Pulse (12 page)

“Chalk it
up to preference,” he said. “Or a passion. One of very few, to be honest.”

“What are
the others?”

He grew
quiet for a moment. It almost seemed like he was stretching for answers.
Glancing at the clock, it was officially past midnight, and I knew that he
should be sleeping. But here he was, staying awake, talking to me. Keeping this
alive.

“You,” he
finally said. It didn't sound cliché, or silly, even. It sounded, to be honest,
sad. “I guess the only other one would be you.”

Chapter 14

ALEX

“Why not
just keep the walls white for now?”

I was
standing in the empty nursery of Cait's new apartment, scrutinizing two paint
samples that were taped to a bare wall. Both were nearly identical shades of
green.

“Because
I want to start a color palate,” Cait said. “It's called nesting. Not that
you'd know, because you haven't exactly been around.”

I grit my
teeth, refusing to take the bait - I wasn't gonna go there. Not that I even had
a choice in being around for the first six month's of Cait's pregnancy. Now, as
she was honing in on the seventh month, she had no problem attempting to play the
Guilt Card with me. As if acclimating to fatherhood in twelve weeks was
something I could just
do
at the snap of a finger.

Maybe it
made me an asshole. I was trying my damnest to be better, however. I was paying
for her apartment while she flipped through job ads, financially supporting
whatever the baby needed. I even took care of ensuring she had the best medical
plan that I could afford.

And now,
here I was, trying to figure out the subtle difference between Persian and
Sweet Mint paint swatches.

“It's
just, why green? My last name is Greene. It's too much.”

“Who says
the baby is going to have your last name?”

“What?” I
turned to her. “Are you kidding me?”

Cait sat
herself down in the heirloom-quality rocking chair that was nestled away in the
corner, splaying her fingers against her stomach. It looked as if she were
carrying a beach-ball under her blouse. It was all baby.

“Are you
saying you want the baby to have your last name?”

“I don't
-” I stammered. “I don't know, Cait. But I'm certainly doing my fair share of
work to make sure this baby has what it needs. Don't you think that at least
makes me worthy of some consideration?”

She
sighed heavily. She looked uncomfortable, sick. I felt a mix of bitterness and
confusion – did I really want the baby to have my last name? Is this the route
I wanted to go?

After a
moment with her hand (slightly melodramatically) covering her forehead in
distress, she said:

“You've
never even been to any of the sonograms,” she muttered. “You don't even know
how big the baby is, or how strong the heartbeat is.”

“You've
never extended an offer.”

“You've
never
asked
about any of my appointments,” she snapped. “This isn't all
on me, you know.”

“Excuse
me?” I glowered. “I'm the one taking care of everything on less than three month's
notice. I apologize for not being more emotionally involved in something I
didn't expect to just fall into my lap. I'm sorry if I'm still getting used the
whole 'my life is going to be dramatically altered forever' kind of thing.”

Clipping
the tension, her phone started buzzing. She glanced at the screen, silenced the
call, and tossed the phone aside. It hit the plush carpet with a soft
thud
.

“Mason,”
she mumbled quietly. “He's been calling me incessantly.”

“Is that
something you think you're going to pursue?” I asked.

“I don't
know, Alex,” she said, looking at me, her blue eyes watering. “I mean, what do
you want me to say? I have no idea how to handle any of this. A part of me was
hoping that you and I could maybe try to work things out for the sake of the
baby. That we could try this one more time.”

I looked
at her. I really looked at her. I studied this woman who was sitting in front
of me, months away from the moment that would forever tilt the balance of our
middle-aged lives. I felt as if I were careening towards the edge of a cliff,
and there was no putting on the breaks.

I thought
about Mia – her face flashing through my head like the snap of a photograph –
and I felt ill.

“That was
over long before we even went our separate ways,” I told her. “And you know
that, Cait. This – us – is never going to happen again.”

“Alright,”
she said plainly. The oddest part was that she appeared, all things considered,
unphased. I guess I expected a slight lilt of emotion – but nothing. “I can't
force you. We can't force it. You're right.”

Her phone
went off again, and she groaned. This time, she let it ring, and we both just
ambled awkwardly in the pause that followed after.

