Читать книгу Forgive Me - Amanda Eyre Ward - Страница 7

On Water Street, Nadine headed for the Woods Hole Market. She walked across the drawbridge, her right hand wrapped in the long sleeve of her father’s coat, left arm bound to her chest. The coat would be perfect for work, she thought. It was warm and had enough pockets for a notebook, pen, and plastic bag. Nadine kept her passport and plane tickets in a ziplock and close at hand. Until the year before, Lily, who had been the reference librarian for the Woods Hole Public Library, had sent a small Moleskine notebook with information about every place Nadine was headed: a hand-drawn map of Ciudad Vieja with a history of the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity, tips on finding the best cheeseburger in Tulum.

Nadine and Lily had grown up like sisters, as they had no siblings of their own. Jim worked late at Falmouth Fish, so Lily’s mother would take Nadine in after school, feeding her Chips Ahoy cookies and strawberry milk. On Sunday, his day off, Jim took Nadine and Lily hiking along Sandy Neck Beach. Though both girls dreamed of being detectives like Nancy Drew, Lily fell for Dennis and went to Cape Cod Community College. Nadine went to Harvard and then traveled four continents before NYU journalism school.

Until the twins were born, Nadine and Lily still wrote and called constantly, reveling in the differences between their lives. But something changed after Lily’s frightening childbirth. The babies were early and sickly, and Nadine–traveling with the Zapatistas–couldn’t make it home in time to help out. By the time Nadine visited, Lily had already become someone else. She wasn’t interested in Nadine’s stories or the La Reliquia mezcal Nadine had brought from Mexico. Nadine spent the weekend cold and miserable, trying to feign interest in Bo and Babes sleeping patterns and weight percentiles. There was a new alliance between Lily and Dennis, too. Where once Lily had laughed about his dream of a McMansion and six kids, now she seemed to have bought in hook, line, and sinker, showing off her mini van and giant TV. Was Lily happy? Nadine couldn’t bear to believe it. She drank the mezcal herself on the bus back to Logan and made out with the man next to her on the flight to Mexico City, fondling him under the thin polyester blanket.

Nadine missed the Moleskine notebooks.

She bought a pack of Merits and made her way back to the Sandy Toes, jumping when she heard a loud rapping sound. It was someone inside The Captain Kidd, pounding at the window to get her attention: Dr. Duarte. He came outside wearing a yellow T-shirt with a salmon printed on it, his arms folded across his broad chest. “Nadine,” he said, “what are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same.”

He nodded quickly, his cheeks turning red from the cold. When he spoke, his words were frosted. “Left my coat inside,” he said. “Nadine, I’m serious. You need to be in bed.”

“You’d have to buy me dinner first.”

He looked bewildered. “It’s a joke,” said Nadine. “I’m sorry. I’m going back right now. I just needed–”

“Some cigarettes?”

Nadine looked down at the pack, visible through the plastic bag.

“Anyway,” said Dr. Duarte. “Please go home, Nadine. I don’t need a dead woman on my conscience.”

“Jesus,” said Nadine. “I’m not that bad off. I’m headed back to Mexico next week.”

“The hell you are,” said Dr. Duarte.

“I want a second opinion.”

“All right,” said Dr. Duarte. “You need to lie down and eat. Go home and get in bed. I’ll bring you some fried clams in an hour.”

Nadine blinked.

“Onion rings or fries?” said Dr. Duarte.

“I don’t–”

“Its freezing, Nadine. Give me an answer.”

“Onion rings.”

“Fine,” said Dr. Duarte. “See you soon.” He raised his bushy eyebrows and smiled, then darted back into The Captain Kidd.

At the front desk, a package from La Hacienda Solita waited. Inside, Nadine found her dirty backpack. She sat on the floor and emptied the pack with her right hand: rubber sandals; Pepto-Bismol and antibiotic tablets; three tamarind candies; a roll of toilet paper; condoms; a jar of Nescafé (when coffee was hard to find, she stuck her finger in the jar and sucked the crystals off); a Nalgene bottle; a headlamp; a Swiss Army knife; three lined notebooks; two Bic pens; an envelope of tobacco; and a tin of rolling papers.

