Authors: Roxy Harte
“When the board of directors demanded I request your
resignation, I should have refused. I’ve lived with regret for a decade and
haven’t figured out how to make this right between us.”
I am drowning in emotion. Phillip is killing me with words.
“Do you remember when I stopped you in the hallway and asked
why?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my chest tightening, remembering, not
wanting to.
“Do you remember your answer?”
I tip my face up to the ceiling, blinking rapidly, crying
despite how hard I am trying not to, trying so hard not to remember and
remembering anyway. The hallway was so crowded and I was trying to escape out
of a back door to avoid journalists at the front. Phillip suddenly stepped in
front of me, grabbing my shoulders, asking me, “Why?” and me seeing past him to
the courtroom doors where Gigi exited with her attorneys.
Gigi looked around the hall frantically, left and right,
then found my face in the crowd. She screamed, “Forgive me?”
I nodded, mouthing,
Yes
.
Looking back to Phillip, I answered his question. “Because I
love her, because loving her unconditionally is the right thing to do.”
Over the phone, I say nothing.
“Do you still want me to call her parents?”
“No. I’ll come,” I answer. “I’ll be right there.”
Hanging up the phone and leaving my office, I am going
through the motions. Numb. Fearful. I take a second to wash my face and try to
pull myself together before facing Lin.
She is waiting for me in the living room, sitting on the
edge of a sofa, back straight. Upon seeing me she stands and smiles. I go to
her quickly, pulling her into my arms and holding her tighter than I should,
inhaling her scent, expensive shampoo and even more expensive perfume. Her hair
is softer than silk, ink black and falling to her waist. I lift the weight of
her hair and let it flow through my fingers like a waterfall, regretting that I
answered the phone. “Dear, I’m going to have to cut our evening short. I’ll
call you a cab.”
* * * * *
As I approach San Francisco General, I can’t believe that I
am driving there to see Gigi after spending the last decade trying to forget
her and failing miserably.
She was a fascination at first, a teenager, obviously
troubled, and I’d wanted to help her heal from the moment I first laid eyes on
her. I will never forget the first time I saw her, because even if I hadn’t
taken the time to speak to her or become friends with her she was
unforgettable.
I’d walked into a coffee shop, my mind elsewhere, and
ordered a vente latte without looking up from the report I was reading. I paid
and accepted the cardboard cup with plastic lid without missing a word. I was
turning to go when I caught sight of her left arm, not her, just the inside of
her pale, scarred forearm. She was obviously a cutter. I realized I was staring
only after I’d counted to twenty…twenty raised white lines in a tidy row from
the bend of her elbow to her wrist. A quick glance showed me that the other arm
was similarly scarred. It seemed surprising, a curiosity even. She was
bare-armed, seeming to wear her scars with pride and honor.
I don’t know what I’d expected when I looked up, however,
lifting my eyes to her face, I was taken aback by her beauty.
“Could I get a muffin?” I asked, feeling more than a little
ridiculous that I’d obviously been staring an inappropriately long time.
She looked back at me, stone-cold, hardened, folding her
arms across her midriff, hiding the evidence of her past suffering from me.
“You want a muffin?”
“Yes, please…anything with fruit.”
“You want a fruit muffin?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Reaching into the clear front display case she passed over
the blueberry and banana-nut to lift up one from a tray labeled
pineapple-mango-papaya. I looked past the muffin to look at her arm again,
becoming mesmerized by its tragic beauty. She pushed the muffin closer to my
face. “This one fruity enough for you?”
Meeting her eyes, I smiled, hoping that my smile made up for
my rudeness. “Yes, wonderful.”
“Why don’t you ask?”
“Excuse me?”
She laughed, transforming her face from merely beautiful to
a countenance capable of inspiring artists, musicians, poets. “You’re dying to
ask about my scars. Isn’t that the only reason you’re ordering a muffin? You
don’t have to order the muffin to ask. The answer is going to be the same no
matter what you do.”
“None of my business, right?”
“Pretty much what I was thinking, yeah.”
“I’d still like to buy that muffin.”
