Girl in the Mirror (32 page)

It was dark. That was good. She could not see his face, nor could he see hers. She had to have faith. Yes, faith in him. Faith in herself. Dear God, help her. Her hands trembled and she ran her fingers up and down his arm.

“Michael,” she began, as she had so many times before.

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

The response was pat. Comfortable.

“Michael, I—I need to tell you something.”

“Anything, my love.”

She closed her eyes. There was no backing down this time. No more lies, no more delays.

And then she told him. Line by line, word by word, she pushed out the same story she’d told only twice before. Never before, however, had the stakes been so high. He was silent during the telling; he didn’t ask questions, or suck in his breath. He lay quietly, almost as though she wasn’t there. She wondered wildly if she was using the wrong words. God, could she have told the story wrong? Did he not understand?

The CD clicked: Ravel’s
Pavane for a Dead Princess.
It was all too appropriate. All too sad. She persevered, putting one word after another, beat by beat, like the moody music, keenly aware of Michael’s silence. His breathing was ragged. His body was cool.

“Michael, say something,” she cried. She rose up on her elbows and stared down wildly at his face. His eyes were closed. His brows were gathered tightly. Was that a tear that pooled by his eyes?

He brought his hand to the bridge of his nose and squeezed, grimacing as one in pain. “Charlotte,” he said. Then stopped.

“What, what?”

“I don’t know. Really. I don’t know what to say.” He opened his eyes and studied her face. “You say you’re not who I see. That you’re someone else. Another face. A face I’ll have to learn to love.”

“It’s still me.”

He didn’t respond and she felt her world crumble.

“This doctor,” he said, clearing his throat. “Dr. Harmon. Have you seen him?”

“No. Not yet. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

He nodded, taking it in. “Okay. Good.”

His methodical calm unnerved her. “Navarro was pretty clear what he’d say.”

“He’s just some Mexican quack.”

Her heart chilled. That was so cold. So quick. His denial was so far from the support she needed right now. She wanted to hear him jump up and declare his love—no matter what. Pick up the gauntlet, Michael, she thought. She needed to hear that. Her heart was breaking.

Her hands roamed his chest, back and forth, then slid up his neck to his face.

His hands remained at his side.

“Michael, I’m so scared. You’re so quiet. I need to know you love me. Will love me no matter what. Please, tell me…”

“I can’t.” His Adam’s apple bobbed and he turned his head away from hers.

She sucked in her breath and withdrew, moving from his chest to her side of the bed. She curled her knees to her chest, trembling.

He got up quickly, pushing back the covers. She saw his nakedness as a strong, dark shadow at the side of the bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Prepare me. Why weren’t you honest with me?”

“I was afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid that you wouldn’t love me.”

“It was wrong of you, Charlotte. To lead me on. To tell me all those stories…”

“I know. I’m sorry, Michael, I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

“I can’t believe this.”

“It’s still me.”

He looked at her, studying her, then raised his eyes to stare out the window. “Is it? Who are you, Charlotte?”

She saw in the moonlight the profile of his face. He was trying to figure things out. To think of the right words. To be the Michael everyone expected him to be, that he expected of himself.

“Michael,” she said in a low voice, dragging herself to a sitting position. “Just tell me it doesn’t make any difference. Tell me you love me. That it’ll be all right.”

He was silent.

“Please, Michael.” Her voice rose and caught. She hated to hear the plea in her voice. “You don’t understand!”

“I do understand! I understand that all that we had together was a lie.”

“No!” Her stomach dropped. She felt ill. Cold. “Please don’t say that. How can you say that?”

“I need some air.” He turned and grabbed his pants. “I need to think.”

In a frozen silence she heard the swish of one leg entering the jeans, then the other. The hum of a zipper. His arms going into the sleeves. Feet into sandals.

“I’m going for a walk.” He started for the door, then stopped. His hand rested on the doorknob, hesitating. Then, without another word, he walked out.

