The Doctor's Wife

  He’d been his usual disorderly self that morning, trying to get out the door to teach, and he’d forgotten his sketchbook on the kitchen table. While having her morning coffee, she found herself idly flipping through it. There were drawings of hands and feet. Faces. All kinds of faces. And bones. A skeleton. And then there was Annie, naked.

  Much later, she woke on the floor in a fetal position. How she had gotten on the floor escaped her. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. She crawled onto her knees. She prayed with her head on the carpet. At a loss, she drove down to the Life Force headquarters and found Reverend Tim studying the Scriptures. He gave her a worried smile and stood up abruptly, as if she had walked in with a gun. “What is it, Lydia? What’s wrong?”

  “My husband’s in love with that woman.” She blurted the words like something foul in her mouth. She took the drawing out of her purse and showed him the sketch of Annie Knowles.

  Reverend Tim studied the drawing for what seemed like an eternity, then folded it up into a small square. “Save this for a rainy day.” He handed it back to her. “It may come in handy.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. “These are for you. To keep you calm. Take one or two when you’re feeling anxious. They may help. They have helped me in times of duress.”

  Back in her car, Lydia put a few of the pills into her mouth. She turned on the radio, loud, and opened all the windows. Reverend Tim was the only person who understood her, she thought. She drove for a long time on the back roads, her foot hard on the pedal. Just for sport, she took Valley Road, with its deadly turns. There were no police out here. She could drive as fast as she wanted. There was nothing better than driving at a dangerous speed when you felt your life was about to end. Conquering a vicious turn at eighty or ninety miles an hour without even breaking a sweat only assured her that she could handle whatever came next. Putting the bomb in the examining room had not been her idea, and she did not consider herself a murderer, but now she wasn’t sure, and the uncertainty nagged at her like a toothache.

  Driving up the long road to the house, she saw a light in the living room. It was only eight o’clock, but the sky was richly dark. She found Simon in the old wing chair, asleep, his face red and creased, the newspaper open in his lap. They’d bought the old chair at an estate sale. It was upholstered with a faded blue-and-white toile that depicted men and women frolicking about. Chubby women with ribbons in their hair and doting men in waistcoats and knickers. She had always liked the chair because the people looked so happy, even when her big nasty husband sat all over them, as he was doing now. Wood smoldered in the fireplace, suggesting that he’d been sitting there for a long time, several hours perhaps. She stood over him in her coat, the cold melting off her, until he opened his eyes. She stood there and waited for him to speak. She couldn’t tell if he was mad or not. He didn’t look especially mad, but you could never really tell with Simon. She wanted to say to him, Please don’t see that woman anymore, but the words were stuck in her mouth.

  “I . . . I ran out of cigarettes,” she stuttered. “I was only gone a few minutes. ”

  He didn’t say anything to her, staring into the fire. “You didn’t feed the dogs.”

  “They didn’t look hungry,” she said stupidly.

  He tilted his head, eyeing her. “How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged, wondering if it was a trick question. “Okay.”

  “I’ve made an appointment for you.”

  “What?”

  “Think of it as a reunion with some of your old friends.”

  This meant the hospital.

  “They’re looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I don’t want to go,” she muttered in her little-girl voice. “I won’t.”

  “Next week. We’ll take a drive up there.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “It’ll be fun. We can bring a picnic.”

  “No, Simon.”

  “I’ve made the appointment.” He looked at her. “I’m not canceling it.”

  Lydia felt her lower lip trembling and bit down on it to make it stop. “We’ll see about that.” She smiled for him, just a quick flash, and turned and went up the stairs and closed the door. Ten minutes later she heard a car pulling up out front. It was a police cruiser. Had Simon called the police? A cop got out and knocked on the door. He was different from the first one.

  She heard them talking. Then Simon called, “Lydia! Come down here, please!”

  Lydia reeled, glanced in the mirror, slid some lipstick on her lips. A safety pin on the dresser caught her eye and she picked it up and unfolded it. “Just a minute!” She took the pin and pushed it into the fleshy palm of her hand. Deeper, deeper, until blood spurted out.

