Chapter 32
The torrential rain pelts the shrubs outside Bartholomew’s living room window, drumming on the windowsill. Each strike sends a jolt of piercing pain from my temple to the back of my skull.
“…so, obviously, I had to insist they take the treadmill back. Perhaps I entered the speed setting incorrectly, or maybe I’m just too slow these days.
In any case, these new machines are not for me.
I think I’ll stick to walking around the neighborhood, since having scraped knees at my age is absolutely ridiculous. ”
Bartholomew shrugs and snatches the pen from his coffee table. A moment later, the familiar rapid clicking fills the room, amplifying my migraine. “So, what have you been up to lately? How’s Iris? Any new developments in your, um, cheating situation?”
My gaze stays glued to the lowest branch of the maple tree, watching the raindrops hit the leaves.
Initially, I tried counting them, but with the wind and the rain, I lost count around two hundred and seven.
Now, I’m just watching them being flung every which way, barely hanging on to the branch.
Barely staying alive in the middle of the relentless storm.
Christ. I’m contemplating the fate of leaves. What else am I going to focus on to avoid thinking about last night? To stop remembering my wife’s whispered words? To get past the searing pain in my heart?
Barty clears his throat. “You know, as much as I love hearing myself talk—something that happens not too often when you’re around—spitting out random nonsense for an hour straight, this early in the morning, is truly tiring. What’s going on with you?”
What is she going to do when I come home later?
I left the house at first light, ensuring we didn’t run into each other this morning, but eventually, we’ll come face-to-face.
Is she going to pretend that nothing happened?
Or will she look me in the eyes and tell me the truth? That she is in love with another man.
“Adriano? You’re worrying me.”
I don’t think I can do this anymore. But I can’t stop, either. It’s killing me, and yet, I can’t find the strength or the will to put an end to this madness.
“Okay. If you don’t want to talk today, that’s fine with me. I’ll just brew some tea and check out the news, something I didn’t get the chance to do with you barging into my home at the crack of dawn. Do you want a cup? No? Fine. Fine. Keep sulking in the corner.”
The hum of an electric kettle soon turns to a roar as the water boils. The pain in my head gets worse. I remove my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose.
There were times in the past three months, in some of my most desperate moments, when I considered making a move on my Little Iris as myself.
As her husband. I would reach out, nearly take her hand, as we passed each other in our home.
But I would pull back before touching her.
When she’d return after playing with Taffy in the yard, my fingers would itch to pick the grass and twigs out of her pretty hair.
But I’d ignore my instinct and turn away from the adorable sight she presented.
I’ve stopped myself countless times from licking away the smear of flour on her cheek whenever I found her in the kitchen making fresh pasta or baking bread.
I chickened out every time, just before making contact.
Knowing she would pull away from me in disgust is hard enough.
Experiencing it for real… I don’t think I’d survive.
“Ah, look!” Barty exclaims between sips of his tea.
“The exhibit of Crown Jewels of the European Royalty is heading to Toronto next. It won’t be the same, though, right?
Not without the Goccia di Luna.” He sucks in a breath.
“Wait. Hold on, there’s an update. It says the famous necklace will be making the trek to Canada after all.
I didn’t expect you to allow it to be taken across the border. ”
He looks up from his phone, his eyes frantic.
“You… You gave it away.”
I did.
Sent an email to the exhibition curator, as soon as I got home from the Annex, agreeing to extend the loan, with privileges to take the necklace out of the country. And I indicated my willingness to make it a strings-free donation, proposing a meeting to discuss it on Monday.
“A diamond worth about one hundred million dollars… You gave it up just because she asked you to?”
Actually, at a private auction, it would probably fetch twice as much. But that’s neither here nor there at this point.
“Why?” Bartholomew snarls. “Why would you do it?”
I hold his gaze.
“That’s it? You’re just going to sit there, saying nothing?” Rushing across the room, way too fast for someone his age, he grabs the lapels of my jacket. “Why would you do it?” He tries to yank me around. “I want to hear you say it, Adriano! Say it, damn it!”
