Lies of the Heart (25 page)

—This is it, isn’t it, Nick? she finally asked quietly.

—What?

—It’s going to be like this forever, isn’t it? she said.—Waiting. That’s all I do. I wait for you.

—So stop, then. What do you want me to say?

—Anything!
Say anything at all.

She steadied herself for his insults, her palms sinking into the cushioned seat on both sides, but his only answer was a thin, cruel smile. She stared at him, the profile of his face, how this smile altered him so completely. So unknown—so unwilling. She wasn’t sure which was worse, Candice’s phony smile or Nick’s heartless, dismissive one.
Both of them,
she thought angrily,
with their secrets and superior smiles and contempt!
Something inside her snapped wide open.

—Fine, then I’ll say something! she shouted.—Your mother hates me, Nick, and you don’t even see it! You don’t
want
to see it. You’re so stuck up her ass that you can’t even see
you
—so full of yourself you can barely hold your head up straight, but walking around like the floor might crack underneath you when she’s in the same room. Can you honestly say that has nothing to do with her? She’s a
phony,
Nick! You want to know why your father left both of you, take a good look, because she’s a fucking
phony,
and you know it—

He slammed the brakes, hard. The front end swerved, back tire clipping the curb on Katie’s side. Nick’s teeth were exposed and clenched, dark eyes rigid on the road. She tried to say something—nothing came. He kicked the gas pedal, careened into an empty parking lot. Hit the brakes hard again—Katie’s body jerked forward, the seat belt biting her shoulder. She crashed back into the seat, the air in her lungs pushed out.

Before she could compose herself, before a word would come, Nick calmly released his seat belt and leaned toward her, his fingers lightly closing around her throat. There wasn’t any pressure in his touch—but his fingers were around her throat.

—Why do you always have to ruin it? His breath hot on her face.

—
Nick.

—You’re supposed to be happy for me.

—I am. She pried at his fingers.—Please.

His eyes drilled into hers, unseeing, so dark they looked black. —Aren’t you proud of your husband? Aren’t you proud?

—
What are you doing, Nick?

And then his face turned suddenly—a closed look that Katie knew well. Like fingers quickly curling under, hiding the palm beneath.

Nick finally released her, sat back in his seat. Her heart kicked a steady, violent rhythm against her ribs.

—Jesus, he finally said, blowing out air. He placed his hands carefully on the wheel, stared straight ahead.

—Nick, she whispered, her hand rising to her throat now.

He wouldn’t look at her.—Did I hurt you?

—No. No, of course not.

He nodded slowly. His chest quickly rising, falling. He adjusted the rearview mirror, hooked his seat belt.—I can’t believe I did that.

—You didn’t hurt me.

He nodded again, exhaled loudly. Adjusted the rearview mirror again with a shaking hand.

—Why? she said.

He splayed his fingers, studied his hand like he didn’t recognize it.

—I’m sorry.

—Okay.

—I just don’t like, he began slowly,—I just don’t want to keep defending her. Defending myself.

—You don’t have to.

—I don’t?

—I just want you to trust me.

He stared out the windshield, pulled the gearshift into drive.—You just can’t imagine, he said slowly, deliberately,—how fucking exhausting this has become.

At home they walked around each other, nursing their anger and embarrassment; they undressed in different rooms, waited politely for the other one to finish in the bathroom. In bed they kept their backs to each other, until Katie grabbed a pillow and headed for the living room.

She waited for him then—for the conclusion of this routine of pain and forgiveness, for the chance to feel connected to him again, to feel
herself
again. From the stifling living room, she listened to the air conditioner humming in their bedroom. Pictured Nick sleeping contentedly, the blankets tucked up around his body. After an hour she gave up, peeled the sweaty sheet off her, and headed for the shower.

The water was too hot, but Katie bent her head under the stream anyway, felt the rivers of steamy water curling down her face, around her nose, and onto her lips. Stayed like that, her belly and thighs and the tops of her feet scalding, trying to contain her fear, the implications of Nick’s absence. She replayed the past few weeks since he’d started working at the Warwick Center—seeing now, suddenly and clearly, the importance of the changes. Nick, no longer waiting for her words of praise and recognition. No longer embellishing stories about cleft palates or lisps to make his work appear more important than it was, or leaving long pauses for Katie to fill in with her gushing admiration. Now he sat across from her at their dinner table, visions of his own glory filling his eyes without her help. He had long days full of real challenges now—adults with speech disorders complicated by learning disorders, cerebral palsy, and all the idiosyncratic methods of communication that each client brought to his sessions. Now Katie’s job was to simply listen. She wished she could go back just a few weeks—regain her coveted position in their nightly discussions at the dinner table, even if it meant still silently resenting his ongoing, barely concealed indifference for her own work. What a minor issue his apathy seemed now. Nick had found the important job he’d always wanted, and her part in his days—maybe even his life—seemed small and insignificant.

Fear curled up inside her, cold and choking despite the steaming water, but then she heard the plastic crinkling of the shower curtain; she almost collapsed in relief. Nick’s cool skin pressed against her spine and legs. He pushed his knee into the back of her right thigh, reached around her for the bar of soap.