  “Lydia!” Simon shouted, and she pulled out the pin.

  Trembling, she descended the stairs. “This is Detective Bascombe,” Simon told her. “He wants to ask you some questions.”

  She could feel the man studying her the same way people studied Simon’s paintings, with stifling fascination.

  “I’m following up on an investigation about the bombing at a women’s health clinic.”

  “He means the abortion clinic, Lydia,” Simon said eagerly.

  Lydia swallowed, shifting on her feet. “I was sick. I needed to see a doctor.”

  The detective wrote something on his pad.

  “I just had an appointment that day,” Lydia told him. “I didn’t see anything.” She shrugged, wobbly. “I just had a regular appointment.”

  “She wasn’t there for an abortion, is what she means,” Simon clarified.

  Lydia’s throat dried up. “I don’t know anything about the bombing.”

  “I see, uh-huh. If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you give the receptionist your name when you made the appointment?”

  “Some things are private,” she managed. “I’m a very private person.” She looked at the cop meaningfully.

  “My wife is a very private person,” Simon repeated in a mocking tone.

  The detective scrawled notes on his pad.

  “Tell him about the man with the limp, sweetheart,” Simon persisted in his phony loving-husband voice. “You told me you saw a man with a limp.”

  The detective looked at her, waiting. Had she mentioned Reverend Tim in her delirium? “I don’t remember saying that,” she said softly.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Simon patronized, “you said you saw a man with a limp coming out of the men’s room.”

  “I don’t remember,” Lydia said.

  “All right, let me get this straight,” the detective said to her. “You saw a man with a limp come out of the men’s room just before the bomb exploded?”

  Lydia swallowed but nothing went down.

  “A limp? Well, that’s a helpful detail.”

  “My wife was very troubled by it. No doubt one of those anti-abortion fanatics,” Simon said. “Write that down in your little book.”

  They stood there watching the detective get into his car. Simon closed the door and smiled at her. She raised her hand and slapped his face as hard as she could. It felt good doing it, and she didn’t care if he hit her back.

  55

  WALKING OUT of the office that evening he felt as though the world had slowed down, and like a silent movie, there was no sound. Nurses streamed past without acknowledging him. Finney walked right by him in the corridor and said nothing. Asshole, Michael thought. Ever since the news coverage had appeared on TV, where one of the cameramen had caught Michael rushing from the burning clinic in his scrubs, his partners weren’t speaking to him. Everyone seemed to know that he was the targeted abortionist. He was the one the Lifers wanted, and before long they would get him.

  Celina seemed to be his only friend in the world. After work, he drove over to the clinic and found her in her office dictating charts. “You want to get something to eat?”

  They walked around the corner to the pizza place. Michael could feel the gun
in his pocket. He’d taken to carrying it wherever he went, although he questioned his readiness to fire it. Marie’s Pizza was a smoky place with dim lighting and pizza boxes stacked to the ceiling. They sat in a booth against the wall. The waiter took their order and brought over their beer. Michael sucked down half the bottle, hoping the alcohol would quell his anxiety. No such luck.

  Celina studied him, frowning. “Okay, I’m waiting.”

  “Waiting for what.”

  “For you to tell me what’s wrong. You look like shit.”

  “It’s Annie. We’re not getting along. I get the feeling she’s ready to bail.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  He just looked at her.

  “Look, Michael, you need to stop now. No more of this hero stuff.”

  “I’ll never give them the satisfaction.”

  Celina took his hand and held it dearly and repeated the phrase slowly, emphatically. “Michael, you need to stop. It’s getting worse. It’s going to keep on getting worse until they get what they want. So, go, you have my blessing.”

  “Go where? They’re all over the country, this group. If I give up, it’s like an admission of guilt. I won’t do that. I won’t do that, Celina. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

  “What about for Annie?”

  He heard her but made no comment, and then the waiter brought over the pizza. He sat there, looking at it. He suddenly could not eat.

  “Look, Michael. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I should be thanking you.”

  She looked confused. “For what? For totally screwing up your life?”

