Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (20 page)

But I waved at them, signaling that I was all right and kept going, slowly, carefully into the bedroom. Becky was on my tail, yammering, holding onto my arm as I continued into the bathroom, bent over, and ran the tub.

“She’s taking a bath!” Becky shouted over her shoulder.

“Wait. She can’t get her leg wet—” Susan rushed in and out and back in with a plastic laundry bag.

“Hold on,” Jen tottered in with a cosmetic bag and pulled out a packet.

By the time she dumped in the bubbles, I’d shed my bikini and, sitting on the side of the tub, swung my uninjured leg into the tub. Susan and Becky hovered. Jen tottered to the door and supervised. I lowered myself into steamy bubbling water, resting my bandaged limb on the side of the tub where Susan wrapped it to keep it dry. Without my asking, Becky began to wash my hair. I lay back in suds, one friend gently cradling my foot, the other massaging my head. The phone rang. Jen said she’d answer it. I closed my eyes.

When I said, “Thank you,” tears welled behind my lids, and I didn’t cough.

They didn’t leave. They refreshed the cooling bath water with more hot, brought a bottle and glasses, and joined me, Jen on a straight back chair, Becky and Susan on the floor, chatting. My bath was a social event. A wine and cheese party without the cheese.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Norm. I’ll call him back.”

“Have you told him yet?”

“Relax, Susan. I’ll tell him.”

I drifted, lulled by the rhythm of their voices. Warm bubbly water embraced me with its stillness, the opposite of the ocean water, which had held me down and shoved its way into my lungs. Finally, I grasped what had happened: I’d almost died. My lungs and throat still burned from saltwater. I could still taste it, could still recall the calmness of giving up and accepting my death. And then I’d seen Charlie.

I’d seen him, touched him. We’d talked. He’d held me, kissed me. I must have blacked out, hallucinated.

I reached for my glass. Sweet, fruity wine rinsed away the taste of salt. Susan was ranting about her firm. Her case. How she’d almost straightened things out, but was planning to dismember certain people when she got back.

I slid down deeper into bubbles. Charlie had seemed real. I’d heard his voice, smelled his Old Spice. How could that have happened if I’d just imagined him? And we hadn’t been underwater. We’d been—I wasn’t sure where we’d been, but it had been dry. And comfortable. But it couldn’t have happened. It was impossible.

“Elle? Are you all right?”

What? Why would they ask me that?

“Are you in pain?” Becky leaned close, put a hand on my forehead.

“Why?”

“Well, you’re making faces.” She mimicked me, made a grimace.

I was?

They were all watching me. Waiting for me to say I was okay. Or that I was in pain. But I didn’t. What I said was, “I saw Charlie.”

Nobody said anything. They sat, three blank faces, watching.

“When I was in the water. He was there with me.”

Nothing. No comment. They thought I was crazy.

“I’m serious. I touched him. He was rock solid. Totally real.”

“Okay,” Becky rearranged herself, sat Indian-style. “Well, there has to be a rational explanation. After all, Elle, you nearly drowned. Your brain ran out of oxygen. So maybe you had hallucinations—”

“No,” Jen gestured with her wineglass. “She had a fucking near-death experience. You’ve heard about those. People who are actually dead for a few minutes and come back.”

“Elle didn’t die,” Susan commented.

“How do we know? She wasn’t breathing when she got pulled out. That woman who pulled her out said she thought Elle was dead. And they had to do CPR. Maybe she was crossing over and Charlie greeted her, but then they brought her back.”

“I don’t think so, Jen. People who’ve had near-death experiences say they saw a beam of white light. Or a bright tunnel.” Becky’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes, but sometimes they see their relatives, like their parents or grandparents or whoever they know who’s already died.” Jen spoke with authority.

“Jen, are you supposed to be drinking while you’re taking pain pills?” Susan poured herself another glass.

“One glass won’t hurt.” Jen sipped.

“It might.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you’re talking nonsense.”

“Don’t be so close minded, Susan. Shit. It’s fucking obvious. Elle saw Charlie because she had a near-death experience. She visited the other side.”

“The other side? Spare me.” Susan shook her head, rearranged her legs.

“It’s possible,” Becky insisted. “Madam Therese said Elle’s aura attracts dead people.”

“Don’t start with Madam Therese again. Come on, get real, you guys.”

“Why can’t you accept it, Susan? Maybe Charlie’s spirit came to her because she was close to the line.”

“The line?”

“Between life and death.”

Oh, that line.

“What did he say, Elle?” Becky said. “What did you see?”

What had I seen? I’d seen Charlie. Just Charlie. Nothing else. “I don’t know. We were together. Charlie seemed alive. He kissed me. He said we were soul mates.”

Susan groaned.

“Whatever, Susan. I touched him. He was as solid as this bathtub. We spoke.” Well, not exactly. We’d communicated, but we hadn’t actually needed to utter words.

Susan ran a hand through her hair. “Look. I’m sure it seemed real. But scientists say that all that stuff—the lights, the family members greeting you—it’s all just the brain reacting to impending death. The brain’s shutting down. Its neurons are firing, making you see things.” Susan sounded adamant. “Charlie wasn’t there. Your brain just soothed you by making you think he was with you. Though God knows why seeing Charlie would soothe you.”

“Which makes my fucking point, Susan,” Jen smirked. “Because if Elle’s brain wanted to resurrect someone to comfort her, it wouldn’t choose that bastard Charlie.”

For a moment, nobody said anything.

“So you guys believe in an afterlife?” Susan asked.

“Don’t you?” Becky’s eyes widened.

