Kindred (12 page)

“Is that what this would be?” I ask him quietly.

“Miriam,” he says, rubbing his shaved head. “Why are you
doing this?” The movement flexes his biceps and makes the tattoos roil.

I can’t take my eyes off his arms. A dragon with green scales and a tail that curves around to the crook of his elbow. A palm tree (I think of the tea shop friend in Florida again). A snowcapped mountain, Fuji maybe. It’s so sharp and clear I feel I should recognize it. Maori designs wrap around his wrists like shackles.

“What’s the tattoo on your neck?” I ask him. I can only see a curving black shadow. The rest of it lies under his shirt. I have wondered about that tattoo.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” he says, and this time he reaches to touch my hair. “You should find a boy good enough for you.”

“I just want to kiss you,” I say softly, my heart hammering in my chest. “Just one kiss.”

His hand plays with my hair as if he can’t help himself, and I step a bit closer, though not so much as to spook him.

“Yesterday was my birthday. I’m nineteen, old enough to know what I’m doing.” His sigh touches my face. “You don’t have to do this,” I say, feeling a fierce blush, a terrible humiliation, take hold.

His hands, large and sure, cup my face, the air heavy between us. He tilts my head and leans forward, and with our lips an inch apart, he stops. I can feel the heat from his face on mine. I want to surge forward, to close the distance, to attack his mouth and vent my frustration, my fear, my lust, my rabid fascination. Instead, I open my eyes, and as if that’s the signal he was waiting for, Emmett closes the distance and we kiss.

He’s soft at first. We touch lips, bumping together. He
slowly opens his mouth, his tongue slipping against mine. He’s gentle, but I want more. I lean into him harder.

“All right, Miriam,” he says against my ear. His breath and his words send shivers down my neck. “Okay.”

His hands tighten, and he’s kissing me as hard as I am him. His hands are in my hair, tilting my head for a better, deeper fit. He’s holding on so tightly it skirts the edge of pain, almost scaring me. But I’m not scared, not really.

He steps back until he hits the bed and he sits down hard, as if he has lost his balance. But he doesn’t let go of my face, so I’m pulled forward. To keep from falling, I drop my right knee on the bed, next to his hip. With one foot on the ground and one knee on the bed, I’m almost straddling him. The temperature in the room shoots up ten degrees.

His hands grasp my hips, thumbs right along my waistband.

He stops for a moment, as if to end it.

“No,” I say, “not yet.” And pull my other knee up on the bed, straddling him completely.

He adjusts his hands on my waist for a better grip as I sink down. He breaks contact long enough for me to haul his shirt up over his head. I feast my eyes on the designs revealed, natural and inked. I twist him around so I can see his back.

There, stretched out along the breadth of his back, spilling over his shoulder blades and curling up around his neck, is a giant angel, dark and fierce.

I freeze abruptly, my breath catching in my throat. Emmett’s hands grow still as he senses something’s wrong.

“Miriam?”

“Your angel,” I say, reaching out to touch the sharply detailed feathers, then stopping myself a quarter inch from his skin. That’s what’s been peeking out of his shirt, curling around his neck—a feather from an angel’s wings. It’s been there this whole time. I shake myself, like a dog coming out of water. Oddly, a quote from Milton’s
Paradise Lost
pops into my head, the last thing I read at college before I dropped out:
The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav
’n. The two have flipped so quickly, I can’t tell where I am from one second to the next.

“Why did you get that done?” I ask. I feel like crying.

“I needed someone to watch my back,” he says.

“Then you should have gotten a dog,” I say. The words come out harshly. The mood is broken. I push back my hair, which is soft and tousled and probably a mess. I tug at my shirt. Nothing else has been disturbed. I tell myself that a great disaster has been avoided as I step away from the bed.

Emmett starts to say something, then stops.

“I should go,” I say before this situation grows any worse. It is almost unbearably awkward. “I’m sorry.” I wave a hand in his general direction. “I don’t mean to be a tease.”