  “For opening my eyes.”

  Celina shook her head. “Do me a favor, honey. Open them a little wider and stop.”

  The rain fell in torrents as he drove home. When he got there, he found the children in the family room watching TV in their pajamas. They were making posters with crayons and paper, LOST, MAGNIFICENT GOLDEN RETRIEVER, SWEET AND KIND—PLEASE RETURN HER—DOGS CAN’T TELL YOU HOW THEY FEEL! They were so intent in their work that they hardly seemed to notice him when he came into the room. “Hey, guys.”

  “Hi, Daddy,” Rosie said. He could always count on Rosie for a proper greeting, whereas Henry hardly looked up. “Look, Daddy, we’re making posters for Molly.”

  “Great idea.”

  “Mommy’s really mad at you,” Henry said gravely. “We heard her crying.”

  “Well, I better go see what’s upsetting her.”

  Reluctantly, Michael climbed the stairs, regretting that he hadn’t called her to say he’d be late. Annie was in bed, surrounded by crumpled tissues. “Hey.”

  “Where’ve you been? Forget it, I don’t even care where you were.”

  “I had dinner with Celina,” he told her, watching her back go stiff, a look of disgust cross her face.

  “I never liked her,” she said. “I’ve never trusted her.”

  “It’s not like that, Annie, and you know it. I just wanted to make sure she was okay. Safe.”

  “So you had dinner with her?”

  “We grabbed a bite. No big deal.”

  “What about us?” She spoke so softly he could barely hear her. “What about our safety?”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Sorry isn’t good enough.” She got out of bed and put on her robe. “The fact that you survived that bombing was just dumb luck. Next time it’ll be your life. I’m tired of waiting around for you, wondering if you’re alive. Wondering if they’ve finally gotten you. I’ve had enough, do you understand. I’ve had enough!”

  He took her hands and held them tight. “Annie, think about it. Think about what they’re doing to us. You’re letting them win.”

  “I’m not playing, Michael. It’s your game, not mine. You don’t seem to get that.”

  “Here’s what I don’t get: I don’t get you. I thought you’d be on my side over this. You call yourself a feminist. That’s a joke. You used to be different. You’d take the subway up to Harlem at three o’clock in the morning if you thought you’d get a good story out of it. You weren’t afraid of anything.”

  “That’s because I had nothing to lose.” Her lip started quivering. “But now I do. And it’s gone too far. I don’t want to fight these people. I just want out. I just want to be left alone.”

  “They have no right to threaten our lives because they don’t support what I do. That’s against the law. What I do isn’t. If I succumb to them, who am I?”

  “If you don’t protect your children, who are you?” He looked at her worried face and realized she was right. “Don’t you see what’s happening to us? I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  She gave him a dumbfounded look. “You won’t even stop for me, will you? I guess I’m not important enough to you.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “I’m ready to leave you. Is that what I have to do to make you understand?”

  “Is that what you want?” Tears ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t answer him. He asked her again, “Is that what you want, Annie? You want to end this? You want to break up this family?”

  “You’ve already done that.” She gave him a look and left the room.

  56

  THEY HADN’T SPOKEN for over a week. She felt bereft, lost. The idea of never seeing him again made her physically ill. Finally, she broke down and called him. “I need to see you.”

  The air was cold, the sun cruel and bright. The lake shimmered behind the motel. He was waiting for her when she arrived, sitting on the edge of the bed with the radio playing. He gazed at her dispassionately. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

  She stood there, awkward. “Your wife went to see Michael. She went to the clinic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  “She knows, doesn’t she? She knows about us.”

  He looked at her. “No, she doesn’t know.”

  But Annie didn’t trust him. “I think she’s dangerous.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m afraid of her.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a feeling I have. I can’t explain it.”

  “You have nothing to fear.” He patted the mattress. “Come sit here next to me.”

  She went and sat down on the bed, but she did not remove her coat. “I’m sick.”

  “What is it?”

  “All the time. I just feel sick.” She wiped her tears. “It’s hard for me. This whole thing.”

  “It’s hard for me, too.”