“Three-twenty.” She held out her hand, baring her scarred
arm to the harsh overhead florescence, and it was all I could do to muster the
self-restraint required to not reach out and slide my fingers over the delicate
lines.
I paid her. “Keep the change.”
Not moving away from the counter, I lifted the muffin and
took a bite, mumbling, “Mmm, amazing. This is really good. Not that I’m
surprised, just pleased.”
“Really? Because I am totally surprised you have become
quite annoying,” she said sarcastically before turning her back on me. She
picked up a damp bar towel and started wiping the perfectly clean counter.
“Thank you for selecting it for me.”
She pivoted, glaring and shaking. “I want you to leave now.”
I reached into my pocket, withdrew a business card and left
it lying on the counter before walking to the door. I pulled the handle and it
shuddered in my hand—an antique door and an equally old doorknob. The brass
bells mounted at the top of the door jangled loudly. It was all slow motion and
surreal because the last thing I wanted to do was walk away from this girl. I
didn’t know anything about her but I wanted to. That part wasn’t particularly
odd. I was a psychiatrist, after all, and being intrigued by people’s
eccentricities was part of who I was but that didn’t explain the strength of
the pull she had on me.
I heard her laughing as I walked through the door, and it
wasn’t smug or sarcastic. She was laughing as if at some great funny joke, one
that I didn’t even feel was directed at me. I kept walking, but I wanted
desperately to go back and share the laugh. Instead I told myself to let it go,
to forget her.
Gigi was unforgettable.
The next day I left work, planning on working out at the
gym, and realized I was hoping to catch another look at her only after I was sitting
on the park bench across the road from the coffee shop, the sun’s heat blazing
down on my back. I didn’t go in for another latte and muffin. I did consider
how pathetic it would be when the police showed up and I had to explain how it
was that I wasn’t stalking her, I just wanted to offer her friendship. Thank
God the police didn’t show up.
At seven-thirty the sun was setting behind me, the
reflection of pink sky in the café’s windows. I hadn’t moved from the bench for
hours even though I honestly couldn’t be certain the girl with cutting scars
was inside. She appeared suddenly, her back to me as she locked the front door
and walked away. She climbed into the back of a black sedan with darkened
windows I’d missed seeing pull up to the curb.
The scene repeated for three evenings in a row until finally
it was Saturday and I didn’t have to wait to get off work to see her, except
she never exited the building. Likewise, Sunday.
By Monday I was frantic, imagining all manner of horrific
scenarios. I braved going inside. As soon as I saw her standing behind the
counter, I released a breath I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding. The
cappuccino machine hissed as she frothed the top of a ceramic mug. She looked
up from her task, carrying the steaming mug forward and setting it beside a
pineapple-mango-papaya muffin already sitting on the counter. She tapped the
side of the mug with her black-polished fingernail. “Today you drink inside,
save a tree and all that.”
The door bells clanged loudly behind me as I closed the
door. A quick look around the café assured me we were alone.
She kept talking. “Why are you spying on me?”
I crossed the room, pulling my wallet out of my hip pocket
while I walked. “I’m not spying, I’m—” Hell, I didn’t know what to say.
Swallowing hard, I admitted the truth. “The fact you cut yourself so many times
and displayed them for the world to see instead of hiding them intrigued me.”
“You want to shrink-wrap my brain and offer me a
prescription cure?”
“No!”
“You think I should be ashamed, remorseful, hide the ugly
truth from the world.”
“What is the truth?”
She snickered and I realized only then that she was wearing
a long-sleeved shirt, which hid the scars. She pushed up her left sleeve to
reveal a bright-red wound, scabbed over but still very new. “This one was for
you.”
My forehead wrinkled as I processed what she was saying.
“For me?”
“Sure. At some point I will hurt you or disappoint you or
fail you. I cut myself as atonement.”
I hid my mouth behind a sip of cappuccino, asking, “How many
psychiatrists have you told that one to?”
“You’re the first.”
“Riiight.”
“Are you accusing me of lying? Because I’m not! It’s the
truth.”
Her youth was revealed in her quick defensiveness and I had
to remind myself of that very important fact. She was young. I couldn’t counsel
her without parental permission, and I was walking on very thin ice. “I believe
you.”