I wrap my hands around his wrists and shove the enraged man off me.
“Lost cause,” he pants, shaking his head. “You’re a lost cause.”
At long last, we agree on something.
I grab my coat off the recliner and head toward the front door. The knob’s in my hand, the door cracked open, when Bartholomew’s words stop me cold.
“She turned you down,” he repeats. “You finally made your interest in her known, but she turned you down. Now, you’re trying to buy her affection by following through with her idea to donate the necklace.”
My fist tightens around the handle.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Did she tell you she hates you? Is that what this is about?”
“Worse,” I rasp.
“How could something be worse than that?”
It can. Many emotions, including hatred, can evolve. Change into something else.
I pull the door open all the way and look behind me. Barty is standing in the middle of the room, his shoulders sagging, and there’s a defeated expression on his face.
“Last night, my Little Iris told him that she loves him,” I say. “And that means she could never fall in love with me.”
Sometime soon, she’ll discover the man at the Annex is me, pretending to be someone I’m not.
Honoring my wife’s wish for the diamond necklace to be given away is a small price to pay for her imminent heartbreak.
My heart has grown hummingbird wings. Except it’s booming in my head like rolling thunder. I can’t look away from the two pink lines in the small window of the pregnancy test.
“Not possible.” My choked words seem to echo inside the empty hospital bathroom.
Only…it is.
I haven’t taken my birth control pills for the past two months.
I forgot to refill them, and then kept on “forgetting.” The excuses I made to myself were far too dumb, but they were working.
The truth is, I didn’t want to take the pills.
I… I loved the idea of having my husband’s child.
A part of him. One that would love me. Unlike Adriano, who is obviously incapable of returning my feelings.
Isn’t that why he keeps ignoring me at home?
Why he continues to pretend at the Annex?
Or maybe he’s like the other guys who frequent the gentlemen’s club?
Maybe he goes there to fulfill his desires, pleasures he’s not interested in sharing with his wife?
Oh God, I’ll have to confront him. I’ll have to tell him I know it’s been him all this time.
I wipe the tears that have been threatening to spill away and rush out of the bathroom.
“Mrs. Ruffo?”
Hurriedly shoving the pregnancy test to the bottom of my bag, I turn around, my eyes landing on a wild-haired man in his late fifties.
He stands a few feet away with a warm smile on his face and his hands clasped behind his back.
The white coat proclaims him a doctor, but the brown plaid pants with perfectly pressed creases along the legs and matching jacket make him look like an escapee from the nineteen-sixties.
The retro vibe is spoiled a bit by the neon-green T-shirt he’s sporting.
“Dr. Shaw?” I hang my purse over my shoulder and extend my hand to greet Adriano’s somewhat odd friend. “Sorry, it took me a second to recognize you.”
“Bartholomew, please. And I can’t blame you. No fancy Armani tux for me today.” He winks. “It’s all dry-cleaned and ready to go, hanging in my closet, in case Adriano allows me to crash another banquet of his.”
I force a smile. “I’m sure he will.”
“You seem a bit shaken. I don’t mean to pry, but is everything okay? Are you here”—he motions toward the hospital hallway—“to see a doctor or…”
“Oh, no. I’m fine, thank you for asking. I’m here with my mom. She’s getting her regular checkup.”
“Ah, yes. I recall Adriano mentioning she had a heart transplant. Is that right? How is she doing?”
“Yes. She’s doing very well, but we’ll know for sure once she finishes her meeting with her doctor. And you? Do you work here?” I point at this white coat.
“Once in a while, I do consult at this hospital. But today, I’m dropping off a few of my old research notes for a colleague of mine.
You see, early in my career, I ran a long-term psychotherapy project, and my colleague expressed interest in taking a look at the data.
” He chuckles. “When I said I have a few notes, I may not have been entirely honest. There are actually three banker’s boxes of written observations in my car.
