Code Blues (35 page)

I liked working with my hands. Medicine is
mostly mental work. You can spend all day crouched over a book, and
by the next morning, at least half the knowledge has leaked out and
you have to learn it all over again. But a bookshelf doesn't
usually tumble down unless you're a mighty poor builder.

I levered the frame upright and screwed in
the centre shelves. The bookshelf was now much more stable. I
filled it with medical books. Get thee away from me, chaos!

I'd managed to empty four or five wine
boxes. I collapsed the boxes for recycling. We only had two lousy
blue recycling bins for two entire apartment buildings. Last I
checked, the two bins, each about the size of three milk crates,
were overflowing with plastic jugs and, yes, cardboard boxes. With
everyone moving July first, there was a ton of garbage.

I shoved the boxes under my arm and trundled
down the stairs, through the main foyer, and down a second, short,
set of stairs to the basement.

I pushed open the double doors, both of
which were covered in flaking, gunmetal grey paint. A bare
fluorescent light bulb glowed above my head. Cars had pulled up
snugly to the concrete wall. The concièrge had told me to park as
close as possible, to minimize the chance of another car taking off
my bumper.

Someone had left the
garage door on my left yawning open again. I had complained to the
concièrge about the unlocked, often gaping, garage doors. He'd
pointed out the foot-high white letters spray-painted on the
inside:
FERMEZ SVP
, CLOSE THE DOOR! I conceded that the one on the right,
underlying the adjoining building of the Mimosa Manor, was usually
closed. Perhaps only half the people here were literate.

Evening had fallen. Through the open door, I
could see the fuzzy outlines of pine trees, black against the
grey-blue sky. At least the breeze dampened the smell of rotting
food and damp cardboard.

I advanced on the three garbage cans and two
recycling bins next to the open door, and tucked my own cardboard
between the overflowing blue boxes and the wall. I brushed the dirt
off my hands and stepped toward the garage door, my hand already
outstretched to pull it closed.

A shadowy figure appeared in the mouth of
the garage. "Hi Hope," he said.

I screamed.

Chapter 21

"It's me, Alex!" the shadow exclaimed. He
stepped closer to the 60-watt bulb, illuminating his forehead and
his shaggy chestnut hair.

It looked like Alex. It moved like Alex,
with a casual, shambling gait. It sounded like Alex. My heart
slowly re-entered normal sinus rhythm. " You scared the hell out of
me!" I yelled at him. "Why can't you just ring the doorbell like
everyone else?"

He took a half step back. "Yeah, I see
that." His hands remained outstretched, but didn't touch me.
Although he smiled, his grey eyes were wary. "I just wanted to talk
to you."

I eyeballed him until he stuck his hands
back inside his pants pockets. I asked, more normally, "Why didn't
you go by the front door?"

He sighed. "I did. But I saw you through the
window. You were heading downstairs, so came down to meet you."

Plausible but pat. "You shouldn't tell me
it's a bad neighborhood, and then sneak up on me in the dark."

"Okay, okay.
Mea culpa
. Walksafe.
Take back the night."

I had to laugh then. So did he. He gestured
at the garage, encompassing the oil spills on the floor and the
junk along the walls. "Clearly, I was wrong about your
neighborhood. A fine ambiance. Who said romance is dead?"

I laughed again. "Don't
push it." I cocked my head to one side. "I think they said
chivalry
is dead." I
gave him a significant look. "I see no evidence to the
contrary."

He narrowed his eyes. "You just want me to
kiss you feet again. I would be delighted."

I giggled.

"But first..." He backtracked and reached
for the cord on the handle of the garage door and yanked it down.
The door rumbled shut. He waved at it. "Chivalry."

The enclosed garage suddenly felt quieter
and more intimate. I was conscious of how close he was standing to
me. His grey eyes were intense. His breath warmed my cheek. I tried
to tell myself I was intoxicated by the smell of putrefying fruit
in the garbage bin. I turned away.

"Hope." A note of such yearning rang in his
voice.