She watched him leave, and it was like a door closed to her soul. He wasn’t coming back, she knew. Not in the same way. Even if he did, it was too late. His silence spoke for him. The gauntlet lay in the dirt, abandoned. There was no knight. There was only the dragon, and that monster had devoured her.

Michael walked at a furious pace through the field of tall, brittle grass that left angry scratches on his fisted knuckles. He pushed hard toward the woodlot beyond. The hurt burned in his heart, bringing him real pain that made him wince. Only walking at a furious pace helped, fighting fire against fire. How could she have lied to him? Manipulated him. And what was all that about her deformity? And surgery? Charlotte ugly? Impossible. He couldn’t grasp it. No, not his Charlotte. But was she his Charlotte?

He shook his head. What the hell, he didn’t know who she was anymore. When he thought of all the stories she’d told about her past—all the lies! His heels dug into the soft earth as he strode on, walking far and long before he even noticed that he was deep in the woods. Michael slowed, then stopped, his long arms hanging at his side while he got his breath to steady and the sweat to cool upon his brow. Gradually, even his raging thoughts began to die down to embers. Standing still in a dark forest silence, he felt calmed by the noble trees that surrounded him. Ancient spirits standing straight and true.

Straight and true. God, the image shamed him. Could he say the same about himself? Michael put his hand to his face, squeezing his eyes tight. In the blackness he could see Charlotte’s face, tearstained and bereft, when she’d begged him to comfort her. Fresh pain stabbed. How could he have left her like that? She’d suffered. She’d been sick. What did she say…that she could die? His fists gathered again, this time against himself and the fates. It was wrong! Not fair. How could God be so cruel?

Then came the harder thought. How could he?

He lowered his head. To say that he didn’t love her physical beauty would be a lie. To lose the face that he loved made him feel
cheated.
And yet, to lose her was unthinkable—unbearable. He brought his fists to his temples. As he struggled, the babbling of a brook not ten yards away intruded on his thoughts. A line from a favorite poem by Robert Frost sprang to mind.

We love the things we love for what they are.

Michael dropped his hands. Of course, he had to go back to her. To talk to her, to try and make sense of it all. He didn’t know what he’d say, he didn’t know how to react, but he knew that he loved her. That was all he needed to know. What the hell was he doing out here thinking of himself while Charlotte sat alone in the cabin crying? He couldn’t stand to think of her crying.

He strode with purpose out of the woods. As he made his way back across the field he looked up toward the small cabin on the bluff. Silvery clouds swam across the dawning sky, covering the soft glow of the pale moon’s face like a veil. He shuddered, feeling a sudden sense of loss.

Charlotte felt a numbing coldness sweep over her. Like shields of lead surrounding her, her emotional barriers slammed down. All she knew now was that she wanted to leave, to clear out before Michael returned. She’d send a car for her things later. As far as she was concerned, she had her answer. There was no point in facing Michael again. None at all.

She wiped the tears from her face, dressed quickly, threw a few belongings into an overnight bag and called the one person who would come for her at any time, anywhere: Freddy Walen.

A short time later she stood on the porch, bag beside her ankle, purse hung on her shoulder, one foot forward poised for flight. Within the hour, she saw Freddy’s Mercedes pull up at the porch. She held her hand to her mouth, choking back a sigh of relief.

“Baby,” he said as he hurried from the car to her side, wrapping her in his arms. She wanted to cry but could not. Would not.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Now.”

“You got it.” He grabbed her bag and turned to open the car door.

Picking up her purse, she noticed the diamond sparkling on her finger. In the moonlight it shone bright and cold. Charlotte remembered all the girlish dreams she’d had when she’d looked at the stone in the past. Sweet dreams of love and marriage, children, and promises to love and cherish forever. She removed the ring with two tugs and went back indoors long enough to set the ring on the kitchen table. She couldn’t look around in the spotless cabin where they had spent an idyllic few months cementing their relationship, building their future. It had all tumbled down around the eroding foundation.

