewalk, everything about New York's vibe lifted her. At least usually it did. She walked past strangers, all shapes, sizes, colors, all a little sadder today.

She walked toward the place, the World Trade Center site, where he last was hero. Eternally was a hero. But first, she made her way to St. Patrick's Cathedral.

She was, like Mal, a lapsed Catholic. When her parents didn't force her to attend Mass each Sunday, holy day and Wednesdays during Lent, she simply stopped going. But she supposed the church was a part of her, and lapsed though she was, she still thought of herself as a Catholic. Not being so would be like trying to stop being a woman. St. Pat's was still a place where she sought solace.

She climbed the marble stairs, and entered through the immense, heavy wooden doors into the church. Instantly, though New York was just outside the doors, the world reduced to a hush. She paused at the font of holy water, dabbed it in the
sign of the cross on her forehead, and genuflected in the main aisle. She sat down in a hard wooden pew near the rear of the church and silently spoke to her father. When she was finished telling him she loved him, she stood and started to leave. Then she thought better of it.

Along the perimeter of the church were alcoves with candles—She could still light real candles in St. Patrick's. At each alcove was a marble statue of either Mary or St. Anthony or other saints, some of whom she knew. A couple she didn't. Wanting to be alone, she strolled along, looking for a kneeler that was empty.

Finally, she knelt down in front of a statue of Mary. She took a twenty from her pocket and tucked it into the black iron box. Then she pulled a long matchstick from the sand beneath the candles, put it into a candle flame in a red votive, and then lit another candle before extinguishing the matchstick in the sand.

“Jules?” she whispered. “I miss you. Especially today. Wherever you are, I love you.”

An old woman came and knelt down beside Kate. “She can hear you, you know?” the woman said as she wrapped her gnarled hands around the marble railing.

“Mary?” Kate looked up at the statue. The face
was so serene, she could almost imagine the statue listening to her.

“No. God. She's always listening. She knows.”

She?
Kate smiled politely and rose to leave.

“Never give up on love,” the woman pointed a crooked finger at her. “Never.” Then the woman bowed her head.

Kate turned away but glanced back at the strange old woman several times as she left the cathedral, passing beneath the immense stained-glass window.

After St. Patrick's, she walked by the New York Public Library and she continued her long trek until she finally reached the tip of Manhattan. Her legs ached, but this was her pilgrimage. The place where the skyline was permanently changed.

Other mourners and curiosity seekers milled around the sidewalk. Kate looked up at the empty sky. She exhaled at its loneliness. Sky was all around, but this patch of blue sky was desolate. They could build a new skyscraper, but the empty space would always be there. Just as she knew the empty space left by Jules would never be filled.

G
US SAT IN A BAR
around the corner from Julian's hospital. Had anyone bothered to notice, they would have seen that no one ever entered the bar. No one exited. Yet it seemed perpetually full. Gideon, the angel-owner, installed an invisible fence around the place to keep out the riff-raff. If a mortal tried to enter, a foul stench detectable only to humans would cause him or her to think better of it. Gideon kept sliding Gus scotch, neat. Unfortunately, Gus thought, he wasn't getting drunk. He had never mastered cosmic intoxication.

“You can't take it so hard, Gus,” Gideon offered, resting one hand on the bar. He stretched his wings—their span was as long as the bar itself—then folded them up again.

Gus shrugged. “You got any ABBA in the jukebox? I need to talk to a friend, Gideon. I could use your advice.”

“A17.”

Gus stood and walked to the old-time jukebox, waved his hand, and the song that was playing ended, and a rare live version of “Fernando” started.

“Hello, Gus.”

Balam leaned up on the jukebox glass. He looked, Gus thought with envy, perfect, whereas Gus knew he himself was disheveled, and his hair was starting to resemble Albert's from where he tugged at it with worry.

“Hello, Balam,” he managed to whisper. He glanced around the bar. It was pretty evenly divided between angels and demons, with a handful of Neither Here Nor There denizens tossed in the mix.