Her eyes narrowed, and I realized she was assessing me as
methodically as I had been evaluating her. Turning, I took my mug and muffin to
a nearby table and sat down. I knew I should walk away. I told myself to run as
fast and as far as I could, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
* * * * *
Gigi is still in surgery when I arrive, and so I take a seat
in one of the well-worn waiting room chairs. I find myself alone in my vigil as
it is still too early in the day for the scheduled surgeries. Televisions
anchor the room, but the noise coming from them is a vague nuisance.
After a while the surgery waiting area fills up. Four hours
have passed since I arrived. Long windows bank one wall and the rising sun
announces the beginning of another day.
I select a magazine and pretend to read, but the words blur
into fuzzy lines of meaningless nonsense. In the hallway a toddler throws a
temper tantrum. I look at my watch and find I have lost an hour staring at the
page. I let out a heavy sigh. Worried. Anxious. Words cannot even begin to
describe what I am feeling. I stand and pace, but a few minutes later I sit
again.
Two men enter the waiting room and even before they
introduce themselves as such, I know that they are police detectives. So I’m to
be questioned.
Great.
I steady myself with a deep cleansing breath. I almost went
to jail for this woman once, knowing I’d done nothing wrong. It had been
close—a coin toss—heads I do time, tails I don’t. I call upon inner calm to
keep my voice steady. I am more innocent this time than last, but I am not fool
enough to deny that this looks bad.
“Dr. Kirkpatrick?”
“Yes, I am Dr. Kirkpatrick.”
The first one flashes a badge. “I’m Detective Carr,” he
says, then nods to the other. “This is Detective Robbins.”
“Detectives.” I stand and walk across the room, away from
curious ears, expecting them to follow. I have become the most entertaining
thing happening in a room of people who would kill for something to take their
minds off their own worries. The detectives fall in step quickly on either side
of me.
“We’d like a moment of you time.”
I lead them to a room reserved for physicians to deliver
news of how surgery went. I drop into a chair and motion to the empty seats
across from me, assuming what I hope is an air of nonchalance. “Sit?”
Detectives Carr and Robbins exchange a glance before sitting
down, a single chair between them. Detective Carr comes right to the point.
“Did you see Ms. Marconi earlier this evening?”
“No.”
“Any idea what happened to her?”
“I haven’t seen Gigi in almost a decade.”
“The admitting physician speculated she was restrained and
strangled.”
“Ten years,” I repeat. “That would comprise every day in
between, including tonight. That is, if you are insinuating I had anything to
do with what happened to her.”
The two men look at each other. Detective Carr says, “We’re
merely doing some preliminary work. Can someone substantiate your whereabouts
yesterday should events warrant it?”
That did it. I go from merely annoyed to pissed as hell in
seconds. Standing, I grind my teeth together and count to ten before I growl,
“You mean in case she dies before you have a chance to get answers from her?”
Stone-cold faces look back at me, but they don’t answer the
question.
“I was with a friend all evening.”
“Good, then you have nothing to worry about.”
A tap at the door saves me from my worst thoughts. A nurse
peeks in and tells me, “She’s out of surgery, Dr. Kirkpatrick. Dr Moyer said
you could see her now.”
* * * * *
I enter a small room directly outside the operating room, a
staging area before she is wheeled into recovery, usually utilized for patients
not expected to survive. Their next of kin is invited in to say their prayers
and goodbyes. It isn’t a good sign.
Even though I know what to expect, I am still taken aback by
the sheer depersonalization of the process. In a drug-induced coma, she lies
naked on a gurney, IV lines running to both arms. A respirator tube sticks out
of her throat, the bandages around it dark-red with blood. A suction tube
disappears into her mouth, and tape across her lips holds it in place. A
feeding tube is inserted in her nose. Catheter tubing runs from between her
legs to a clear plastic bag attached to the side of the bed. EKG wires run from
leads stuck on her chest, and a sensor glowing red wraps around a finger on her
left hand. Intermittent
bleeps
compete with the harsher sound of forced
air emanating from the respirator.