Authors: Elizabeth Brundage
The Doctor's Wife (9 page)
Until now.
She doesn’t know why she drives out Valley Road. Perhaps a morbid curiosity is all. To try to understand what happened, to see the car, to put it all together in her mind.
The road is slippery and she has to drive slowly. A fire truck rambles past her, heading back to its firehouse. Coming upon the scene, she sees orange cones lining the road. Patrol cars are parked in hasty diagonals. Several cops in high black boots, watching the tow truck pull up the burned-out Saab. Annie pulls over to the side of the road and parks. She gets out of the car and surveys the scene. Smoke haunts the air, and there’s the stink of burning rubber. Immediately, a cop comes up to her. “Sorry, ma’am, you can’t stop here.”
“I’m Annie Knowles,” she says, her chest heaving. “That’s my husband’s car.”
The young cop looks sorry for her. “You sure you want to see this?”
She nods, and he takes her arm and leads her over to the other side of the road, where together they watch the car come up out of the dense ravine.
10
MICHAEL WAKES in a cold sweat, a black shape swooping over his head. He thinks wildly that it is a bird of some sort, a bat perhaps, and he can feel the wind of its flapping wings. But it is not a bat, he sees now, it is a gun. It is a gun in the woman’s hand.
The cellar is dark and cold. It stinks of mildew. His body quakes and shivers and somewhere inside his head he understands that he needs to drink, he needs to get warm, but he cannot tell her. She lights a match, the wick of an oil lamp, and shadows swarm the room.
I’m cold,
his eyes rush at her, but she is not even looking at him. Her face is intensely familiar to him and he wonders if perhaps she is one of his patients; he cannot possibly remember now. His brain is too weary to make such connections. But still, her face. The way she has her hair pulled back, her gray eyes, the high Slavic cheekbones. The smoke billows and spreads across the ceiling and he watches it, like a net, enveloping him. For an instant he catches her profile, the way she concentrates on the cigarette, the orange glow brightening with each drag she takes.
I’m cold,
his eyes rush at her, but she is not even looking at him. Her face is intensely familiar to him and he wonders if perhaps she is one of his patients; he cannot possibly remember now. His brain is too weary to make such connections. But still, her face. The way she has her hair pulled back, her gray eyes, the high Slavic cheekbones. The smoke billows and spreads across the ceiling and he watches it, like a net, enveloping him. For an instant he catches her profile, the way she concentrates on the cigarette, the orange glow brightening with each drag she takes.
“You were dreaming,” she says. “Was it a nightmare?”
He doesn’t answer her.
“You had a dream about Annie, didn’t you?”
The sound of his wife’s name in this woman’s mouth frightens him. “Do you know my wife?”
“Of course.”
She sits down and continues to smoke. He does not want her sitting there. He does not want her anywhere near him. He watches her, all the colors smearing together. The drugs she gives him, making him sick. He wants to ask her how she knows Annie, but he is too tired now. He does not have enough energy to make words out of air. It is better if he lies perfectly still. It is better if he pretends he is dead.
I’m dead, can’t you see?
“I’m sick,” he mutters.
I’m dead, can’t you see?
“I’m sick,” he mutters.
“It’s just the drugs.” She lights a cigarette off the first and gets up, roams the room like a restless animal. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He doesn’t move, concentrating on focusing. His heart twisting. His mouth like he’s swallowed warm sand. “Jack’s party. We had a conversation in his kitchen.”
Jack?
“I cut myself. My husband was so embarrassed. He nearly knocked my teeth out when he got me home.” She laughs and then it slams into him: Lydia Haas, the painter’s wife.
Yes.
“I remember,” he manages. “In the kitchen.”
“I remember,” he manages. “In the kitchen.”
He’d gotten paged and went to use the phone. She was at the table, doodling on a pad of paper the way a child draws, her mouth tight, making flowers, hearts, rainbows, gripping the pencil awkwardly.
