Harvesting the Heart (74 page)

If
Nicholas didn't know better, he would think that Max was dead.

He
has forgotten that Paige is there too, but then he hears a choked
sound beside him. Tears are streaming down her face when she steps
forward to touch the side rail of the crib. Reflected light bathes
her face in silver, and with her ringed, haggard eyes she looks very
much like a phantom when she turns to Nicholas. "You liar,"
she whispers. "This is not my son." And she runs out of the
room and down the hall.

^chapter
42

Paige

because
my lungs are bursting, the dark streets echo my shrieks. Surely, I
think, I am going to hell.

Somewhere
in the back of my mind I am aware of the place I've come to. It is in
the business district of Boston, filled with pin-striped executives
and sweaty hot dog carts during the day; but at night, Government
Center is nothing more than a flat gray wasteland, a stage for the
dance-crazed wind. I am the only person here. In the background I
hear the flutter of the wings of pigeons, beating like a heart.

I
have come here with a purpose in mind. I am thinking of Lazarus
and of Christ Himself. It isn't right for Max to die for my sins.
Nobody ever asked me. Tonight, in return for a miracle, I am willing
to sell my own soul.

"Where
are You?" I whisper, choking on my words. I close my eyes
against the gusts that blow across the plaza. "Why can't I see
You?"

I
spin wildly. "I grew up with You," I cry. "I believed
in You. I even trusted You. But You are not a forgiving God." As
if in answer, the wind whistles over the glowing windows of an office
building. "When I needed Your strength, You were never there.
When I prayed for Your help, You turned away. All I ever wanted was
to understand You," I shout. "All I ever wanted were the
answers."

I
fall to my knees and feel the unforgiving cement, wet and cold. I
lift my face to the scrutiny of the sky. "What kind of God are
You?" I say, sinking lower to the pavement. "You took away
my mother. You made me give up my first baby. You've stolen my
second." I press my cheek against the rough concrete
surface and know the moment it scrapes and bleeds. "I never knew
any of them," I whisper. "Just how much can one person
take?"

I
can feel Him before I raise my head. He is standing inches behind me.
When I see Him, haloed by my pure white faith, it suddenly makes
sense. He calls my name, and I fall right into the arms of the man
who, I know, has always been my savior.

^chapter
43

_Nicholas

Paige,"
Nicholas says, and she turns around slowly. Her
shadow,
stretching ten skinny feet in front of her, approaches him first.
Then she comes forward and falls right against him.

For
a moment Nicholas does not know what to do. His arms, acting on their
own, fold around her. He buries his face in her hair. It is fragrant
and warm and jumps at the ends, as if there are live sparks. He is
amazed that after all this time, she fits so well.

The
only way he can get her to walk is by bracing her against his side,
one arm locked around her shoulders. He is really just dragging
her. Paige's eyes are open, and she seems to be looking at Nicholas
but not seeing him. Her lips move, and when Nicholas leans close
enough he can hear the hot whisper of her breath. He thinks she is
saying a prayer.

The
streets of Boston are dotted with costumed clusters of people—Elvira
and the Lone Ranger and PLO terrorists and Marie

Antoinette.
A tall man dressed as a scarecrow hooks his arm into Paige's free one
and starts to skip, pulling Paige and Nicholas off to the left.
"Follow the yellow brick road," he sings at the top of his
lungs, until Nicholas shrugs him off. Sputtering lamps cast shadows
that creep down the alleys on the backs of dead October leaves.
Nicholas can smell winter.

When
he reaches the parking garage at Mass General, he picks Paige up in
his arms and carries her to his car. He sets her down on her feet
while he slides Max's car seat over to one side, pushing a little
terry-cloth clown rattle and a sticky pacifier. Then he helps Paige
into the back seat, laying her on her side and covering her with his
jacket. As he pulls the collar up under her neck, she grabs his hand
and holds it with the strength of a vise. She is staring over his
shoulder, and that's when she begins to scream.

Nicholas
turns around and comes face-to-face with Death. Standing beside
the door is an impossibly tall person in the flowing black robes of
the Grim Reaper. His eyes are hidden in the folds of his hood, and
the point of his tinfoil scythe just grazes Nicholas's shoulder.
"Get out of here," Nicholas says, and then he shouts the
words. He pushes at the cloak, which seems as insubstantial as ink.
Paige stops screaming and sits up, struggling to get out. Nicholas
closes her door and pulls himself into the car. He drives past the
gaping face into the tangled streets of Boston, toward the sanctuary
of his home.