Charlotte left the cabin, happy for the cloak of darkness that masked the view of her vegetable garden ready for harvest, of the clothesline on a pulley, of the tiny porch with two white rocking chairs, of the pond just down the slope, of the gentle rise and fall of the nursery’s hills beyond. She closed the car door, then her eyes, and drove away with Freddy into the black.

M
elanie was delighted to see Charlotte at the door, but squelched her cry of welcome once she saw Freddy right behind. She rose from the sofa and took the bag from Freddy’s hand. Junichi stood awkwardly in the living room, looking at Melanie’s face, then Charlotte’s, then back to Melanie’s.

“I think you should go, sweetie,” Melanie told Junichi.

“We can go over the wedding plans tomorrow.”

Junichi recognized a crisis when he saw one and was happy to leave. He grabbed his coat, muttered a few cordial greetings to Charlotte and a quick farewell to Melanie, then beat a hasty retreat.

“I’ll take over from here, Freddy,” Melanie said.

“She called
me,
” Freddy argued back. “I want to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t need to talk to you right now.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Can’t you see that—”

“Please,” Charlotte said, her fingers at her temples. She took a deep breath and said calmly, “Please don’t argue. I need both of you.” Then, turning to Freddy, she said, “I’m exhausted, and I really need to get some sleep. You do, too, I’m sure. Why don’t you go on home. I’ll be fine here and I’ll call you in the morning. We’ll talk then. All right?”

He stroked his chin, but in the end nodded in agreement. “All right. I’m just glad you’re out of there. If I’d known…” He stopped, seeing the terse expression on Charlotte’s face. “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Freddy.”

“Come on, sweetie,” Melanie said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “You look like you could use a nice hot bath.”

Melanie led Charlotte from the room. “Don’t let the door hit you when you leave,” she called back to Freddy.

Freddy mumbled a curse at Melanie’s back as he watched her lead Charlotte up the stairs to her bedroom. It suddenly occurred to him that the whole house had undergone a major transformation. Standing back and craning his neck, he took in the stepped windows, the addition that opened up to the gardens and the spectacular view. The first pink rays of dawn were stretching across the valley already.

Mondragon did all this, he realized with bitterness.

He decided that Charlotte would have to move. Every room would remind her of that guy. He couldn’t have that. He wanted that man out of her life for good this time. How could he manage it? he wondered, walking to the bar and pouring himself a drink. Halfway through pouring the Scotch, he realized that the damn bar was new, too.

A bell ringing by the front door jarred him from his thoughts. Who was that at this time of the morning? The milkman or what? He hurried over to press the gate intercom button. “Yeah?”

“It’s me. Michael. Let me in. We’ve got to talk.”

Freddy felt his pressure zoom. His fists tightened as he tried to formulate an answer.

“Charlotte?” came the voice from the intercom.

Freddy’s gaze darted toward the staircase. Thank you, God, he thought, a smile spreading across his face. He had an idea. Opportunities presented themselves in life; you only had to grab them. He pushed the button and opened the gate for Mondragon.

He had to hustle if he was going to pull this off. Reaching for Charlotte’s suitcase, he yanked it open and pilfered through the contents, pulling out one of her lacy bras, a pair of stockings and a dress. Closing the suitcase, he hid it behind the sofa. Then he scattered the undergarments across the floor, in a trail toward the sofa. He didn’t have much time. Punching the pillows, throwing a few on the floor for good measure, he created a scenario as cleverly as any stage director.

Move fast, he told himself. Time was of the essence. Mondragon was going to be knocking on that door any second.

He spotted two used glasses of wine on the table next to an opened bottle. Perfect, he thought. There was even lipstick on the rim of one.
Brides
magazine had to go, he thought, stuffing Melanie’s issue under the sofa cushion. Sweat beaded on his brow as he raced to the staircase to eavesdrop. Water was running in the bathroom and the door was closed. Good, he thought, removing his jacket and loosening his tie. He felt his excitement bubble. This might just work. While he fumbled with his buttons and yanked open his shirt, he trotted to the stereo and turned on music, loud enough so that the ladies wouldn’t hear him downstairs. Just as he finished unnotching his belt, Mondragon rang the front door bell.