At first she had to put her hands on the tile to steady herself against his vigorous washing, but soon enough one hand came up flat and pressing against her soaped shoulder. He swirled the foam across the expanse of her upper back, down her spine and onto her butt, making leisurely, wide circles on each cheek.

—We could still huddle, he said quietly.

—Back there, in the car, she said, shaking her head.

—I know.

—We can’t add that, she said.—All the little things, the big things already—we can’t add that.

—We won’t.
I
won’t.

He pressed himself against her, their wet bodies sealing. Traced a line from her elbow down to the knuckles of her hand.

—But you can’t be like that either, he said quietly.

She whipped around to face him, falling backwards into the tile. Her fears instantly forgotten, she glared at his lowered head through the running water that separated them now.—Me?

—What you said about . . . the things you said. It isn’t you.

—You say things like that to me, Nick.
Horrible
things.

The water worked parts into his hair, ran down his face and into his eyes. He let it, arms hanging at his sides.—But that’s
me,
he finally said.—Not you.

—That isn’t fair. You can say hurtful things, but I can’t?

—It isn’t you, he insisted, his voice tremulous. He finally met her glance, placed his hands on both her shoulders. She saw the love, the need in his eyes. He pulled her forward, until their faces were only inches apart under the water.—It isn’t
you,
Katie.

He turned her abruptly by the shoulders, so she was facing the tile again.

—I never would, you know, he said, his body shuddering as he tucked himself up against her. Hurt you . . . I . . . never could—

She leaned into him, pulled his arms around her.—I know. I do know that.

He nodded against her, gulping air.—Without you, he said.—If you weren’t here, if I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t be anyone.

He cupped her ass and pulled, fingers digging into flesh.

Easy then, to remember the ways they
were
together—his hands moving roughly against her burning skin. She placed her hands flat on the tile, and his teeth bit into her shoulder.

—Gentle, she said, and he obeyed, his tongue licking into the water pooled in her collarbone.

—I’m so sorry, Katie. Right now, this is us. This is the part that’s real. She nodded, turned for the last time to face him. Nick covered her breast with his mouth, and she spread her legs wide, guided him inside her. used one hand to steady herself, the other to push the back of his head into her.

From the shower to the floor in the living room to the bedroom. Almost the entire night, both of them tireless. When the sun finally started to rise, Katie held him inside her arms.

—No more apologies, she said when the sun finally slanted into the room and across the sheets. She allowed herself a small, teasing smile.

—You have the rest of your life to make it up to me.

T
he EMT has been on the witness stand for almost an hour, describing the details of the day Jerry shot Nick, confirming the chaos he and his partner walked into inside the gym. Every time Richard asks him a question, he grabs his knuckles in one hand and swivels in his chair to answer the jurors directly.

There isn’t anything remarkable about the way this man looks—slight and in his mid- to late twenties, with glasses and adolescent acne—yet his direct stare and deep, confident voice have the jurors paying close attention after all this time. Whenever he answers one of Richard’s questions in detail, he watches the jurors with a serious look until Richard asks him another one; then he swivels back slowly to face Richard, as though he’s tearing himself away from what’s really important. The jurors watch him carefully, bend their heads to scribble his words onto their pads.

“So it’s standard procedure, then, to use this cardiac monitor on unconscious clients?” Richard asks him.

The EMT grabs his knuckles, turns to the jurors. “Yes. In this particular case, however, we used the monitor solely to establish asystole, or what is commonly known as a flatline.”

“And once you established this?”

“We did not attempt to resuscitate the victim at that point.”

“You knew you couldn’t save him?”

“We knew the victim’s situation was not conducive to life.”

Richard sighs heavily, lowers his head to think. “Up until that point, had you seen the defendant?”

For the first time, the EMT doesn’t turn toward the jurors—he keeps his eyes locked on Richard, which causes a ripple of fidgeting among them. The Hispanic man in the front row frowns slightly, the two young women on either side of the elderly gentleman in the back row angle their heads to get a better look at the EMT’s face.

“Not on the scene, actually.”

“Then where?” Richard asks.

“I encountered the defendant out in the parking lot.”

“And would you describe that, please?”

“The police were having a hard time containing him, so my partner and I went over to assist.”

“And is that normal procedure? For an EMT to help restrain a suspect?”

“No, but they couldn’t get control of him.”

“Can you tell the jurors who ‘they’ are?”

The jurors don’t seem to realize, or they are just too fascinated now to care, that this back-and-forth has been rehearsed. Without the EMT’s serious face turned toward them, they strain forward, eyes moving between the two men. Their restless anticipation boils inside Katie, too—she is eager to replace pictures of Nick’s lifeless body with Jerry’s bulking rage, ready to break the stillness of death with the violence of Jerry’s impending capture.

“ ‘ They,’ ” the EMT says, and finally turns to the jurors, who crane toward him as if one, “were the police officers, about five or so, and a firefighter. I think there were two or three people from the Warwick Center trying to help as well.”

“So possibly nine people, and they still couldn’t get him into the squad car?”

The EMT stares at the jurors. “They couldn’t even get him on the ground.”

“Please describe what happened after you jumped into that mess,” Richard says wearily.