"Paige,"
Nicholas says. She doesn't answer. He peeks into the rearview mirror,
and her eyes stare wide. "Paige," he says again, louder.
"Max is going to be fine. He's going to be
fine."

He
watches her eyes as he says this, and he thinks he can see a glimmer
of recognition, but that might just be the murky light in the car. He
wonders what pharmacies are open in Cambridge, what he could
prescribe that might snap Paige out of this. Normally he'd suggest
Valium, but Paige is calm now. Too calm, really. He wants to see her
scratching and crying out again. He wants to see a sign of life.

When
he pulls into the driveway, Paige sits up. Nicholas helps her out of
the car and starts to walk up the steps of the porch, expecting
her to follow. But as he puts the key into the lock of the front
door, he realizes that Paige is not standing beside him. He sees her
walking across the front lawn to the blue hydrangeas, the place where
she slept when she was camping outside the house. She lies down on
the grass, melting the early frost with the heat of her skin.

"No,"
Nicholas says, moving toward her. "Come inside, Paige." He
reaches out his hand. "Come with me."

At
first she doesn't budge, but then Nicholas notices her fingers
twitching where they lay at her sides. He realizes this is a case
where he will have to go more than halfway. He kneels on the cold
ground and pulls Paige into a sitting position, then up to her feet.
As he leads her into the house, he looks back beneath the blue
hydrangeas. The spot where Paige's body was lying is as clearly
defined as a chalked murder outline. Her silhouette is obscenely
green against the frost, as if she has left in her wake an artificial
spring.

Nicholas
leads her into the house, grinding wet mud into the light carpeting.
As he peels off Paige's coat and towels her hair dry with a clean
dishcloth, he looks over the smudged footprints and decides he likes
them; they make him feel as if he knows where he's been. He tosses
Paige's coat onto the floor, and then her damp shirt and her jeans.
He watches each piece of clothing fall like a bright jewel against
the sickly palette of the rug.

Nicholas
is so fascinated by the splashes of color blooming across the living
room that he does not notice Paige at first. She shivers in front of
him, wearing only her underwear. When Nicholas turns to her, he is
amazed by the contrasts of color: the tanned line of Paige's neck
against the milky skin of her chest; the severe imprint of a
birthmark against the whiteness of her belly. If Paige notices his
scrutiny, she says nothing. Her eyes stay lowered, and her hands rub
up and down her crossed arms. "Say something to me,"
Nicholas urges. "Say anything."

If
she is really in shock, the last thing she should be doing is to
stand half naked in the middle of a cold room. Nicholas thinks about
bundling her in the old wedding-ring quilt they keep somewhere in the
damn house, but he has no idea which closet it's in. He puts his arms
around her, and the chill of her skin shudders down his own spine.

Nicholas
leads her upstairs to the bathroom. He closes the door and runs the
hottest water into the tub, letting the steam cloud the mirrors. When
the water fills the tub halfway, he unhooks Paige's bra and slips off
her underpants. He helps her into the tub and watches her teeth
chatter and the mist rise around her. He stares beneath the ripple of
the water at the stretch marks on her hips, now painted an airy
silver, as if giving birth is really nothing more than a distant
memory.

Automatically,
Nicholas picks up the dinosaur-print washcloth and begins to soap
Paige as he does Max. He starts with her feet, leaning half into the
tub to clean between the toes and to massage the arches. He moves up
her legs, sliding the washcloth behind her knees and over her thighs.
He rubs her arms and her stomach and the shoulder-blade hollows of
her back. He uses the buoyancy of the water to lift her, slipping the
washcloth over her bottom and through her legs. He washes her breasts
and sees the nipples tighten. He takes the Tupperware cup he keeps on
the bathtub ledge and pours clean water over Paige's hair, tilting
her head back as the dark-red strands grow sleek and black.

Nicholas
wrings out the washcloth and hangs it up to dry. The water is still
running in the tub, the level rising. As Paige starts to move, water
splashes onto his shirt and in his lap. She reaches forward and makes
a low, throaty sound, stretching her hand toward Max's rubber duck.
Her fingers close over the yellow head, the orange bill. "Oh,
God,'' she says, turning to Nicholas. "Oh, my God."

It
happens very quickly—Paige lurches out of the tub and Nicholas
rises up to meet her. She wraps her arms around his neck and clutches
at the fabric of his shirt until it pulls over his head. All the time
he is kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. His fingertips
circle her breasts as her hands struggle to unbuckle and unzip. When
they are both naked, Nicholas leans over Paige on the white tile and
gently brushes her lips. To his surprise, she locks her fingers into
his hair, kissing him greedily and refusing to free him.