Just in time, he thought. Glancing up the stairs once more he went to the door.

“What do you want?” he roared, taking Michael by surprise. He’d have paid admission to see the look on Mondragon’s face when he spied Freddy at the front door. Mondragon’s dark eyes flashed in instant animosity, mirroring the emotion in Freddy’s own. It was a standoff, but Freddy knew he was the one holding the gun.

He watched as Mondragon’s eyes roamed over his disheveled appearance: the messed hair, the bare chest. Freddy pretended to fumble at his zipper. He knew the impression he was setting, and by the fire raging in Mondragon’s pupils, he knew it was working.

Michael pushed past him, his long hair flying. From the looks of his worn clothes, the mud on his shoes and the dark stubble on his cheeks, Freddy figured it had been a long night for that guy as well. Good, he thought to himself. How does it feel, Mondragon? I’ve felt like that for months.

“Where is she?” Michael demanded, stepping into the living room, his fists balled.

“Uh, I don’t think this is the time for you to come in here and demand to see Charlotte,” Freddy drawled.

“Get this straight,” Michael replied, jabbing his index finger in Freddy’s face. “All I’m asking you is—
where is she?
”

Freddy raised his brows and extended his hand, indicating the mess on the floor and the sofa.

Michael glanced over his shoulder toward the living room, paused, then slowly turned, facing the room squarely. Freddy watched the color drain from his face as he followed the trail of Charlotte’s underwear and clothing across the floor to the sofa where his tableau was set. The wine, the flattened pillows, the silk panties.

Freddy wanted to giggle when he saw Mondragon’s shoulders droop. Bessie Smith crooned in the distance. It was sweet indeed. He could have watched this scene for hours, but he didn’t know how much time he had left. It was time for the coup de grace.

“You see how it is, Mondragon. Why don’t you be a gentleman and just leave?”

Michael turned to face him. His lips were white and his eyes were wild with grief.

“I don’t believe this.”

“Why don’t you ask her? She’s upstairs, taking a bubble bath.”

Michael’s nostrils flared, and for a minute Freddy thought he was going to lunge for him like before. But he didn’t. He took a deep breath instead, then turned on his heel and left the room, left the house, and left, Freddy hoped, Charlotte’s life for good.

“Hello, Dr. Harmon? It’s Charlotte Godfrey. Godowski?” She prompted after the initial pause.

“Of course! Charlotte, how are you? It’s been such a long time. I’ve been following your career. Congratulations. I knew you’d make it.”

“Dr. Harmon,” she interjected, her voice insistent. She didn’t have time to chat about her career. “Something’s come up.” She briefly told him about her symptoms, the tests that Navarro had conducted. “He says that I have to have them removed. Of course he’s wrong, but he did make me nervous. What should I do?”

There was a long silence. “It’s difficult to say over the phone,” Dr. Harmon replied slowly. “This Dr. Navarro, he said he consulted with Doctors Haverhill and Quinn? In L.A.?”

“Yes, but they never saw me. I can’t believe they’d know the case well enough to make a diagnosis.”

“They’re excellent physicians. Navarro consulted the best. I’ve seen the paper that Navarro’s referring to. Not everybody who has implants has APA, even in the study. But your situation…Naturally I’d need to see you. Can you come to Chicago? Right away? I’ll get my book.”

“Wait.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “You mean you think Dr. Navarro’s right?”

“That the implants must come out? If your titers are as high as you read to me over the phone, then yes. All the indications are there. I’d want to do my own tests, of course. I feel terrible about this. There was no way to predict your reaction. Naturally I want to do the work myself.”

“But I don’t want them just taken out. Can’t you put new ones in?”

“Unfortunately, no. Not in your circumstances. Any implant would be rejected, you see.”