It made me want to throw myself in his arms.
I dug my nails into my palms. Just say no. You can do it, Hope.
Café. Mireille. Bad boy. Bad boy.

I didn't touch him. But I heard myself
asking, "You want to come up?" Knowing it could spell doom.

He stood so close, I could almost feel him
nod.

I walked faster, twitching open the first
door. He grabbed it mid-swing and opened it fully. "After you."

He made sure to beat me to the second door,
too. I took a deep breath. Ryan used to open doors for me all the
time. It wasn't such a big deal, but with Alex, every move felt
seductive.

Café. Mireille. Run away. I could make a
poem out of this. Resist, resist. I could feel his eyes travel down
my body as I mounted the stairs to my apartment. His hand trailed
near mine on the banister. He wasn't even touching me, but my
nipples were hard.

No. Resist. Take a cold shower. But it made
me think of Alex with me, his hair plastered to his head, rivulets
of water coursing down his skin, his eyes bright with love for
me.

Aside from the sex, I just
liked
being
with
Alex. He made me laugh. He made me think.

Some people, like Mireille, make the hair
stand straight up from my head. I liked Tori, but she was so quiet,
it was a bit of an effort to communicate.

Alex struck just the right chord. When he
wasn't running off or mentioning Mireille, that is.

Alex leaned against the doorway as I fumbled
with the lock. My keys jangled into the silence. I threw open the
door, hitting the light switch on the left. "Sorry it's such a
mess."

"Sure is." He raised his eyebrows.

"Thanks a lot!" I snapped. He was one to
talk.

He shook his head. "Hope, you were the one
who said it."

I slipped off my sandals and crossed my
arms. If we were fighting, it was easier to stave off the
attraction. "Yeah, I know. But it takes one to know one."

He inclined his head. "Guilty."

Now I was even more embarrassed, remembering
his apartment. I'd basically never made it out of the bedroom.

His grey eyes were steady. "Anyway, I came
to apologize."

I stiffened. "Well, okay. About what,
exactly?"

He ran an aggrieved hand through his hair.
"Sorry I freaked out that day."

I waited.

He shifted from foot to foot. "You don't
know me very well, but I hate people looking through my stuff. It
makes me crazy. But"—he shot me a smile—"when I cooled off, I
figured it was probably a mistake."

"Probably?"

"Definitely a mistake. Sorry for going ham
on you. Like I said, I'm ready and willing to kiss your feet or do
anything else—"

I shook my head. "Going ham?"

"Going ape on you. You know. MC Hammer
style."

I didn't know anything
about MC Hammer except "
Can't Touch
This
" and the unforgettable pants I
spotted on YouTube. I changed the subject. "You and I both think
the problem is I don't know you well enough. So teach me about
you."

He leaned in close, his voice husky. "I
thought you'd never ask."

I took two steps away and bumped into a box,
but evaded his steadying hands. "Not like that."

"Like what, then?" His face curled in
irritation. "Can I come in, at least? Or do we have to do this
standing in your front hall?"

I shrugged. "Hey, you thought the garbage
basement was romantic." For once, I felt like the one holding the
aces. It made me more relaxed. Alex wasn't that good-looking. His
nose was a bit long. He was shorter than one of my towers of boxes.
He got by on charm.

But I was building an immunity to it. I
hoped.

"Fine."

He exhaled and crouched on a bare patch of
floor. He rested his back against the door and extended his legs,
still wearing his Tevas for a quick getaway. "Shoot."

"Tell me why you left Kitchener."

His eyes widened briefly. "Who told you
about that?" He ran his hands down his thighs. "Mireille?
Shit."

I stayed standing. "No shit. That's the
whole point, Alex. Drop the guessing games and tell me
yourself."

He sighed and closed his eyes, resting his
eyes against the door. "Ah, man. You know how to go for the
jugular, don't you."

I waited. Silence worked on Alex. He was too
fidgety to hold back for long. I crossed my arms. I could hear the
clock ticking in the kitchen, and two kids pounding down the hall,
giggling while their mother called after them.

Alex cracked an eyelid at me. "Are you going
to sit down, at least?"