“I was drinking vodka,” she reminds him. “There was a great big knife and I went
oops
with the big knife, didn’t I? I went
oops
,” she says in a baby voice.
oops
with the big knife, didn’t I? I went
oops
,” she says in a baby voice.
He hadn’t done much, he recalls. Wrapped her up with a napkin, then went and found her a Band-Aid.
“I liked you right away,” she says. “You listened to me. You put your ego in your pocket. You weren’t a big show-off like your wife.”
“It was a fun party,” he says just to keep her talking.
“No, it was not fun.”
“Why not?”
She goes quiet suddenly and shakes her head, then stands up and begins to gather her things. Their visit is over. A slow deep agony flourishes in his ribs. His breathing is shallow, labored. Just the turn of his head sends the pain down his spine.
“Why?” he says, his voice a ragged whisper. “Why are you doing this?”
“He told me to,” she says in a singsong voice. “For the ghost in my womb.”
“Ghost?” he spits uselessly.
This makes her quiet. She stands up, weaving slightly. “I don’t want to talk about my ghost right now. Anyway, you wouldn’t understand.”
“I will,” he says. “I’m a doctor. I understand about ghosts.”
She turns, her face in the shadows.
“There was somebody else, wasn’t there? You had help getting me here.”
“No.”
“I remember someone. A man’s voice.”
“You don’t have to worry about him.”
“He may tell someone. The police.” He cannot disguise the hope in his voice.
“No. Not even a remote possibility. I’m very thorough, Michael, that’s something you need to realize about me. When I set my mind to something. No loose ends.” She drops the cigarette to the floor and puts it out with her shoe. “The car wasn’t supposed to catch fire. That was my little bonus.” She smiles. “See what I mean? No loose ends. No tattletales.”
It comes to him that he is completely at her mercy.
“You need to rest now.” She climbs the stairs.
“Please, don’t leave me here.”
“You’ll be
fine,
Michael. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.”
fine,
Michael. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.”
He remembers his hands, bound together at the wrists. “Untie my hands at least.”
“Not yet. You need to sleep and you won’t do that if you have your hands. Try to remember that I know you, Michael, I know the way you think.”
“You don’t know me.”
“In a strange way, we’re almost like family.” She laughs. “Now, get some sleep.” The door slams and locks.
I will not sleep,
he tells himself. But he can’t hold on. Shivering, he feels himself sinking into the smothering darkness.
he tells himself. But he can’t hold on. Shivering, he feels himself sinking into the smothering darkness.
11
ANNIE SEARCHES Michael’s drawers, the pockets of his trousers, looking for something she may have missed, some courier of fate that may have predicted his death, but finds nothing. She topples over the basket of laundry and searches the pockets of Michael’s dirty pants. A slip of paper comes out in her hand. There’s a name on it:
Theresa Sawyer.
Theresa Sawyer.
She hears a car crunching up the driveway and glances out the window. It’s Bascombe’s blue cop car. She hurries downstairs and opens the door.
“They’ve completed the autopsy,” he tells her. “Dr. Singh wants to see you.”
“I’ll get my bag.”
She leaves the children with Christina and they ride into Albany in Bascombe’s car. The weather is treacherous, all sleet and freezing rain. “Not exactly four-wheel drive,” he says, trying to make a joke. She attempts a smile, but her heart pounds and she’s afraid she is going to cry. Sleet pierces the windshield, and it begins to hail. The bare branches of the trees are clawlike, monstrous. The sky is unusually dark, tinged with a watery fluorescence. Bascombe turns off the expressway and weaves up to the hospital. People hurry down the sidewalks under umbrellas as the hail pummels them with menace. It is a strange scene, the yellow hail like an alien presence. Bascombe glances at her. “Hail fucking Mary.”
Singh is expecting them. A yellow folder sits before him on the desk. Bascombe pulls out a chair for her, and Annie sits down. “I’ll come directly to the point, Mrs. Knowles. We have determined that the man they found near the car is not your husband.”
