Authors: Elizabeth Brundage

The Doctor's Wife (24 page)

BOOK: The Doctor's Wife

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Annie went over to Michael and kissed him awkwardly, as if she were trying to establish something, to disprove the obvious mistrust in the air. “Nice of you to show up.”

“I’ve been here for nearly an hour,” he said, displeased.

“I’m afraid we got lost,” Simon apologized. “Hello, Michael, I’m Simon Haas.”

Michael nodded coldly.

“Here.” Olivia handed them each a towel. “You’re drenched. What a night. I haven’t seen rain like this in months.”

“It was completely my mistake,” Simon said. “I thought I knew the trails better. Then the rain started.” He looked around, his eyes wide as a choirboy’s. “We were completely lost.”

“Well, the important thing is that you’re back safely,” Olivia said.

Simon’s face darkened suddenly. “Has anyone seen my wife?”

“She’s had a small accident,” Michael said.

“Where is she?” Simon was growing more agitated by the minute.

“In my room,” Olivia said, trying to calm him. “She’s fine. She’s resting.”

“She cut herself,” Michael explained. “She’s had quite a bit to drink.”

“Cut herself where?” Simon asked, giving Annie the impression that his wife had done it before.

“Her hand,” Michael answered. “Slicing lemons. I bandaged her up, but she could use a few stitches if you’re worried about a scar.”

“I don’t give a damn about any scar.” Simon charged up the stairs. The guests glanced at Annie warily. Annie felt dizzy, faint. The floor overhead began to tremble, and they could hear Lydia crying the way that a teenager cries, an urgency in her voice as she tried to explain herself. The group stood there, a silent vigil, uncertain what to do next. Then the door upstairs opened and a moment later Haas was pulling his wife down the stairs and she was crying and hiding her head like one of those cheesy actresses trying to escape the paparazzi. Olivia ran to get the girl’s coat, her voice a gentle tumble of excuses:
You’re just tired, my dear, you need a good rest is all, go home and get into bed with a nice cup of tea,
as if that was a suitable remedy. Simon ushered her out the door, muttering his apologies. They all watched through the windows, relishing the scandal, as the tormented couple got into the car and drove away, swerving into a trash can, leaving a trail of litter in their wake.

Soon after, Annie and Michael went home in separate cars. When Christina left they cleaned up the kitchen in silence. Annie put the leftover dishes in the dishwasher while Michael took Molly out. Later, in bed in the dark, he asked her, “What happened back there, Annie?”

“We got lost,” she said, without turning toward him.

“I was worried about you.”

Now she looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

“I was thinking we could take a trip together. Sort things out.”

“What things?”

“Us. You and me.”

“I didn’t know we needed sorting out.”

“What’s with you lately,” he said, angry. “You seem . . .” He hesitated.

“Seem what?”

“I don’t know. Distracted.”

“I wish I
were
distracted.” She turned on the light and looked at his face, an older version of their son’s. “I don’t know if you noticed, Michael, but you’re never home. We hardly see you anymore.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help that.”

“Celina sees more of you than I do,” she complained, sounding like a jealous wife.

They lay very still in the silence of the room.

“We’re drifting,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to drift. I want to be still.” He brought his face to hers, whispering. “I want to be right here.”

Annie lay awake for a long time. Her mind reeled back to the party and her strained conversation with Joe Rank. She was embarrassed, now, that she had drunk so much. She remembered her journey with Simon into the woods, how he’d pushed the cold grape into her mouth and then kissed her.

A whirling desire went through her.

She felt tense, guilty. Twisted up in knots. It wasn’t right, she thought. It wasn’t something she should be doing.

The next morning she stayed in her office, correcting papers and drinking coffee. At noon she discreetly entered the cafeteria, grateful that it was crowded. She hurried through the line and chose a salad. Just as she was filling her cup with coffee, Simon came up behind her and placed his hand on the small of her back. It made her jump and spill. “God, you scared me, Simon.”

“I’m sitting with Felice. Come join us.”

It was more of a command than a request.
I’ll go over and say hello, just to be polite,
she decided, but when she arrived at the table and began exchanging pleasantries with Felice, she felt him tugging on the back of her sweater. “Sit,” he said. And she did.