I leaned against the door of my hall closet.
It bounced but didn't close—one of the feet from my ironing table
in the way, propping it open.

Alex snorted. "It's a sign. Come on. Sit.
It's not something I like to talk about, okay?"

Finally. No
petit-fours
and no B.S.
Just us.

I dropped to the floor, leaning against the
bouncy closet door and sitting cross-legged.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, exposing his
pale throat. "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I never told
anyone here except Kurt. But what the fuck. It's therapeutic,
right?"

I tried to quiet my breathing, keep as
silent as possible. It was stuffy in the front hall with the
bedroom door closed.

He laughed bitterly. "It's like this. I'm
not even from Kitchener. I'm from a little town outside it you've
probably never heard of." He ran his hands down his thighs again.
"A real shit-kicker of a place." He stopped there, his Adam's apple
bobbing.

My heart dropped into my lap. I remembered
another news story, buried deep in my subconscious. I hadn't
thought much about Mennonites or Amish communities beyond their
charming buggies and pioneer clothes, until one such prairie town
was recently busted for child abuse. Some elders of the community
took turns beating children, often girls under the age of twelve.
Sometimes it was their own daughters or granddaughters. This abuse
went on for years, for generations, before the RCMP busted it
up.

I hoped to God Alex hadn't gone through the
same thing. If he'd been abused, I could try, but I probably
couldn't help him. If he was an abuser, I could not forgive
him.

Alex said abruptly, "Did you ever hear about
the smuggling?"

"What kind of smuggling?" My voice was
Ginsu-sharp. Child smuggling?

"You know. Across the U.S. border. With the
cheese."

"No." It sounded like a strange game of
Clue. Instead of Mrs. Peacock, in the library, with the candle
stick, it was smuggling, across the border, with the cheese. It did
not sound like abuse. I relaxed a little.

He crossed one of his
outstretched legs, bringing his left foot closer to mine. I didn't
move away. He spoke to his sandals. "You probably did. It was
on
60 Minutes
and
everything. The Mennonites used to be able to ship things across
the border without being searched. Furniture, tools, whatever. But
then the border guard cut open a wheel of cheese and found cocaine.
The RCMP came. They investigated a few of towns, but they hung
around ours a lot. Charged a few people but dropped the charges.
The case is still open."

Alex started talking faster. His eyes darted
from side to side. "So no one was convicted officially, but
unofficially, everyone thought it was my family. We had to leave.
We sold the farm at a loss, and moved to Kitchener. But there were
still rumors." He made fists out of the material in his pants. "It
was almost worse that way. We had no trial, no way of defending
ourselves. It was hell. People wouldn't talk to us, wouldn't sell
us things in the store, and at school—" He swallowed hard. "I
left."

His words hung in the air. His pain felt
like a living presence in the room, a cloud of purple and black
invading my nostrils and choking down my throat.

I had to break the silence. "I'm sorry."

He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Yeah."

We sat there, my toes nearly touching his. I
wanted to draw him into my arms and tell him everything was going
to be all right. I wanted to stroke the hair out of his eyes and
kiss his temple. And I wanted to ask more questions.

Like, did his family really smuggle the
cocaine? Did he do it? He was vague on the time, but it must have
happened before he'd come to university at McGill.

Or was someone just duped by a wiser dealer?
Hey, I like how you churn your own butter and sew ruffles on your
dresses. Could you do me a favor? Wait, that was probably the Amish
again.

Alex hadn't been exactly trustworthy, but
he'd never acted like a criminal. I wanted to give him the benefit
of the doubt. Like Kurt did. That's what we often do in medicine.
Patients say, yes, I'm going to quit smoking, or hey, I really need
you to fill out my disability form, and for the most part, we take
a chance and say okay. I took a deep breath and said it now.
"Okay."

His gray eyes swept up to meet mine, wary
and angry but with a spark of wistfulness. "Okay?"

I had to hide a smile. "Okay."

He grabbed my left knee and shook it.. "God,
I've missed you, Hope."

I laughed as my leg jiggled under the force
of his enthusiasm. "We just met."