“I think life is here and now. And that’s it.” Susan leaned back against the wall.

“I don’t frickin’ know,” Jen shook her head. “Maybe there’s something, like a soul or a spirit that lives on after we die.”

I thought of Claudia crashing onto concrete. Of Greta’s dead, mangled face. Had they seen a loved one as they were dying? Had someone guided them across the line? Had their souls survived? Were they still here, watching us? I looked
around, didn’t see them, but sunk lower into the bubbles. Heard Charlie whisper that we’d be together forever, that we were soul mates.

“Living on after we die?” Susan considered it. She finished her wine. “I don’t know, you guys. To me, dead is dead. But I got to admit, it must be sweet to think otherwise.”

We sat silently for another moment. After a while, Susan picked up the empty bottle and stood. She asked if I was ready to get out of the tub.

I nodded. My skin was puckered, and the water had cooled, giving me a chill. I stepped out into a towel, wondering again why Charlie had been dressed for tennis.

I dozed on the terrace all afternoon, dazed and sore, my mind hazy and unsettled. I’d forgotten about my plans with Alain. When I woke up and limped into the suite, though, Susan told me that they’d talked when he’d come by to check on Jen.

“He’s coming by at eight. But don’t get dressed up. You’re not going out. He’ll just cook at his place.”

She said that Alain had been with patients all day, hadn’t heard about my accident until she’d told him. And that he’d looked in on me while I’d slept.

He had? Had I been sleeping that soundly? And, oh God, had I been drooling? Or snoring?

“He seemed very concerned. It’s obvious that he likes you, Elle. And it’s very thoughtful of him, taking you to his place.”

Jen had wandered in, carrying a box of crackers. Munching, she lowered herself onto a chair. “Whose place?”

“Alain’s. Elle’s having dinner with him.” Susan poured a diet soda.

“Alain?” Jen stopped chewing. “As in my doctor, Alain? That Alain?”

“The very one,” Susan nodded.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Jen turned to me, blanching. “You’re seriously dating my surgeon?”

I began to explain, but Susan interrupted. “You knew they’d seen each other—”

“Fuck I did. I thought they had coffee or something—”

“Well, why shouldn’t she date him?” Susan took out some avocados and a knife.

“Why? Are you serious?”

“What’s your problem, Jen?” I asked.

“My problem? Okay. My problem, Elle, is that you are like a sister to me, and that he’s
my
damn doctor. My relationship with him is personal and private.”

“But he’s your doctor, not your date,” Susan sliced avocado.

“Mine is the only relationship that
any
of us should be having with him.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Really? Dinner at his place?” She went on. “I arranged this whole trip for you, and in gratitude, out of all the available guys down here, you have to pick my doctor? I mean, shit—are you fucking kidding me?”

My face was burning, but I didn’t understand her anger. I kept silent, refusing to be bullied. Or to apologize.

But Susan wasn’t silent. “What’s wrong with you?” She stopped slicing, waved her knife at Jen. “First of all, if you keep eating junk food like that, you’ll need another tummy tuck.”

“I can’t help it if I’m hungry.” She looked at her belly.

“And, secondly, leave Elle alone. It’s not personal between you. You’re Dr. Du Bois’s patient, not his squeeze. And Elle’s single.”

“Yes, she is. But he’s not. Dr. Du Bois is married.”

Susan raised an eyebrow, turned to me, the knife dangling from her fingers. “Did you know that?”

“Both of you. Stop.” I took a breath, tried to not to cough. “I’m just having dinner with him.”

“While his wife, what? Eats alone?” Susan frowned. She was sensitive to the idea of husbands having dinner with single women. I tried to picture her portly husband, Tim, at a candlelit
dinner with a woman other than Susan. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.

“His wife’s an invalid.” I spoke softly, managing more words than I had all day. “They don’t have much of a marriage anymore. Besides, I’ll be here only a few days. It’s no big deal.” Why did I have to explain?

“That’s not the point,” Jen fumed behind her nose splint. “The point is that you’re overstepping. The man is my doctor. My turf. You’re trespassing on my territory.”

Really? Jen was claiming Alain as her personal property?

Susan and I both blinked at her.

“Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. We’re friends, but we each have separate lives and our own individual relationships in our own separate worlds. Norm is in mine. And so is Dr. Du Bois. You don’t just fucking step into someone’s world and start dating people there.”

I blinked. She was declaring Alain a citizen of her personal planet? “I wasn’t aware of this rule, Jen. Or of your deed to Alain’s person.” I coughed.

“Good God, stop it, both of you.” Susan used her mom tone. She came into the living room, plopped onto an easy chair, and pushed hair out of her eyes. “You know what? Ever since we got here, all we do is bicker.”

“Not true,” Jen said. “I’ve been too miserable to bicker.”

“See? You’re even bickering about bickering.”

She was right.

“This was supposed to be fun.” Jen pouted. Or I thought she did. It was hard to see behind the splint. “But Dr. Du Bois—or should I say Elle’s beau—failed to tell me how much pain I’d be in. Or how many complications I could get.”

I didn’t comment. Didn’t mention that Jen’s problems weren’t the only ones we’d encountered.

But Susan did. “Oh, cut the pity party, Jen. Get over yourself. Elle nearly drowned today. Two women next door died. I’ve had to do a month’s work in three days. Becky’s fallen for
some gigolo con artist. But you don’t notice any of this. All you do is moan about your tender tummy and poor purple boobs, which, by the way, you asked for.”

She finished with bluster, as if resting her case.

Jen’s mouth opened. “My boobs are purple?” She looked down, opened her robe to check.