Code Blues (40 page)

Three days later, when my throat felt
decent, I chose to come back to work. I could talk again. I was
tired of my apartment, which was still only half-unpacked. I didn't
want to take any more sick days. And I wanted to see the guy with
the messy chestnut hair.

I was eight minutes early for the FMC
clinic. I beat Dr. Callendar there, but not Tori. She greeted me
with a loose hug. "Are you sure?"

I nodded. My motto:
do what you're afraid to do
.

Her brown eyes were troubled when she
released me. "You're the first one back. Mireille is still away. So
is Alex. Sheilagh said she doesn't know when he'll be back. Stress
leave."

My stomach plummeted. I tried not to show
it, but I must have, because she hugged me again, wordless.

Physically, Alex must be okay if he slid a
card under my door. But he never called or texted or even e-mailed
after that first night in the hospital.

I hugged her back. I was glad to have at
least one uncomplicated friend in Montreal.

Stan called from the doorway, "What are you
doing here? You should be at home eating bon-bons! I was going to
bring you some!"

I laughed and broke away from Tori. He gave
me a big bear hug, reaching down to envelop me. "Good to see you.
Glad you're okay."

I hugged him back, and he said, "I guess my
wife and I will eat the bon-bons then."

Some things were back to normal.

Omar pulled my chair out for me. "You were
very brave," he said simply, but it sounded like a benediction. I
smiled at him.

Dr. Callendar dragged his chair across the
linoleum floor. "All right, everybody. Glad you're all here." He
didn't quite look at me. "I saw some patients waiting already."

My face flushed. What a bastard. Couldn't
even manage a "well done." And where was he, after I got choked?
Running home? Doing his billing in the staff room?

I turned on my heel and called in my
18-year-old patient with panic attacks.

I decided to write some Ativan for my
patient. He only got panic attacks a few times per month. It didn't
seem worthwhile starting him on a daily medication. When I reviewed
the case with Dr. Callendar, my eyes dared him to contradict
me.

His Adam's apple bobbed. He looked away
first. "Fine, good," he said. Paused. Muttered, "You all
right?"

I nodded, hiding a smile. It was like not
finding the abuse articles in Kurt's office. The absence of
criticism was significant.

Dr. Callendar turned to the doorway and
beckoned Omar to his side. "What do you have for me?...No, no, no!
That patient has type ONE diabetes!"

Omar said, "Yes, sir," but when he glanced
up at me, one eye flickered in a wink.

Yes, things were back to almost normal. A
fledgling love and gratitude for my new life in Montreal unfurled
in my heart.

Still, Alex churned at the
back of my mind all day. Every brown-haired guy made me jump. The
sight of a water bottle, a miniskirt, an
Au Pain Doré
bag, or a bicycle all
reminded me of him.

It was an obsession.

I had to talk to him. Sort it out one way or
another. If we ended up in a passionate embrace in front of the
sunset, great. If not, probably even better.

Alex and I were on a weird relationship
see-saw. Every time I was up, he was down, and vice versa. We could
never find an equilibrium. Or rather, we only did once, that night
at his place.

I took the 5:35 Côte-des-Neiges bus to his
apartment. I had to stand, clinging to the silver rail, pressed
between a group of schoolgirls in uniform and a black guy in
sunglasses. I rested my backpack on my feet so it wouldn't abrade
someone's face. I peered through the forest of arms, trying to
figure out the closest stop.

Alex was right about one thing. The bus was
a lot faster than the metro. I didn't have time to change my mind.
I strode down the remaining slope of the mountain and turned east
along Sherbrooke. With half a mind, I enjoyed the "Golden Mile"
stores of Versace and Holt Renfrew, with their elegantly-dressed,
beheaded mannequins. Several limos had pulled up in front of the
Ritz Carleton, so the white-gloved, navy-uniformed and -capped
butler types at the brass and glass doors didn't so much as glance
at me.

I probably looked like a tramp in my
knee-length hemp shorts, white tank top and ginormous backpack.
Maybe this wasn't the best look for a truth and (possible)
reconciliation commission. Ryan once said my Mountain Equipment
Co-op bookbag weighed more than I did. Not sexy.