“I think
you have a phone-call to make,” I said mildly. “I need to get to the hospital, anyway.”

“It's
nearly dinner-time. Are you on call?”

In the
foyer, I slid on my coat. I had been ready to leave the moment I stepped
through the door. On the kitchen table sat the tiny stuffed duckling. An Olive
Branch, if nothing else.

“Yeah,” I
said. “I have to check on a patient. He had surgery for a small murmur, but I
guess the anesthesia had some unexpected effects. Anyway, it pays to stop in
and talk to them. Make your face known, and it's less likely you'll be thanking
yourself for paying out the ass in Malpractice insurance.”

“Okay,”
she said quietly, and before I stepped out the door: “Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I have
an ultrasound on Monday,” she said. “Will you come?”

So, here
it was. About to become real.

“Yeah,” I
said. “I'll be there.”

So it
wasn't a total farce – I did need to check in on a patient. After which, I took
it upon myself to help delegate some of the files I'd finished overviewing to
Grace, and other nurses, and I pretended to care when Dr. Weisman was lamenting
over my not covering for him so he could run around banging some woman – who
the mystery fling was this time, I had no idea – that was not his wife.

When I
was finished, I bolted back to my apartment to shower, change into a white
button-down and a pair of jeans, and down a shot of whiskey to calm my sudden
nerves. En route, I stopped by the florist and bought a single sunflower.

Then, I
texted Mia, telling her to meet me outside of her apartment. The night was
heavy from the afternoon rain, and the blanket of heat made even the breeze
seem relentless. So I turned up the AC full-blast while pissing around on my
iPhone, wondering what music Mia liked to listen to, and waited for her.

It took
her a whole of ten minutes to come skipping down the steps, wearing a
knee-length, flouncy yellow skirt and a white tank-top. Her hair fell in loose,
tousled waves. She looked so effortlessly pretty, it was almost too much.

Opening
the door, she grinned.

“Oh,
thank God,” she said. “It's so hot out tonight.”

She
glanced down at the flower, picked it up, and her lips puckered. Jumping in,
she threw her arms around me, giving me a dozen small kisses on my cheek. I was
smirking like a madman by the time she was done.

I tossed
her my iPhone, and said: “You can pick the music. It's going to be a bit of a drive.”

“Where
are we going?”

“Clearwater,”
I told her. “I need to get away with you. I need to be someplace where we don't
need to think about who sees us. I don't want to worry tonight.”

Briefly,
she softened, a look of concern sweeping across her face. I touched her
shoulder, firm and reassuring, and after a moment she accepted the iPhone and
started quietly sifting through my playlist.

“You like
a lot of weird music,” she noted as we drove. “I don't even know half these
bands.”

“What do
you listen to?” I asked.

Her face
grew flushed. She was embarrassed.

“Oh, come
on,” I poked. “You can tell me.”

“You'll
make fun of me.”

“Maybe,”
I admitted. “But that's a risk you'll have to take.”

“Well,”
she said. “I like Taylor Swift.”

I burst
out laughing. It couldn't be helped.

“Ack, I
knew you were going to laugh!” she nudged me gently. “You're horrible.”

“Looks
like you're just going to have to just shake it off.”

Her eyes
widened, and then we were both in stitches. It didn't take much to know who the
major pop icons were. A casual flip through the radio stations broadcast their
hits over and over again, as if almost begging people to listen before they
either got sick of them or realized that they weren't all that great to begin
with.

I took
the iPhone, found The Pixie's “Indie Cindy,” and played it for her. One of my
favorites. She liked the chorus the best. I knew she would.

“I like
other music, too, though,” she said idly, her eyes darting around the car.
Occasionally she'd press a button, and the window would start rolling down, or
the ambient lighting would turn on. “Bastille, or Lana Del Rey.”

Typical
twenty-something-year-old fare, but fair enough. Still, she insisted that I
play for her the music that I enjoyed, which consisted of a lot of mostly
alternative and punk. I wasn't exactly ever edgy or punk-rock to begin with,
but in my college days, I went to a show or two. The scene was different then,
though.

