Part 12 (2/2)

”Are you there?”

”Yeah.”

”Since this doesn't make any sense, I called the COA. As it turns out, this Alma Borrero penned an article that will appear in the next issue of their magazine, describing the adverse effects of biopharmaceutical conotoxins on the human nervous system. They sent me an abstract-something about the treatment causing extreme aggression in trial studies on mice.”

Monica was sitting on a padded bench near the pay phone. She was playing with the plastic calling card, flipping it over and over as she listened. She pressed the edges of the card until they left a white line on the yolks of her thumb and index finger. Pressing even harder, she whispered, ”There isn't anyone else in the Borrero family named Alma. No adults anyway.”

”A married name then,” Paige said. ”How about someone using it as a pseudonym? Or perhaps it's just someone unrelated to you. ... Is Borrero a common name? Like Lopez and Martinez?”

”Not at all,” Monica said, curling her bare feet under her marigold dress.

”I gotta go, love. But I'll work late tonight and research the name itself. I'm curious to see what other traces are out there on this person.”

Monica hung up and went to sit down on one of the sofas in the lobby. She pulled the specimen catalog out of her day bag. She spread it open on her lap and went to the page she had dog-eared, to the Hexaplex bulbosa Hexaplex bulbosa. The plain little sh.e.l.l was suddenly a little calcified box of secrets. She sat for a moment, trying to clear her mind, figure out the strange riddle, and calm her creeping nerves. On top of everything else, Paige had hit upon controversy over the use of cone toxins on humans, a discovery even her father had failed to make-or mention.

Despite the warm air, a s.h.i.+ver ran up Monica's arms. She felt the presence of a thousand seash.e.l.ls, curled around the axis of their own mysterious past and glowing in the soft light of the display cases across the lobby. She tilted her head and heard the first stirring of something, or someone, approaching; like wind rustling through trees in the distance. No one ever found her body No one ever found her body.

The specimen catalog slid off her lap and landed upside down on the tile floor. Monica didn't pick it up, but rather remained perfectly still, her spine straight. Her green eyes blinked at the gla.s.s cases in disbelief, as if all those pale pink lips had suddenly abandoned their calcified state and had curled themselves around those words before returning to their silence and mystery. She remained that way for a long time, until Will appeared, sat down beside her, took her hand in his, and asked her if something was wrong.

MONICA HAD AGREED to ma.s.sage Yvette and three other patients at five o'clock that evening. Since her mind was racing, she welcomed the opportunity to occupy her hands. She believed in doing the most difficult thing first, so she chose to begin with Yvette. to ma.s.sage Yvette and three other patients at five o'clock that evening. Since her mind was racing, she welcomed the opportunity to occupy her hands. She believed in doing the most difficult thing first, so she chose to begin with Yvette.

Yvette's eyes had ceased their former ping-ponging, but her hands kept up a strange, almost constant motion of combing or digging. Her skin seemed to have turned a yellowish hue, and her lips were chapped and stiff. Will dipped a washcloth in a cup of water and moistened her lips. Monica volunteered her favorite stick of lip balm, which she later threw out in the bathroom trash, as if it were contaminated with Yvette's decay and ill fate.

”Can I help with the ma.s.sage?” Will asked, trying to still one of Yvette's unnervingly busy hands.

”Sure,” Monica said. ”Crank the foot lift on the bed up about a foot.” After he had elevated his wife's legs, Will cupped his wife's small feet in his hands, just as he had on the day of that first ma.s.sage.

Will said, ”Look at those hands. They won't stop digging. How can I get her to relax?”

”We can both ma.s.sage her hands. It's a very nice feeling to have both hands or both feet rubbed simultaneously.” Monica pointed to the night table. ”Grab some lotion.”

It worked, because Yvette's hands stilled almost immediately. Soon, Monica's mind drifted back to the conversation with Fernanda Mendez and what Paige had said on the phone. Monica was tugging at Yvette's pinkie finger when Will said, ”Relax, honey,” and for a moment, Monica thought that he had been speaking to her. When she recognized her error, she felt her stomach recoil. As if she could read what was going through Monica's head, Yvette abruptly withdrew her hand from Monica and slowly turned her head toward Will.

Will fixed his eyes on something behind Monica. Monica turned and saw an electric fan on top of a dresser, oscillating soundlessly into the s.p.a.ce above them. Monica turned back to Will and said, ”I know what you're thinking, and, no, it wasn't the cold air. Will, I think she turned away from me me.”

Will shook his head. ”If she could do that, then she could get up out of that bed and make a ham sandwich. You're tired, Monica, I can see it in your eyes. Why don't you get some sleep?”

Monica shook her head and rubbed her eyes. ”I have three other customers. Now get out of my way.” Will sat down in a chair across the room and opened up a newspaper. After a while, he wandered out of the room.

Almost as soon as he left, Yvette's fingers recommenced their roaming and digging. Monica was ma.s.saging one of Yvette's quadriceps, lost in thought again, when a thin, paper-white hand locked onto her wrist, then squeezed hard. Monica reacted as if she had been burned: she cried out and yanked her arm away. She rubbed her wrist, searching Yvette's face for a sign of life. There was nothing. Her brown eyes were as vacant as a doll's.

Monica was so unnerved that she cut the ma.s.sage short. Eluding Will, she packed up her tools and told the nurse on duty that she wasn't feeling well, and that she would conduct the balance of the ma.s.sages over the next two days. She found the driver and went back to the guesthouse, tumbling quickly into an empty, dreamless sleep.

”LET'S GO to the little store again,” Will said as he stood outside Monica's door at the guesthouse two hours later. ”I want a beer.” to the little store again,” Will said as he stood outside Monica's door at the guesthouse two hours later. ”I want a beer.”