And taped inside a composition notebook, the photograph of her mother, Ann, sitting on Nobska Beach. Even when she was sick, Ann had loved hiking to the lighthouse with a picnic dinner. She wrapped a warm blanket around her diminishing frame, a Red Sox cap covering her bald head. They would walk at sunset, the sky rippled with color. “I’ve never been outside New England,” Ann told six-year-old Nadine, “but there can’t be anywhere more beautiful than this.”

In the photo, Ann was young and healthy. Her black hair was tucked behind her ears, and her hand shaded her violet eyes. She wore a green bikini and smiled at Jim, who was taking the picture. Ann’s stomach was slightly rounded with baby Nadine.

“Knock, knock,” said Dr. Duarte, rapping on the door to Room 9.

“Oh, hi,” said Nadine.

“Why’s there trash in the middle of your room?”

“That’s not trash,” said Nadine. “It’s all my worldly possessions.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Duarte, “wow. I’m sorry.”

“It’s a reasonable mistake,” said Nadine, easing into bed.

“It really looks like trash,” said Dr. Duarte, taking a Styrofoam container from a paper bag. The smell of onion rings filled the room. “They were out of clams, so I got you a scrod sandwich.”

“Fried seafood. What kind of a doctor are you?”

“Believe me,” said Dr. Duarte. “Fried seafood is nothing compared with an amputated arm.”

“Come on,” said Nadine. “It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

“You’re on Demerol.”

“Right.”

“Eat your sandwich,” said Dr. Duarte.

“Speaking of Demerol,” said Nadine, biting into the soft Portuguese roll, savoring the hot fish, the melted cheddar cheese.

“No,” said Dr. Duarte. He sat on a chair in the corner of the room and turned on the television with the remote control.

“You don’t even–” said Nadine, wiping her lips with a napkin.

“Yes I do,” said Dr. Duarte. “You want some extra Demerol to add to your–” He gestured to the backpack. “–your worldly possessions.”

“But what if my wrist starts to hurt in the middle of the Sierra Madres?”

“Stop showing off,” said Dr. Duarte. “We’ll talk about it when you’ve sat in that bed for a while longer.”

“Right,” said Nadine. “By the way, this is fantastic.”

Dr. Duarte cracked open a bottle of beer. “You think I’m kidding,” he said. “Next time I come, Nadine, I’m bringing an X-ray of your arm. Haven’t you ever read A Separate Peace?”

“The boarding school book?”

“Phinneas dies,” said Dr. Duarte, pouring into a glass. “He dies of a broken bone.”

Nadine dipped an onion ring in ketchup. “Dr. Duarte, how about a beer?”

“You can call me Hank. And no, no beer for you. I got you an iced tea.” Hank handed Nadine the bottle, then settled back into his chair.

“What kind of beer is that, anyway?” said Nadine. “Looks delicious.”

“It’s my favorite, Whale’s Tail. They make it on Nantucket. Ever been to Nantucket?”

“No,” said Nadine. She thought for a moment of Jason Irving, who had grown up on the island. Then she forced Jason–and his sad story–from her mind.

“Too bad,” said Dr. Duarte. “The fast ferry only takes an hour. It always surprises me how many Cape Codders have never been. Ah, fourth quarter,” he said, finding a Patriots game on television.

“I hate football,” said Nadine.

“Well,” said Hank, stepping from his boots and propping his stocking feet on the ottoman, “it seems I have the remote.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Nadine, “I don’t get football.”

“You want me to teach you?”

“No,” said Nadine, “I have some research to do anyway.”

“Suit yourself,” said Hank.

Nadine opened the newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Damn!” she exclaimed.

“Beg pardon?”

“Damn Kit Henderson! He got my story.” Hank hit MUTE, came over to the bed, and leaned in. Nadine pointed to a picture of three men in handcuffs. “These guys, they shot twelve little boys. That’s why I was in Mexico, looking for them. They were drug traffickers, like I thought. Cleaning up their boy smugglers.” She scanned the story. “Kits a stringer. He must have followed up with my contacts. Goddamn it.”

“Nadine,” said Hank, “you’re lucky you made it home.”

“Home,” said Nadine, bitterly. “Kit Henderson got the front page.”

“The front page,” said Hank. “That’s what it’s all about?”

“Now you’re a therapist?”

“No,” said Hank. “I’m a generalist.”

“Teach me about football,” said Nadine. She folded the paper and put it in the trash.

“Well, to begin with, that’s the tight end,” said Hank.

“You’re telling me,” said Nadine.