It’ll take more than one trip to bring them up, so I came to get him so he could help.
The phone reception in the garage is awful.
All that concrete.” His shoulders sag. “Alas, I just learned he’s been called away on an urgent matter.
Guess I’m on my own. But that’s alright.
I’ll sacrifice my poor back and make the multiple trips to bring everything up to his office. ”
“I can help,” I offer.
“Out of the question. You are a lady, and your mother will likely be finished soon. I can’t ask—”
“Nonsense. I’m more than capable of helping.
And you can tell me more about your research along the way.
My mom will be a while still. She only went in a few minutes ago.
” And it will give me some time to pull myself together before I need to face her.
What if she guesses before I have the chance to tell Adriano that I’m pregnant?
“Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d greatly appreciate the help. The boxes aren’t too heavy, I promise. Let’s use that freight elevator; it’s closer to where I parked.”
“No trouble at all.” I glance toward the door separating this hospital wing from the main waiting room, where Theo, my chauffeur slash security shadow, has been forced to wait.
The hospital staff told him in no uncertain terms that no one, aside from immediate family members, is allowed in this area.
I can just make out his unmoving form through the narrow glass window.
He knows it will be at least another fifteen to twenty minutes before Mom is through with her checkup, so it should be okay if I go and help Adriano’s doctor-buddy.
“So, Bartholomew, what kind of research was it?” I ask as we head to the elevator at the end of the hall.
He adjusts his cuffs like he’s remembering a fond, old hobby.
“Nothing overly groundbreaking, I’m afraid.
I started the project while working at a state correctional facility some years ago.
You see, the government liked to refer to my patients as dangerous offenders, but I saw damaged, overstimulated nervous systems that simply needed to be reprogrammed. ”
“Reprogrammed?”
“Indeed. It’s a wonderful technique, though the word tends to frighten people who don’t understand the concept.
In a nutshell, it’s all about finding a person’s motivation, tapping into that thing that makes them tick, and then maneuvering them to act against their familiar—though not necessarily appropriate—nature,” he continues as the elevator dings overhead.
“With some individuals, it’s not difficult at all to pinpoint their stimulus.
But there are others for whom identifying the key motive could be a great challenge.
In cases such as these, a stronger push might be required.
Admittedly, some men will only choose the right path in life when all their other options are taken away.
” He says it the way someone might encourage a patient to take their medicine by holding a spoon in front of them.
A slight unease slips into the back of my mind as we enter the elevator and Bartholomew hits the button for the underground garage.
His tone remains good-natured, a smile stays firmly on his face, but even though he still seems like the guy who reminds me of everyone’s favorite jolly uncle, something about him rubs me the wrong way now.
I might not be a doctor, but it doesn’t seem okay to push people into something without their consent.
“Isn’t that a bit…”—the elevator doors whoosh open, revealing the well-lit garage—“well, extreme?”
“Some of my peers did think so, yes. But, if the outcome is positive, does it really matter what steps were taken to achieve it?” He chuckles as he points toward the far left corner.
“There, by the pillar. The green sedan with a yellow bumper sticker. Why, I must be losing my wits. I could’ve sworn I parked closer. Thanks again for the help.”
“No worries.” I shrug.
Our footsteps ring hollow through the cavernous space as we traverse the other parked vehicles, coming up to the absolute beater of a sedan with a bright-yellow bumper sticker that boldly proclaims, Tailgating is a matter of boundaries.
“Shrink humor.” Bartholomew grins while opening the trunk. “The boxes are in here. Let me just—”
A prick of pain radiates through my nape.
“What the—” I rear back, staring at the unfamiliar gun-like thing in his hand.
“It’s called a pressure injector,” he says. “A very useful device that delivers a fast-acting sedative with precise control.”
My vision rapidly begins to blur, and I stumble, bracing my palms on the car.
“Easy there.” I feel his arm around my middle as he guides my practically nonresponsive body to the back seat. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”