“You mean, if I keep them in, I could die.”

The silence stung. When he replied, Dr. Harmon’s voice was low and utterly serious. “Yes.”

She sucked in her breath, covering the cry with her palm.

“Why don’t you let me examine you? The best plan is for you to come to Chicago as soon as possible. Let me…”

“Goodbye, Dr. Harmon.”

“What? Hello? Charlotte, don’t hang up. You must—”

Michael thrust his shovel into the black earth and, giving a heave, hoisted another mound of soil from the ditch. Sweat glistened on his brow and soaked his shirt. He’d been at this ditch all day. He needed to work hard, to push himself physically to the limit. Pumping his muscles, exhausting himself to the point where he couldn’t think, was the only way he found to help defray the pain in his heart. With each plunge of the shovel he imagined it was his fist and the earth was Walen’s face. One after the other. Faster, harder, till the sweat poured.

“What are you doing?” Bobby asked as he walked up the path with his long-legged gait.

“There’s drainage work to be done.” After one more shovelful, he rammed the tip of the shovel in the dirt and rested, leaning his elbow on the pole, wiping his brow on his sleeve. “What do you want, Bobby?”

“Me, nothing.
Mamacita
wants you and Charlotte to come for dinner. You’re late.”

“We won’t be coming.”

He looked surprised, then his face darkened with suspicion. Michael looked bad. His hair was greasy, he was badly in need of a shave, and he looked as if he’d slept in the ditch he was digging. Bobby looked up into the cabin. Inside it was dark and ominously quiet.

“Where’s Charlotte?”

Michael swallowed. His mouth felt dry and thick. “She’s gone.”

Bobby’s mouth fell open but he remained uncharacteristically silent.

The next moment’s silence told all.

Michael picked up the shovel and rolled his shoulders and neck. He didn’t want to think of how he’d felt when he returned to the cabin to find Charlotte gone and the diamond ring lying on the bureau. Of how he’d chased her down, only to be confronted with…No! If he thought about it again it would swallow him whole.

“When did she leave?” Bobby wanted to know.

He thrust in the shovel, cutting deep into the earth. “Last night.”

“And you let her go?”

“I was out walking. She was gone by the time I got back.”

“And that’s that?”

He remembered how he’d picked up the ring and sat on the bed in the darkness, twiddling the diamond between his fingers, staring at it as if it held the answer to why all this had happened. Why had she lied to him? Why had she left? And of course, how could she have betrayed him, so suddenly, so soon, with Freddy Walen of all people? When the morning light entered the windows, he still had no answers. All he had was a dead pain in his heart and an obstinate anger in his mind.

“That’s that,” he replied.

“I don’t believe you! How could you desert her now? When she needs you most?”

Michael slowed, stopped and turned to look up at Bobby from the ditch. “You knew about her face?”

Bobby nodded. “I drove her to Navarro’s. She was desperate. Afraid for her life, her looks. Most of all, afraid that you’d leave her. I was the fool who told her to tell you. That you’d pick up the gauntlet.”

“Shit, Bobby. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know who you’re like?” Bobby went on, heating up. “You’re like one of those guys I know with AIDS who, once they get their meds and discover that they’re not going to die after all, dance away, breaking up with their partner. Bye-bye now. I’ve got my own life to live. I don’t want to stay here no more and see your ugly face.”

“That’s not fair. It’s not about beauty.”

“It isn’t?”

“It’s about her lying to me. Pretending to be someone she isn’t.”

“That is a crock and you know it. Can’t you see you’re repeating a typical pattern for you? You don’t like something, something doesn’t fit your standards, so you walk away from it. You couldn’t deal with your Mexican family so you walked. You couldn’t deal with my homosexuality, so you walked.”

“I came back.”

“Yes, you did. You made good. After you thought about it. But hey, that’s okay. You’re only human. I give you credit for coming around.” He paused, and their gazes met.

“I hope you can do the same for Charlotte.”

“It’s not the same.” His voice was hard. His face was set.