“Nice move in the park. Sending him back before he could change his mind.”

“Well, you know, we like to keep the good ones on our side.”

“That's the thing that puzzles me.” Balam held a hand out and appeared to admire his diamond signet ring and perfectly buffed manicured nails. A diamond-encrusted Rolex wrapped around his wrist.

“What's that?”

“All our data, all our reports, suggested he was not one of the good ones. He was destined for the long, slow slide to Hell. Actually, he was on a fast slide to Hell. Had any of us taken action from our
bookies on him…we'd be even richer than we already are. Now suddenly, he's good? I don't think so. Humans don't work like that.”

“You win some, you lose some, Balam.” Gus felt the heat radiating off the demon, which, coupled with “Fernando” and the heavy waft of Armani cologne, was distracting.

“I don't.”

“You don't what?”

“I don't lose some. I don't lose any, Gus. I don't think it's as simple as all that.”

“But he's back. He's back in his body. He didn't stay with her. He didn't sign the contract.”

Balam smiled, though his eyes were as dead as a corpse's.

“What?” Gus asked suspiciously.

“See you around the hospital, Gus. 'Cause you know, if ever there was a time when a man might give up on God, it's when the doctors tell him he has to go to rehab to learn how to walk again. And that his dick might not get hard anymore. That last one is a
hell
of a blow for Julian. I'm not even sure the little blue pill can give him a hard-on. And that's gonna hurt. Because he may have fallen in love with Kate in Neither Here Nor There, but now he's back in that same whore-and tequila-loving body of his. And he's getting high on morphine every day.”

“No!” Gus said. He glanced over to the bar, where Gideon shook his head, warning him against getting emotional when talking with a demon.

“Yeah. Morphine haze can cause some pretty unbelievable hallucinations. A man might even see a demon.”

“You wouldn't,” Gus warned.

“I might. Just for kicks.
Adios,
Gus.”

Balam turned and left the bar. “Fernando” finished playing, and Gus walked over to his bar stool. “Did you hear him, Gideon?”

“Yeah.”

“What do I do? This is very bad. I've got to report to Albert.”

Gideon shook his head. “Balam doesn't like to lose.” He handed Gus another scotch. “You made yourself a dangerous enemy, there, Gus.”

“I just have to hope Julian's soul remembers her. He loved her, Gideon.”

“For real?”

“Yes. For real. I saw them together. He can remember her, can't he? She could be his redemption.”

Gideon poured himself a scotch. “It's rare, Gus. Very rare that they remember.”

“I have to try.” Gus stood. “I've got to go find Albert.”

Gus left the bar—an official no-man's land, truce zone for angels, demons, and in-betweener's—and headed out on the streets of New York City. He walked, shaking his head, worry washing over him. He spotted an angel on the other side of the street and waved. But, looking left and right, he saw demons. Lots of them.

He needed backup.

K
ATE READ THE SAME
sentence in her author's manuscript ten times. Without Jules's company, work seemed to last forever. The day dragged on and on and on, just like the book she was trying to edit.

She no longer cared about Leslie and David or the piles of slush that came through her door from wannabe authors. She suddenly had an abundance of cynical books—love stories that all ended in death or destruction. It was as if someone were purposely sending her manuscripts that would push her over the edge. She had lost more weight—she just didn't care about eating. Food tasted like cardboard. Not to mention that now she had no one to wear her La Perla for. She shopped for new clothes to accommodate her new figure, and she tried on sexy blouses and stilettos, but Jules wasn't there to tell her how deliciously fuckable she was.

She sighed, gave up on the manuscript, and decided to go home.

“Night, Todd,” she said when she got to the reception area.

“Night, Kate.” He was pulling his iPod out for the subway ride home. He looked up at her. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“This isn't about David, is it?”

“What isn't?”

“Your smile never reaches your eyes anymore. I know a lovesick girl when I see one—Hell, I
am
a lovesick girl half the time. Marco and I are over again. Two weeks from now, we'll be on. You know our pattern.”

“I'm sorry, Todd.”