”I'll pa.s.s.” Monica opened the door a bit. ”I had to drag myself here from the infirmary. Maybe my dad would like to go.”

”I don't enjoy his company quite as much as yours.”

Monica shrugged. ”It's time to settle in. Watch some TV.”

”There's no TV in the rooms, only that minuscule black-and-white one in the dining room, and there's already five women glued to it watching the stupid novela novela.”

”So what do you want from me? A coloring book and some crayons?”

He looked at his watch. ”It's eight o'clock. What am I supposed to do for two hours?”

”Start a journal.” Monica covered her mouth and yawned. ”Or would you prefer to study one of the specimen catalogs?”

He grabbed her by the wrist. ”Put your shoes on, you're coming with me.”

”Excuse me?”

”You're the one that's actually from this boring place. If you're not going to take me dancing, then the least you can do is buy me a cold beer.”

She took a deep breath and gave him a look that she hoped communicated all the reasons they shouldn't be alone together. It didn't work because he just kept looking at her, eyebrows raised in antic.i.p.ation.

”Okay, one beer.” She looked at her watch and pretended to yawn. ”Hopefully your life's story won't take more than an hour.”

MONICA FIGURED THAT if she could keep control of the conversation, then she could keep the evening pleasant and free from uncomfortable and compromising moments. ”So where did you meet Yvette?” Monica began. ”Did I hear Sylvia say that she worked for you?” if she could keep control of the conversation, then she could keep the evening pleasant and free from uncomfortable and compromising moments. ”So where did you meet Yvette?” Monica began. ”Did I hear Sylvia say that she worked for you?”

Will took a swig of beer and settled back into his chair in a way that some men do when they're about to tell a long story. ”I was nineteen,” he began. ”I dropped out of the engineering department at UConn and took a job as a department manager at a large store. Yvette worked for me part-time. She was starting her freshman year at a local community college, and when we started dating, she hounded me about going back to school. It worked, and I was back at UConn the next semester, this time in the business program. My parents went wild-she was smart, pretty, polite, and a good influence on me. That she was of Puerto Rican descent was a huge huge cherry on top.” cherry on top.”

”Do you think that matters?” Monica asked.

”To some degree. It does make things smoother if you know what's expected of you, culturally speaking.”

”And when did you decide to get married? Was it love at first sight?”

Will laughed. ”You sound like the chorus from Grease Grease.”

” 'Tell me more, tell me more,' ” Monica sang.

”I need a cigar first,” Will said, and stood up. ”Care to join me?”

Monica shook her head. ”Not tonight.”

When he was seated again with the last of the store's dried-up cigars, he got back into the long-story position and drew in a good long puff.

”So how did you know that Yvette was the one?” Monica asked.

He looked up, slowly. Monica knew by his expression, before he even spoke, that he was about to confess something. He looked off to the side for a moment, blew out his smoke, and said, ”The crazy thing is I almost backed out of the wedding.”

IT WAS WINTER, and Will had gone to visit a buddy who had the flu and was stuck in his dorm at the UConn campus. The friend was the type who would die before seeking medical help, and his girlfriend had broken up with him a few days before. Will was worried about him and so trekked up to campus after a snowstorm, on treacherous, icy roads. The afternoon was gloomy and dark, and he struggled through snowdrifts and footpaths in construction boots, his toes wooden with cold. When he got to the dorm, his friend's room was empty. Will walked around, checking the bathroom and asking for him, but no one knew where he was. A half hour later, Will was about to give up. On his way out, he happened to glance out the window of the dormitory's main hallway, to the open field on the back side of the building. He stopped when he saw his friend's figure standing out in a foot and a half of snow, recognizable by the b.u.mblebee-colored ski jacket. The friend had just finished digging a giant heart shape in the snow. Inside the heart he had written, in letters as big as a person, ”I love you, Alison,” and was looking up, occasionally throwing s...o...b..a.l.l.s at an upper-story window. Apparently, his gesture was being ignored by the ungrateful Alison. An hour later, Will succeeded in dragging his lovesick friend to the infirmary, but what ailed him was far more serious than the threat of the flu. and Will had gone to visit a buddy who had the flu and was stuck in his dorm at the UConn campus. The friend was the type who would die before seeking medical help, and his girlfriend had broken up with him a few days before. Will was worried about him and so trekked up to campus after a snowstorm, on treacherous, icy roads. The afternoon was gloomy and dark, and he struggled through snowdrifts and footpaths in construction boots, his toes wooden with cold. When he got to the dorm, his friend's room was empty. Will walked around, checking the bathroom and asking for him, but no one knew where he was. A half hour later, Will was about to give up. On his way out, he happened to glance out the window of the dormitory's main hallway, to the open field on the back side of the building. He stopped when he saw his friend's figure standing out in a foot and a half of snow, recognizable by the b.u.mblebee-colored ski jacket. The friend had just finished digging a giant heart shape in the snow. Inside the heart he had written, in letters as big as a person, ”I love you, Alison,” and was looking up, occasionally throwing s...o...b..a.l.l.s at an upper-story window. Apparently, his gesture was being ignored by the ungrateful Alison. An hour later, Will succeeded in dragging his lovesick friend to the infirmary, but what ailed him was far more serious than the threat of the flu.

Later that night, Will dreamed of the heart carved in the snow. In his dream, he was filling in the heart with words for Yvette. He was trying to spell out Te amo Te amo, ”I love you” in Spanish, but the letters kept rearranging themselves to spell out a far less flattering sentiment: Me ato Me ato-”I tie myself down.”

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