He ran the palm of his hand across the top of her head. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. There now. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“You-you cut off my hair,” she said, her voice loose and broken.
“It was a necessary unpleasantness, but there’s an end to it. Now we can relax and wait until the moment of-” He stopped short. His mouth twitched. “You’ve painted your fingernails.”
Her eyes were wide, pleading. “Everyone does it!”
“No, not everyone.”
“Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’m begging you.”
He smiled reassuringly. “Fear not. You’ll barely feel it.”
It was a simple procedure; they were artificial, press-on augmentations that left little dots of glue on the true nails after he tore them off. Then he pulled a chair to her side and rested. This process was more difficult than he had anticipated. He gazed out the window into the crepuscular sky, contemplating the outlines of the pretend palaces of the Strip, the headlights rushing from one nowhere to the next, hustling people about like the miserable ants they were. He was so fortunate to be here-sanctified, removed, anointed. So lucky.
His eyes turned upward, tracing the rectilinear line where the horizon melted into the sky. This was his favorite kind of dusk, with no moon and just enough light to turn the sky a rich roseate blush. Gazing at this masterpiece painting, he thought: who could doubt that there was a plan for us?
“Look at the stars,” he said after he wiped the tears and blood from her. “You can see the heavens so clearly. There must be a million of them. They’re beckoning to us, leading us to the truth, telling us how we can live among them. But so few listen. So few can.”
“Mister,” she said. Her voice was dry and coarse, a staccato grating. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you took me and you brought me here and I can’t move and, and-” Her voice broke down. “And I think maybe you’re going to kill me.”
“Well, I’m not. Not precisely.”
“Then why? Why have you kept me here so long? What are you going to do to me?”
He pressed his head close against hers, and his eyes shone with reflected starlight. “Something wonderful.”
2
Am I dead? I wondered.
My last night in detox, I woke around five A.M. and saw David standing at the foot of my bed.
“Sugar bear?” I whispered, only marginally awake. My eyes were filmy and I knew I was mumbling, but I didn’t think it would matter.
“I’m here, Susan,” he answered. “How are you?”
“Not so good.”
“Sorry to hear that.” My God, but he was handsome. Made my whole body go warm and liquid. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“Have you? I haven’t felt it.”
“Wasn’t sure you’d really want to.”
“Don’t be dumb.” I tried to move but my body wasn’t responding. Just as well. I’d have been crawling all over him, probably violating several hospital regulations. “Did you see what happened?”
“Yeah. You screwed up big-time.”
“Didn’t mean to. I was… confused.”
“It happens. So you’re leaving today?”
“Thank God. I threatened to bust some doctors’ heads if they didn’t let me out.”
He tucked his head, letting all that jet-black tousled hair cascade over his eyes. “I’m not sure that was the right thing to do.”
“I had no choice. They’re killing me.”
“You need help.”
“You’ve got some nerve, saying that to me.”
He was so strong, even when he was silent. Muscled arms. Adorable chin dimple. “I miss you.”
I reached out to him, but it was like touching a bubble: the instant you do, the filmy surface wraps around your hand and evaporates. I wanted to feel David so much. But my fingers fluttered like butterfly wings in the empty air.
Did I mention that I hated Dr. Coutant? Detested the man. I was only in that Popsicle joint six days, but it felt like a month in hell, thanks to Dr. Coutant.
“Let me state again that I oppose your early release. I think you need more time.”
“Especially when you’re billing by the hour, right, Doc?” I said it only because I knew it would infuriate him. The guy had been trying to get my goat all week-how could I resist the chance to give back a little of the same? I’ve been around doctors enough to know that they love to trash lawyers and other professional clock-watchers while ignoring the fact that their own bills are higher than anyone else’s.
He had me at a card table in the main lobby of the detox ward, by the nurses’ station, down the hall from the private rooms. The wing was all done up in calming shades of beige, with padded sofas and soft carpets. Like an airport lounge. “As long as the city’s health insurance is footing the bill, what do you care how much I make?”
“I was just saying-”
“The fact is, Ms. Pulaski, you have a serious chemical addiction, and six days in detox isn’t going to cure it. You need some time in a professional rehab facility.”
“Do tell.”
“I don’t get the sense that you’re taking this seriously.”
“Not as seriously as you, certainly…”
“Your addiction, I might add, was fueled by severe emotional problems, which you also are not dealing with.” He was a stout, short man. When he went into his sapient counselor mode, he leaned back, his arms folded across a belly not even his white coat could disguise, and used an orotund, patronizing voice that affected me like teeth on tinfoil.
“Hey, I listened to your lectures. I took notes, even.”
“That’s not going to help when you get the urge to drink.”
“Look, Doctor, I was never really addicted to it. I just let it get out of control. I’m not going to do that anymore.”
He fingered the rim of his glasses. “That is, quite literally, what they all say.”
“But in my case, it’s true. I won’t-”
“Ms. Pulaski, you do yourself no favors by minimizing your actions. You went on what apparently was a three-day bender that culminated in serious-”
“I made a mistake-”
“You had an alcoholic delirium, turned violent, and nearly killed a man!”
I clammed up. It was obvious he wouldn’t let me go until he felt I had been sufficiently punished, so I just let it ride. He could inveigh against me till his beard turned gray.
“We need a plan,” Coutant said, frowning. “I’m never comfortable releasing a patient unless he or she has a road map for overcoming the addiction. I want you to attend classes.”
“Classes? As in school?”
“IOP. Intensive outpatient therapy. I’ll put the information in with your release papers. Our group leaders are very gifted. You’ll be surprised how much you’ll benefit from it. And you should supplement that by attending a registered AA group.”
“So, we’re talking, amateur shrinks trying to get inside my head?”
He stared down at the table. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully, being oh so tolerant, which really drove me bananas. “You have a lot of anger, Ms. Pulaski. You may not be aware of it, but you do. That’s what drives your self-destructive behavior.”
I can’t stand this business where some guy with a beard and a Ph.D. spends an hour with you and thinks he knows your whole life story. “Look-am I getting out or not?”
“I don’t have the power to keep you against your will. I wish I did.”
“Then give me my Get Out of Jail card and let me go.”
“But we need a plan.”
“Why? So you can magnify the paper jam in your file?”
“Because if we don’t, you’ll start drinking again. Too often alcoholics have to hit rock bottom before they stop abusing alcohol and start putting their life back together.”
“That’s bullshit. If I say I won’t drink, I won’t drink.” I got up and walked to the door-locked, of course-making it clear I was ready to leave. Hadn’t I played his games long enough? Why was he so determined to prove that I had dark, insuperable problems that only he could solve? I had a job and a house and a niece who must be bouncing off the walls by now. Why should I let these people drain the insurance companies dry making referrals to one another? I had a life to live.