Читать книгу Forgive Me - Amanda Eyre Ward - Страница 8

“Please,” said Nadine. “I’m going. Send me to Lima. I can get in with the Shining Path.” Nadine’s hand rested on the newspaper spread across her lap. Her room was filled with papers, and news blared on the television. She had pulled the gingham curtains closed, and she fought to ignore the searing pain between her temples.

“It’s a standoff, Nadine,” said Ian. “Nobody’s coming in or out. And I’m not sending you anywhere until you get your doctor to give the good word. Nadine, honestly. Are you listening?”

“Ian…,” said Nadine. She drained her soda and stacked it on top of the other Diet Coke cans on her bedside table.

“We’ve already sent Clay anyway. By the time it’s in the paper, we have someone there. You know that.”

“Well where, then? Where do you need someone?” Nadine opened another soda.

“Where do we need a nutcase with a broken wrist?” said Ian. “We’ll talk next year, okay? I’ve got to run.”

“Next year?”

“It’s Christmas,” said Ian. “It’s Kwanzaa. Hanukkah. The holiday season. Kiss someone under the mistletoe. Recover, Nadine. I’ll be in touch.”

“You can’t–” said Nadine.

“Happy holidays,” said Ian.

Tucking the phone under her chin, Nadine clamped a cigarette between her lips and lit it with her right hand. She swallowed, and decided to play her final card. “How about sending me back to South Africa? When I took the Mexico City job, you made me a promise.” She tapped her cigarette on the scallop shell she was using as an ashtray.

“And I intend to keep it. I know your heart’s in Cape Town, Nadine, but you’re not strong enough to go anywhere yet.”

“My heart? Ian, please.”

“Do you have any idea how much you talk about it?” said Ian.

Nadine laughed, blowing smoke. “What?”

“Will Mandela bring peace to South Africa, what about the townships, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission… and on and on.”

“Really?”

“Everyone has a story that sticks in their craw,” said Ian.

There was silence, and then Nadine said, “But seriously, Ian? I need to get back to work.”

“Dear?” Gwen’s voice was tentative from the hallway.

“One second!” said Nadine.

Ian’s tone was kind. “Talk soon, Nadine.”

“But–”

“Good-bye,” said Ian.

“Wait,” said Nadine, but Ian had hung up.

“Nadine?” said Gwen.

“Come in.”

“Are you still on the phone?” said Gwen, opening the door. She came into view wearing a sweatshirt with a reindeer appliqué. In her ears were tiny ornaments, and she held an old shoe box.

“No,” said Nadine. “I’ll pay you back for the long distance,” she added.

“Don’t worry about that, dear,” said Gwen. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“I brought you something,” said Gwen.

“For the love of God,” said Nadine. “Please, no more crossword puzzles.”

“Well,” said Gwen. She stood in the doorway for a moment, and then she said, “There’s no need to be nasty.”

“I know,” said Nadine. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just… Gwen, I don’t need mothering. I’m happy for you and my dad, and I’m just ready to get back to Mexico.”

“Speaking of lovebirds…,” said Gwen, settling on the corner of Nadine’s bed, tracing a circle on the coverlet.

“Hm?” Nadine put down The New York Times and opened the Boston Tribune.

“What about you settling down? Getting married? Babies?”

“Don’t think babies are in the cards for me.”

“You still have time,” said Gwen. “Well, a little.”

“I guess I’m missing the mommy gene,” said Nadine.

“You’re so pretty,” said Gwen. “And you have lovely panties. Are they French? You could get a man, Nadine.”

“I don’t want a man,” said Nadine. “I want to get back to work.”

“What about that nice Dr. Duarte?” said Gwen. “Everyone has a past, you can’t fault him for that.”

“What?”

“Poor Dr. Duarte,” said Gwen, leaning in. “I really shouldn’t gossip.”

Nadine was silent.

“Okay,” said Gwen. “Twist my arm. His wife ran off with a Greek man she met on a cruise ship!”

“Jesus,” said Nadine.

“A Carnival Cruise,” said Gwen in wonderment. “Now she lives on Mykonos and has two children. Both Greek. So Dr. Duarte moved here.”

“I’m missing something,” said Nadine.

“Oh, he used to work in the city. Some terrible emergency room. He worked all day and night.” Gwen warmed to her story. “So Maryjane finally convinces him to take a break. They go on a Caribbean cruise. A Carnival Cruise, did I mention?”

“Yes, Gwen, you did.”

“So who knows? I heard she met the Greek in the buffet line. I keep telling your father: they have really good food on those cruises. Everybody says so. And things like Tex Mex night, sushi night, what have you.”

“I am really tired,” said Nadine.

“Tex Mex night with margaritas. He’d like it, don’t you think?”

“Gwen,” said Nadine, “I’m going to take a nap now.”

“Oh.” Gwen was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Well, I just had to show you what I found in your daddy’s things.” She held out the shoe box.

“Sneakers?”

“No, silly,” said Gwen. “It’s all your articles.” She lifted newspaper clippings. “He saved every one,” she said.

One of the clippings fell from her hand, and Nadine held it up. It was a story she’d reported from South Africa: EVELINA MALE-FANE: MURDERER OR MARTYR? Nadine’s stomach clenched.

“That is the most terrifying story,” said Gwen. “That little African girl! How could she have killed an American? And a boy from Nantucket, no less.”

“Jason Irving,” said Nadine.

“Right. What a sicko. Did she get executed? I certainly hope so.”

“She’s in jail,” said Nadine.

“I would have voted for execution, myself,” said Gwen.

“She was fifteen,” said Nadine.

“A bad apple,” said Gwen, standing, “is a bad apple, any way you slice it.”

“Actually, she’s getting out of jail, if you really want to know,” said Nadine.

“Out?” said Gwen, sitting back down.

“The Truth and Reconciliation Commission. TRC, for short.”

“You have lost me, Nadine,” said Gwen.

“Under apartheid–” Nadine began.

“Oh Lord,” said Gwen, holding up her palm to stop Nadine.

“What?”

“Well, to be honest, sweetheart,” said Gwen, “I’m just not interested in history.”

Nadine sighed.

“What? A bunch of people over in Africa killed each other. I mean, what can you do?” She lifted her hands, a gesture of helplessness. “ Anyhoo, I just wanted you to know about this shoe box. Your daddy’s cut out every article you’ve ever written. He cares, Nadine, is what I’m saying.”

“Evelinas appearing before the TRC,” said Nadine. “She could be given amnesty.”

“You’re like an onion,” said Gwen. “Lots of layers. I mean that.”

“Okay,” said Nadine.

“An onion,” said Gwen. “Seems all rough, but then it’s tender underneath. Makes you cry. Best when softened up a little…”

“I get the picture,” said Nadine.

“Anyhoo,” said Gwen, “I’m real glad we had this little chat.”

When she was alone, Nadine stared at the article, which she had written almost ten years before.