Of course, my backpack didn't stop Alex the
last time. I had to smile.

I turned south on Peel and headed through
the McGill ghetto. All the lampposts sported new signs. More waves
of packing tape and photocopying. "For sale: Ikea bed. Like
new!"

"Roommate wanted. Large apartment in 5
1/2."

"Le plus gros party de l'été!"

I barely registered the passers-by except to
check if they were Alex. I hadn't called. Hadn't paged. I just
wanted to know if we could try again. If he wasn't home, well, that
was another sign.

Not that I'd give up if he was out, but I'd
give it a rest for tonight.

I found myself standing outside Alex's
duplex. The pizza boxes were gone, but the wrought iron gate was
crooked and the lawn ever-weedier. I was glad to see the bike still
chained to the fence. Maybe he was home.

I picked my way along the cracked concrete
path and knocked on his wooden door. A small circle of a window was
inset at head-level, but it was too dim for me to see inside. A
white plastic Ad-Bag hung on his doorknob.

I heard no footsteps. Belatedly, I spotted
the doorbell on the left. Its one-note electric tone echoed down
his halls.

I took a deep breath. Okay. Alex wasn't
home. I should have called. I turned back to the street and
adjusted the straps on my backpack.

Footsteps padded in the apartment behind me.
Heart pounding, I revolved to face him.

I heard the chain rattle. He threw the bolt
and opened the door.

His bloodshot eyes were slitted against the
afternoon light, making them small and bear-like under his
overhanging forehead. His stubble had filled out into a straggly
beard. He smelled like he'd been lying in a rancid bed all day, and
he was only wearing a ripped white undershirt and tan drawstring
pajama pants.

I choked back a gasp.

He ran a hand through his rumpled hair, his
eyes daring me to comment.

I swallowed hard. My fists were knotted, but
I stood my ground. I'd come this far. I'd see it through.

He stepped aside, wordless.

He hadn't bothered to switch on the hall
light. The entrance was dim and smelled like stale smoke and
bedhead. I tried to breathe through my mouth.

Alex kicked some shoes off the welcome mat,
making room for mine. I supposed it was his gentlemanly move of the
day. I stepped inside, my toes curling inside my sandals. But I'd
been raised to take off my shoes indoors, so after a second, I did.
I tried not to grimace when my bare soles made contact with his
gritty floor.

He pulled the door shut behind me, making
sure not to touch me as he cut off the last vestige of
sunlight.

Neither of us had said a word.

This was not at all how I'd imagined our
reunion.

He beckoned me into the room on the left
with a white loveseat and battered wooden coffee table. The TV
against the wall was playing a Dentyne ad on mute. The fresh-faced,
laughing couple seemed at odds with our own mood. Alex clicked it
off.

I perched on the end of the saggy loveseat.
Alex glanced at the empty spot beside me but ended up dragging an
orange beanbag chair out of the corner and dropping down in front
of the TV.

I stared at the crumb-covered plate and
empty glass on the edge of the coffee table. I wasn't about to
speak first.

He did. "Hope."

Our eyes met over the coffee table. He
lowered his gaze to his knuckles. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

He exhaled. "Every fucking thing."

I tried not to wince. His words seemed to
reverberate off his empty walls.

He grabbed the edge of the coffee table. It
was an old '70s number, the wood grain dyed a thick, unflattering
black. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. Take me in your arms. After you
take a shower and brush your teeth. "My throat hurts. But I'm okay.
How are you?"

"I'll live." He released the coffee table
and began spreading his fingers on the floor, pumping his hands up
and down like they were pale spiders doing pushups.

I cleared my throat. "Thanks for the
card."

His gray eyes shot up. "No."

I stared at him.

He jumped to his feet and began pacing
around the card table on the opposite side of the room. He faced
the opposite wall and said, "Don't."

I stood and cautiously made my way toward
him, but left a meter of space between us. "Alex. What's
wrong?"

His gray eyes burned. He was a lean guy, but
his now-puffy face made him look older, more corpulent. "You should
go."

I shook my head, planting my hands on the
back of a folding chair. It rocked under my weight. "No way. Not
until you talk to me."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Why?"

