Forgive Me

“Lord help me,” said Nadine.

“Talk to you soon,” said Ian. “Not that soon,” he added.

Dr. Duarte had olive skin and a rich voice. Nadine hit MUTE but continued to watch Law & Order as he listed her many bruises and lacerations. “When can I get out of here?” she asked when he stopped talking.

“Out of bed? A week, maybe ten days. I’m most concerned about the head trauma, and we’ll just have to keep an eye on that.”

Nadine lay back and sighed.

“Can you turn off the television, please?” said Dr. Duarte.

Nadine hit the POWER button as Dr. Duarte told her how lucky she was to be alive, how her body needed time to heal. She nodded, eyes on her intertwined hands. There was a pause, and then Dr. Duarte said, “What’s it like?”

Nadine looked up, into his brown eyes. “Sorry?”

“What’s it like?” he said. “What does it feel like, being a reporter, putting yourself in danger? I guess I’ve always wondered what that feels like.”

“You just think about what you need to do,” said Nadine. “Warnings, they come into your head, but they go away. You do your job.” Nadine’s voice sounded confident. She did not say that some evenings, after her story was filed and she was safe in a hotel room, taking a shower, her legs shook so hard she had to sit down, letting the water rain over her until she calmed.

“You get used to being terrified, basically?”

Nadine looked out the window. She still remembered the dark winter days of her childhood, the sense that life was happening elsewhere. The thought of staying on Cape Cod was unbearable. “When’s the last time you were terrified?” she asked.

“Senior year,” said Dr. Duarte. “Right before I called to ask Suze Phillips to the prom. No, wait, my boards.” He paused. “No, Suze was scarier.”

“What did she say?”

“She said yes,” said Dr. Duarte. “I hung up the phone and almost cried with happiness.”

“That’s it exactly,” said Nadine.

“So being a globe-trotting journalist is like asking Suze Phillips to the prom,” said Dr. Duarte.

“It’s like asking her, and having her say yes.”

He nodded, pleased. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow. I can bring you some books, if you want. Might help pass the time.”

“Thanks,” said Nadine. “But I’m fine, really.”

“How many Law & Orders do you think you can watch?”

“Seven?” said Nadine. “Maybe eight.”

“Wow,” said Dr. Duarte. “My limit would probably be six.”

Gwen ministered to Nadine as if she were a child home from school. She made chicken soup and lasagna. She brought gossip magazines and crossword books. She went to Wal-Mart and returned with a nightshirt featuring a grinning cat. “I’m thirty-five,” said Nadine when she opened the bag.

“No one’s too old for Garfield,” said Gwen.

Nadine slept and watched television. Fellow journalists and off-again lovers sent flowers. Nobody called, however: what had happened to Nadine was the thing you didn’t allow yourself to think about. All of them were playing a game of chance, and even the best luck ran out eventually. There was a point at which many took a desk job, for love or family. But Nadine, with the exception of Jim, had no family.

As for love, there had been Maxim, shot by a stray bullet in Cape Flats. One love, one bullet. Nadine learned her lesson.

Three

Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where Nadine had grown up, was a small and strange town. It was located in the armpit of Cape Cod, an old fishing village now populated by drunks and scientists. In the winter, most of the shingled houses stood empty, barbecue grills sheathed in plastic, porch steps hidden by dull snow. Buttery summer gave way to lead skies by November, skies that barely brightened before June. Winter on the Cape was a time of resting, reflection, and deep depression. After two days in bed, Nadine defied Dr. Duarte’s orders and walked to School Street to visit her oldest friend, Lily.

“Holy guacamole,” said Lily, opening her front door with her shirt unbuttoned. Nadine tried not to wince at the sound of children shrieking over a loud television.

“It’s me,” said Nadine.

“Hm,” said Lily.

“Can I come in?”

Lily folded her arms across her giant breasts, but nodded.

“I’m sorry,” said Nadine, when she was settled into a couch that smelled like pancake syrup and diapers.

“So you said,” said Lily, “on your postcard.” Lily’s newest baby–a girl, by the looks of her pink pajamas–was asleep in the crook of Lily’s arm, and her two-year-old twin boys were watching a video called Hooray for Dirt. On the screen, a fat man in a construction helmet drove a bulldozer.

“It was a year ago,” said Nadine. “Can’t we forgive and forget?”

“Nadine,” said Lily, “I have three children under three years old. There’s nothing else to fixate on. Breast milk, crayons, and how much I hate you.”

“But didn’t you have fun in London?”

“Fun?” said Lily. “I took a boat ride down the Times. I had half a gross warm beer in some pub. The sun never came out. I went to the Tate museum by myself and I was late for the changing of the guard. I was three months’ pregnant, Nadine. I missed Bo and Babe–I came home a day early.”

“Thames,” said Nadine.

“What?”

“It’s pronounced Thames.’’

Lily bit her cheek and glared at Nadine. The baby had to be six months old, but Lily still looked pregnant. Her hair was pulled into a French braid, and her roots were showing.

“Have you lost weight?” said Nadine.

“Go to hell,” said Lily.

“Listen,” said Nadine. “Please. It was an important story. I didn’t have a choice. It’s impossible to get an interview with Marcos. It’s funny, Lily, actually. He wears this black ski mask…”

Lily widened her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

“I didn’t plan on it,” said Nadine. “I got us show tickets.”

“Mommy!” said one of the boys–Bo? Babe? Lily ignored him.