Emmett takes my sudden change of heart with remarkable grace. There are no scowls, glares or insults. Instead, he looks worried. About me. He takes my hand in his large, warm palm and squeezes it gently, silently saying what words can’t. Then he raises my hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss in the moist center of my palm. I hug my hand to my chest, feeling my face flame red. He pulls on his shirt, and I’m sorry because
I haven’t had a chance to see all his tattoos and because, damn it, I was close to having sex tonight. With Emmett. The thought still excites me.

“I—” How do I explain this? “I can’t explain.”

“Okay,” he says.

My stomach is starting to cramp, and bitterly I realize I’ll be spending much of tonight in the bathroom. Could this really be fixed with antibiotics? Suddenly I’m not at all certain the diagnosis is correct. I take a deep breath and focus on the current situation. On impulse, I lean forward and kiss a smooth-shaven cheek. Slowly, giving me a chance to bolt, he wraps his arms around me. With a quiet sigh, I lean a cheek against a hard, round shoulder, and we stay like that for a few minutes. Long enough for me to feel his heart beating steadily under the spot where our chests touch.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say as I pull out of the world’s best hug. “The concert, the tea … the kiss.” What a euphemism. The most sensual, erotic ten minutes of my life is more like it. “You’re a good friend.”

“Anytime,” he deadpans.

“Let me just use the bathroom before I go? Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I don’t have any.”

I smile at the weak joke. He points the way to the bathroom and I pray he’ll be a gentleman and not stand too close to hear what’s going on in there. Heading out, I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the window, the two of us looking thin and translucent against the black, dark night.

When I come out, he’s downstairs, wearing a leather jacket and holding an extra one for me.

“What’s this?”

“It’s cold out,” he says. “The car heater is broken.”

I should say no. But I don’t.

I climb in the passenger seat, slouching down, huddling in the cool warmth of his overlarge jacket. We fly through the quiet, sleeping streets. The ride barely lasts two minutes. He parks in front of my building. When I start to shrug out of the jacket, he stops me.

“Just bring it back to the shop,” he says. “It’s cold out tonight.” We both realize he’s created a reason for us to see each other again, and I’m grateful for it.

I nod my assent and then, with a last wave, head into my building, drained from the combined weight of disappointment, dull aching cramps and the now nearly familiar ache of feeling inadequate to the tasks ahead.

A line from the haftorah portion that I memorized for my bat mitzvah comes to me out of nowhere. A line I had forgotten about until now.
Heal me, O God, then shall I be healed; help me, then I shall be helped
. The prophet Jeremiah, using the old carrot and stick to inspire deeper devotion from the backsliding ancient Israelites. Guess I’m not the only slacker.

I don’t know what God wants from me. I don’t know if I can serve as He desires. And I wonder if He knows that. Maybe that’s why it feels like everything is falling apart.

W
HEN
I
DON’T HEAR BACK
from Dr. Kreger after a week, I call his office.

A bored receptionist puts me on hold, and shortly afterward the line goes dead. I call back, and this time I’m connected to a nurse.

“Miriam Abbot-Levy,” I say, and then give her my birthday, my Social Security number and my address.

“Oh yes, here it is,” she says finally. “You’re all clear, sweetheart.”

Her tone is so cheery and matter-of-fact that it takes me a second to register that this is bad news for me.

“Wait, what does that mean?” I ask, fighting a sudden wave of panic.

“No bacteria or parasites,” she says, as if that’s good news. I never thought I would ever wish to hear that I have worms.

“But that’s what the doctor thought was wrong with me.” I’ve been counting on a couple weeks’ worth of antibiotics and no more diarrhea.

“Well, it’s not,” she says, her cheerful voice hardening into annoyance.

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Sweetheart, that’s something you need to talk with the doctor about.”

I really, really hate it when strangers call me “sweetheart.”

“Okay,” I say. For some reason, I feel like crying. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Bye, now.” She hangs up. I call back and schedule a follow-up appointment.

I’m at work, in the middle of scanning a two-year-old wedding announcement, studying that unique, gushy style before I write my very first, when I’m suddenly lanced with a sharp, evil pain. It spears me right through my belly and I double over. It is so intense that I’m nauseous and my face turns clammy. I force myself to rise and hobble to the bathroom. I spend the next fifteen minutes cursing softly under my breath.