"Because—because—" I wanted to throw the
chair at him. I forced myself to release it. It tipped but stayed
standing. "We solved the murder! Mireille and I!"

"I know," he whispered, gazing at his grotty
floor.

"Isn't that what's been hanging over you?
Freaking you out? Robin's gone, okay?" My throat ached, but I
wouldn't stop. "So what's with all the...mystery and angst? Let's
celebrate!"

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I wish I
could."

"God!" I stomped back toward the loveseat.
"Why? I don't get it, Alex. You told me your sad story about being
ostracized. I almost got killed putting Robin away. Drop it
already!"

"I can't," he ground out.

The pain in his voice halted me. It sounded
genuine.

He picked his way in front of me, blocking
the window. "You don't want anything to do with me."

I met his eyes. "Don't tell me what I
want."

I saw something in his eyes. Sorrow.
Stubbornness. And something deeper. Longing.

My lips parted. I reached for his hand.

He jerked it away. "No!"

We stood in silence, breathing at each
other. A dog barked outside.

He muttered, "I'm no good to you. I'm no
good to anyone."

"Alex—"

He shoved his face in mine. I could smell
his rank breath, nearly count the hairs on his face, but his
charcoal eyes fixed me in place. "Do you know where Robin got the
GHB?"

Suddenly, I didn't want to.

Alex enunciated at me, "I told him where to
get it."

My mind balked and restarted. "Alex. You
couldn't have."

His mouth shaped a laugh, although his eyes
looked like they were on a tour of duty of Vietnam. They told me
the answer even as I fumbled to talk. "You gave him a date rape
drug? When you knew he was abusing his wife? No way. That would
be—" Criminal, my mind whispered.

Alex finally backed off, laying his hands on
his loveseat and staring out the window. Two women jogged by, their
laughter muffled by the glass. As if it were an ordinary day. For
them, it was.

Alex said, "I didn't give it to him. About a
month ago, I told him where he could get it. I didn't know about
his wife. He said he wanted to try it. He was sick of hitting the
books. He wanted to try oblivion. Just for one night." His voice
dropped.

I snorted. "He said he
wanted to use it on
himself
? And you bought it? Who
would—"

Alex swung around to face me, unsmiling.

A chill ran down my arms. His hair curtained
his eyes. He smelled fermented. And now I knew he did GHB. He
seemed so far from my light-hearted lover, I could hardly believe
it was the same person. My T-shirt clung to my sides. His small
apartment was suddenly stifling. "Okay. I didn't know—I mean, how
did you know about that kind of stuff?"

Alex's face didn't change.

I backed up, inching toward the doorway.
"Yeah. Okay. Well, I'd better go. Tori's waiting for me." Total
lie, but he didn't have to know that. "I'll, uh, see you
around."

"See you in hell," he muttered.

I chose to believe it was his code for St.
Joseph's. My shoulder bumped into the plaster doorway. I felt my
way back to the door rather than take my eyes off him.

Alex reached for me. "I'd never hurt you,
Hope."

I squeaked, evading his touch.

His hand dropped. "Yeah. That's what I
thought."

If I were a real forgiving type, I could
look beyond and say it wasn't exactly his fault. But I did think he
shouldered part of the blame. He gave Robin his secret weapon
because he didn't know or care enough to check before handing out
references to local dealers. Obviously, Alex agreed, because he was
consumed by self-hatred.

I needed to escape. Fast.

I stumbled over a stray pair of shoes,
caught myself, and shoved my feet into my sandals. The straps
snared under my heels, but I didn't bother to pull them up. I just
grabbed his doorknob and twisted. "Good-bye, Alex."

I heard the ring of finality in my own
voice. His doorstep was cast in shadow. The early evening air was
cooler than I expected.

In answer, he slammed the door shut. The
frame reverberated. He threw the bolt.

That hurt my feelings more than anything. He
didn't have to lock me out.

But I knew, in a way, he'd locked me out all
along.

I closed my eyes, recalling that afternoon
we'd spent, the subway foreplay, the sun through the window blinds,
how Alex had kissed me and made me taste myself, musky and
sweet.