He waved his hand. “I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about. You've lost your sparkle.”

“Only a gay man would notice a woman's sparkle.” Actually, that wasn't true. Jules would notice her sparkle. And he wasn't gay. Not by a long shot.

“Well, the sparkle isn't there anymore. But I don't think it's David.”

“Very astute of you, Todd.”

“Want to talk about him? Whoever this mystery man is?”

She shook her head. She started to leave, then paused and turned around. No one else was left in the office. “Have you ever had a soul mate, Todd?”

“Me? I thought Marco was mine, but we've lost that lovin' feeling, you know? I always thought soul mates…that it was forever.”

She smiled at him. “Me, too. My soul mate, he…well, it just turned out we were from two completely different worlds.”

“Tell me about it. Me? I'm a WASP. Marco? Italian American. I felt like I was visiting Mars when I went to his family's house for Christmas last year.”

“Well, my world and my…soul mate's world? Even farther apart than that.”

“Well, then you haven't had some Italian grandma try to serve you scungilli on Jesus' birthday, honey.”

She laughed halfheartedly. “You're very sweet, Todd. You deserve a soul mate. From your world.”

“You, too. Have a good night.”

“Thanks.” She left the office and walked home. She no longer ever stopped to see the inline skaters or the speed chess players. The park just reminded her of the last place she spoke to Jules, and every
time she even thought about that day, her ribs hurt and she felt like she couldn't breathe.

In her apartment, she mindlessly flipped on her stereo. She found she had to listen to classical because the words to every love song reminded her of Jules.

Her cell phone rang, and she answered it, expecting Mal to check in on her.

“I've been giving you time.”

“David?”

“How about dinner? Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“How about dinner in Paris? I could steal you away for the weekend.”

She smiled despite herself. “Paris, David?”

“I'm serious. We could go. Just fly there for dinner. Though I suppose if we left now, we'd really be talking breakfast tomorrow or lunch or something. I'd have to configure the time difference. Do you have your passport handy?”

“David…” She softened and chided him play fully.

“If you don't like Paris, there's always San Francisco—you love it there. Or what about a drive up to Connecticut? Remember that inn in Mystic Seaport? Remember how fabulous that
was? The pastries for breakfast. We said we'd move there someday.”

“I remember. We said we'd have one boy and one girl and name them Andrew and Zara.”

“A to Z.”

She shook her head. The last time she thought about children, she was discussing sperm donors with Jules.

“Did I hear you laugh at something I said? Did I?”

“Yes. Very, very slightly.”

“We're good together, Kate. I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you, loving you, being your best friend. I want to have babies with you, Kate.”

“No talk of babies. David…I know Leslie's taking you to her new publishing house. Your book will be out in three months and then…off you go. I'm sure you two will be very happy together.”

“We're not together, if that's what you think.”

“It doesn't matter to me, David. You're free to be with whomever you want.”

“But…what I want is you. Come on, you have to be hungry. Dinner? For old time's sake. If I promise that I won't bother you about getting back together. If we just go out to eat and discuss our favorite books. And our favorite movies. Let me buy you dinner. Please? Just dinner. Nothing more.”

Her stomach was growling so loudly, she could hear it. “One dinner. We'll see how it goes.” She shook her head.

“I'll be there in twenty minutes. Less.”

She closed her cell phone and sighed. She wandered toward the fireplace and then got the strongest scent of…men's cologne. It was overpowering. She wasn't sure why she even knew it was…Armani…an old boyfriend maybe? Feeling mesmerized, almost trancelike, she felt drawn to the fireplace. She wondered if it was hunger that was making her feel so…foggy.

“That's odd,” she said aloud. And then she saw it. The ring box. She hadn't even looked at the diamond since David put it on the mantle.

Hand shaking, she opened the blue box and pulled out the black velvet one within it. She lifted the lid. The diamond was breathtaking, and it shimmered brilliantly.

She gently tugged the ring out of its resting place and held it out. And then, as if hypnotized, she slid it over her left ring finger. It fit.

Perfectly.