“How goes it in the South Cottage?” Felice said brightly. “Any rumblings from Joe Rank this morning?”

“He’s been keeping his distance. He’s not so bad.”

“Yes he is,” Felice said, sipping her coffee. “But I admire your diplomacy.”

“A man of passion and substance?” Simon teased.

“No comment,” Annie said, amazed that he’d remembered their conversation in the pool.

Felice glanced at her watch and stood up. “Oops, I’ve got a one o’clock. Ta ta.” She picked up her tray and hurried off.

Simon smiled at Annie. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You don’t look it.” He touched her hand and she quickly pulled away.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Touch me.
“Your hand. There are people around.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Look, about last night. I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This. Us.”

He gazed intently into her eyes. “I
want
you, Annie.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You’re making it complicated.”

“I’m married,” she hissed under her breath. “I thought we agreed.”

“I’m not asking you to change anything about your marriage.”

“It
will
change. It already has.” She got up. “I have to go.”

He hastily gathered his things. “I’ll walk you.”

Outside it was cold, the wind rushing through the bare trees. They walked quickly, wrapped in their coats.

“It’s not like I’ve ever done this, Annie.”

“Bull
shit!
You’re notorious for it.”

He stopped where he was on the path, the wind in his face, his eyes tearing. “Never.”

He’d unraveled her, and now he was winding her toward him like wool. She stood in front of him with the wind in her ears. “I’m sorry.”

“I have something I’d like to give you,” he said.

“What?” she said a bit impatiently, angry with herself for being curious. “What is it?”

“It’s in my office. Won’t take a minute.”

“We’d better hurry, then,” she said, “because that’s all you’ve got.”

He grunted at her, disbelieving, and she knew he could see right through her.

The building smelled like sawdust, linseed oil, turpentine. They went through the large studio, where students had displayed their work on the walls. Simon unlocked the door to his office with a skeleton key. The small bulletin board on the door was covered with notes from his students, some of which seemed boldly flirtatious:
Let me show you my etchings, Professor Haas
and
I need an anatomy tutorial ASAP.
He caught her reading the notes and offered, sheepishly, “I don’t know what Joe Rank is talking about. These Catholic girls are witches.
Witches,
I tell you.”

She laughed in spite of herself.

His office was small, cluttered with papers and canvases and his students’ portfolios. He offered her an old chair, the sort of chair you pull off the curb, ripped and bursting. She dropped down into it, gasping with surprise—the springs were busted.

“Keeps my students in their place. They’re all so damned cocky if you ask me.”

“I see your office is impeccably organized.” His desk was piled with an array of junk: stacks of papers and books. A dying plant. An old leopard-print toilet seat, suspended from the wall, served as a basketball hoop. He picked up a rubber handball and tossed it in. “It’s quite a good system, actually. Once you get the knack of it.”

Annie noticed a canvas leaning against the wall. It was a strange painting; it didn’t look finished. “That’s Lydia, isn’t it?”

“Oh, that? It’s awful. Don’t look at that.”

“It’s not awful, Simon. Nothing you paint is awful. And your wife is too beautiful.” He gazed at the painting with a glimmer of longing.

“I wish I’d never stopped at that house. I wish I’d never seen her.” A blizzard of leaves fell outside, distracting them. He looked at her then and she could feel something between them, a kind of heat that made her almost desperate for air. “People think I exploited her. She exploited me. She’s ruined my life.”

“What happened at the party?”

“Look, Annie, my wife has an emotional disorder. She tends to get violent. Sometimes I have to use force to restrain her. I don’t expect you to understand. We’ve been together for a long time. It’s something I’ve grown accustomed to.”

“Which part? Her behavior, or your so-called force?”

He didn’t answer her for a moment. Finally, he said, “Both.”

She looked at his face. His eyes were red; he looked exhausted. “Help me up,” she said. “I’ve got a class in five minutes.”

He pulled her up but didn’t let go. “I have something for you,” he told her.

“What is it?”

He kissed her then, deeply, and she kissed him back, she couldn’t help it. “I have to go,” she said, in no particular hurry. “I have a class.”

“I’m sorry.” But then he kissed her again, slow and deep.

“I have to go. I’m going. Right now.” But she did not go anywhere.

BOOK: The Doctor's Wife

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