As if someone has pulled a white shroud over her head, the room goes hazy and white. Her body spins.
Did I hear him right?
Singh’s obeisant assistant gets her some water.
Did I hear him right?
Singh’s obeisant assistant gets her some water.
“The first indication was in his mouth. The deceased’s teeth are either completely decayed or missing. After consulting your husband’s dental records, we found that he was quite meticulous about his teeth.” Annie pictures Michael’s mouth, his white teeth and easy grin. “Once we got into the chest, we discovered a pacemaker.”
“My husband didn’t have one,” she says softly, nearly disbelieving.
“We traced the registration number on the cardiac device. The man who was burned in your husband’s car was a drifter from Utica. His name was Walter Ooms.”
“Does that name mean anything to you, Mrs. Knowles?” Bascombe asks.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“I made a copy of the report for you, Detective.”
Bascombe takes the file. He puts on his bifocals and reads over the report. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Singh says.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Bascombe takes Annie’s arm, but she pulls away.
“I need to see him one more time,” she says. “I need to make sure.”
Without hesitation, Singh’s assistant pulls the body out and swiftly lowers the sheet. Annie stares at the burned body for a long time. Her eyes roam the outlines of his shape. “Did he steal the car?” she asks no one in particular.
“Possibly,” Bascombe says.
She turns toward him, shaking. “Do you think he’s alive?”
Bascombe sighs, says nothing.
She grabs hold of his arms. “Please, Detective, you’ve got to find him.”
“We’ll do everything we can, Mrs. Knowles.”
“No, that’s not good enough. Please.
Please!
You’ve got to find him!”
Please!
You’ve got to find him!”
Bascombe raises his eyes slowly, with pity, and pulls her toward him and holds her in his arms. This display of emotion overwhelms her and she starts to cry. “I will find him, Mrs. Knowles,” the detective promises. “I will find him.”
PART TWO
Flesh
12
ALBANY WAS A CITY that wept bitterly and did not apologize for its weeping, a city of pale brick buildings, faces like spoiled potatoes pulled from the dirt, acres of row houses, churches, firehouses, pale stricken faces, and faces yellowed like the pages of old books. Michael Knowles was the youngest of three partners in a small private obstetrics and gynecology group adjacent to the hospital, in the Medical Arts Building on Hackett Boulevard. St. Vincent’s Hospital was a sprawling edifice with overcrowded floors, overscheduled doctors, and discontented nurses. Dour nuns roamed the narrow corridors, which were painted a sallow shade of mustard yellow and reeked of paint whenever they ran the heat, which was almost always, no matter the temperature or season. The windows had been painted shut that summer, and the air-conditioning, which hissed and chortled in earnest, wafted sticky malodorous air all throughout the building. Michael had been born there, as had his own children, and it was the oldest teaching hospital in the city, one in which many of the attending physicians, including himself, engaged in bedside teaching. He worked tirelessly, and when he left the office at the end of the day it was never without a heady sense of relief. Over the years, he had grown accustomed to the routines of private practice, the growing bonds he felt with the nurses and residents, the patients who looked to him for guidance. The satisfaction he felt in healing them. His patients were various and wore the scars of a complicated age. Some came with bruises, strange torturous marks. One patient had severe burns on her ankles; she was three months pregnant at the time. When he questioned her she shrugged dumbly, her apathy obvious as her cologne. She gave birth in the fifth month to a mangled creature the size of his fist. Abuse of one form or another was common, even routine. There were days when he questioned his whole existence. There were days when he wondered why he’d become a doctor and even regretted it. The work was often grueling and continually exhausted and frustrated him. But then there were good days, when a patient would confide in him, when she would share her deepest admissions and seek his advice. Or when he treated a difficult problem, either with drugs or surgery, returning the health that the illness would have devoured, watching pain vanish from a face that has been distorted by suffering, that made all the rest of it worthwhile. It was what kept him going.
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