The next day I go to my appointment with Dr. Robert, the doctor Frank recommended. Back in yet another identical waiting room, I’ve already learned my lesson and bring a book to read. I can’t keep my mind on it, though. I wonder if Frank’s doctor will be any better. I try to be optimistic.

After sitting in the too cold room for only half an hour, I’m called in by a nurse. This time, when she tells me to strip, I say I prefer to keep my clothes on.

She pauses for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and
then shrugs as if I said something a bit eccentric but harmless. “Fine,” she says. “Whatever.”

My temper spikes at that, but at least I am not shivering and half naked.

The doctor knocks and enters soon after. Older and nicer than Dr. Kreger, he actually looks at me when I tell him about my symptoms. It’s funny that Frank called him “a great young doc” since he’s older than my father.

“And the stool test came back negative?” he asks after I’ve finished filling him in on what my current symptoms are, what the other doctor already covered and what he missed.

“Yes.” I wait for him to tell me what’s wrong.

“Then it’s probably stress,” he says.

“What?” I’m waiting for the punch line, for that twinkle in his eye that says he’s kidding, indulging in a little medical humor before the big diagnosis.

“You’ve had a big move, a new job—you said there was a lot going on in your life.”

“But I’ve been under stress before,” I say, my voice rising. “I have never had anything like this happen. I have never even heard of anything like this happening to anyone.”

“You would be amazed what stress can do to the human body,” he says, not unkindly. “I advise you to take it easy. Get enough sleep, make sure you eat right, go for walks or get other forms of mild exercise. You’re young and healthy; make sure you take care of your body, your mind, your soul, and you’ll see everything will be right as rain.” He pats my shoulder. “Any questions?”

I rub my face hard, like I’m trying to wake up.

“You’re saying I have had diarrhea and horrible cramps, and have lost fifteen pounds in two months, because I’m stressed?”

“Exactly.” He tsks, shaking his head. “You young people, you rush around too much. Stop ‘texting,’ ” he says, using air quotes. “Take time to enjoy this beautiful earth that God gave you.”

I stiffen at the mention of God. He sees that and, misunderstanding my reaction, he frowns slightly, then shuts my folder and stands up.

“If your symptoms continue for another month or worsen, come back and see me.”

Before any words can pass the lump in my throat, he pats my shoulder again and leaves.

I sit on the examination table, trying to sort through my raging thoughts. I have been eating too many greasy fast-food meals, not enough sprouted grains and organic spinach, but then again, my diet is no worse than it has been for the past couple of years and maybe even a little better, considering the fresh produce I buy at the farmers’ market.

I am getting a decent amount of sleep, and if anything is keeping me from sleeping enough, it’s cramps and hot, achy joints. I have been living in terror of another visitation, of my own personal judgment day. Yet that’s not going away anytime soon.

I scoot off the table and leave the clinic, but before I even make it out of the building, I have to turn around and use the bathroom. I hear two women come in, chat the whole time, then leave. I’m embarrassed, but also frightened. When I
finally stand, the water in the toilet bowl has turned dark red. It reminds me of the first plague of Egypt: rivers turned to blood.

Shaky and weak in the aftermath of my very own plague, I decide that enough is enough.

A bacterial infection, I can understand. Stress? No. Freaking. Way.

As soon as I get home, I go online and start researching my symptoms. None of what comes up is good. All the possibilities, from cancer to bowel disease to major bodily disasters, require a specialist. So I look up gastroenterologists within a fifteen-mile radius. Seven names appear. I pick one in the middle with good reviews. When I call to make an appointment, the receptionist tells me the next available one is in six weeks. The thought of six more weeks of these cramps and frequent emergency trips to the bathroom pushes me close to tears. I manage to tell her no thanks before I hang up and try a different number.

One by one, I call them all, and the best I can do is to get an appointment with a Dr. Messa in two weeks. Perhaps because she hears the strain in my voice, the receptionist says she’ll call if anyone cancels before that.

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by this act of kindness. “The sooner I can see him, the better.”