Glancing
at Mia, I reminded myself that she and I were from different times. Mine was
the age of mass revolt, the whir of an old cassette when pressing rewind, and
too much lip liner. Hers was flirty, floral-scented, full of the full-boiled
need for instant gratification; engineered by social-networking, snap judgment,
and impulse.

As we
cruised through the empty stretch of black highway, the ocean at either side of
us, I forced myself to scatter those thoughts like cigarette ash. Snuff em'
out.

I didn't
want to see us for the opposite lives that we truly were.

She
smiled at me, her sheer lip-gloss making her lips look wet. Her cheeks, in the
dim light, were still a little pink.

“I love
the water,” she declared softly.

Rolling
down the window, she extended a hand, like she was trying to catch the wind.

We
stopped at the Clearwater beach, kicked off our shoes, and Mia went running
straight ahead, her feet kicking up the white grains. Against the back-drop of
the ink-spilled sky, it was dark enough that you could actually catch a glimpse
of the stars.

We sat
down, digging our toes into the cool sand, watching the waves roll in.

“Did you
always want to be a doctor?” she asked.

There it
was. The question everyone asks at some point.

I drew a
circle in the sand, stalling.

“Yeah,” I
admitted. “Always. I never faltered or went back and forth like some kids do in
college.”

“Why a
doctor, though?”

“Prestige,
money, respect,” I smiled a little. “Really, though? I like learning how things
tick. I like learning about the inner-workings of the body, probably like
watch-maker enjoys ripping apart and piecing together old watches, with all the
gears and screws. Everything has this intrinsic purpose. Every artery, every
vein, every blood-cell.”

She
nodded, and I added:

“People
blow it up, of course,” I said. “It's not glamorous. I'm tired a lot of the
time. Patients can be assholes; they want your advice, but they don't take it,
or they show up for an appointment asking for help and then berate you for
giving them an answer. And the hours are long. You never really have a life to
yourself.”

“That
sucks.”

“Sometimes,”
I admitted. “But it's what I wanted. And it's not like I worry about choosing
between bread or milk at the grocery store, so there's that. It's all very
privileged bullshit.”

I glanced
at her. In the breeze, her hair danced delicately.

“What's
your dream job?” I asked her. “If you had your pick. After college.”

“Probably
an editor, or a literary agent,”
 
she
told me. “Both almost seem impossible to get into, though, unless you have
connections. Maybe I could find my way into a publishing house if I started at
the bottom of the barrel as an unpaid intern, but how would I live? I don't
know. I'm still working it out.”

“And
you'd pursue this in England?”

“If
Cambridge actually
happens
,” she corrected. “I still haven't heard back
yet. Anyway, there's still time to figure it out. I'm young. I'll keep my
passport ready just in case.”

She
turned to look at me, her dark eyes a shade deeper in the hazy moonlight.
Everything, I think, is softer at night. The air, though still sticky with the
summer heat, was cooler by the water; the breeze was more cathartic. It carried
a hint of her shampoo along with the tang of salt – vanilla, and maybe some
kind of country apple.

I shifted
closer, touched a hand to her leg, and kissed her. Mia softened immediately;
eyes closing, knees buckled.

“You're
so distracting,” she murmured, but her voice had become low, heady. “We were
having such a nice conversation.”

“We can
still,” I breathed. “After I clear my head. All of these little things you do,
they drive me fucking crazy.”

“How do
you plan on clearing your head?”

I stood,
grabbed her hand, and threw her over my shoulder. Her playful shriek caught in
the wind, echoing across the deserted beach.

I ran up
the sand, grabbing our shoes, and we went by foot to a nearby hotel. I didn't
need anything fancy. Just four walls and a bed with clean sheets.

“You
having fun?” the lady at the desk asked. I was still holding Mia like a
lumberjack holds an ax, feeling about as rugged as I slid her my credit card.

“Yes,” I
said, and then added, because who really wants to stay and make small talk at
the front desk? “Bye.”

In the
room, I threw her down on the bed. She wiggled out of her skirt, peeled off her
top, and kicked out of her underwear. Her chest was already heaving; her heavy
breasts rising and falling with each breath. In the shadows, she was all soft
curves. Everything was enhanced in the lily-colored moonlight.