back then. I'm not kidding. Go back. Take a look at fear and separation studies from the late '60s, early '70s.'
'Are you aware that Clyde Slade was a participant in that study?'
Sandy flushed, shocked. It was astounding how quickly she regained her composure. 'I was not.'
'I think something else happened. Something to do with the study. There were pages ripped out of Connolly's files. I think the hospital removed the copies from the NPI and expurgated the files I found at Connolly's. I think if you wanted to, you could talk to some people and figure out a way for me to see what's missing.'
Sandy's lips pursed-they were just beginning to texture with wrinkles. 'Seems you're out of your bailiwick here, Doctor.'
'There are lives at stake.'
'How do you know that whatever information is or isn't missing from those files is at all relevant?'
'I don't. But if it is, and you withhold it, think about what that means.'
'Ah. A directive.' Sandy's cheeks drew up in a half squint. 'Don't pry too deep, David. You might not like what you find.'
'In light of what we're dealing with here, I'll handle it.' He paused by the door, tapping it with his fist once in a soft knock. 'I'll check in with you tomorrow.'
Sandy had already gone back to her papers. 'I know where to find you, David,' she said. 'Should I want to.'
For the tail end of her recovery, Diane had been moved to the VIP section of the prestigious ninth floor. She'd be ready to be released the day after tomorrow; her doctors thought it wise for her to remain on site so her eyedrops could be applied regularly and Silvadene spread over her wounds.
The elevator doors clanged open, and David stepped into the clean tiled hall. The door to Diane's room was ajar. David entered and closed it gently behind him.
Diane gazed through bleary eyes at the small clock on the wall. 'Eleven o'clock, huh?'
'It's ten.'
'Oh. Either way, you look exhausted. Go home and get some sleep.'
He felt a pull toward the door-a necessity to pursue, to investigate, to undo-but he could not move. Diane's face was shiny with antibiotic creme and, inexplicably, even more beautiful for its scars. They seemed to highlight her elegance, like the black spots on the water-smooth red wings of a ladybug. 'I wanted to see you.'
'You saw me yesterday.'
She looked down, picking at a thumbnail. The swelling on her face had begun to weep. She patted her blisters with a square of gauze. David looked in the trash can beside the bed; it was full of soiled gauze pads. She'd spent all day sitting up here, mostly alone, trying to staunch the fluids leaking from her face.
It took him a moment to find his voice to continue. 'I wanted to see you again.'
'Don't you dare. Don't you dare feel sorry for me.' She raised the heel of her hand to her eyes but couldn't touch her face. He knew her tears were burning her. 'Goddamn it,' she said softly. 'Goddamn it.'
He crossed to her and sat on the bed. She found his hand and squeezed it so tight he could feel his wedding band digging into his other fingers. Carefully, he brushed the hair off her forehead, sweeping it back from her face. He took the stained gauze from her trembling hand, threw it out, and pulled a fresh pad from the box on the bedside tray.
He dabbed at the blistering on her right cheek, her forehead, around the socket of her right eye. Her hands went limp in her lap as she let him work, wincing from time to time. He shifted on the bed, moving closer to her. Her left cheek and chin were unmarred, the curved bow of her lips perfectly smooth. He moistened a clean square of gauze with some saline and swept it along the elegant line of her jaw, cleaning her.
Her breathing was sharp and shallow. Through the swelling around her eye, her iris shone, ice-green and pristine. She turned, a sudden shy movement, and her lips were against his, impossibly soft. He felt the gentle suck of her breath in his mouth and the room seemed to swirl around him, smelling of disinfectant, Silvadene, and a distant trace of her perfume. She cringed against the pain of her face moving against his. He started to pull back but she moved her face forward to keep it pressed against his, kissing him still as the salt tears burnt tracks down her wounded cheek.
Chapter 50
Clyde had been taking the pills more and more, but they didn't do what the book promised they'd do. He stayed in bed mostly, rising to drink and piss and reheat beans in a dirty pot. He'd stopped feeding the cat. He took to urinating in jars again and carefully labeling each jar with the time and date.
The ancient Zenith TV in the corner got terrible reception. Now and then, if he angled the antenna just right, he could get the audio on a porn channel, though static still blotted the screen.
He gathered his dirty sheets in a ball between his legs and sat in bed, looking out the window and fishing pickle after soggy pickle from a wide jar. When he finished his sloppy crunching, he tilted back the jar and drank the sour, green-tinged juice. The juice left his lips stained a fishy gray, as it had his left hand to the wrist.
Leaning the mirror against the base of his bed so he could see his reflection, he smiled at himself and practiced talking. He spoke gently and softly, reaching out to touch his water-spotted reflection. Sometimes his voice was drowned out by grunts and groans from the TV.
At night, a few girls walked past the window, their giggles carrying into his dirty apartment, and he looked around, pupils jerking, as if seeing the room for the first time. The mounds of dirty clothes, the halved capsules piled on the pocked wooden table, the grease splatter up the kitchen wall above the stove.
He cried for a little bit without gasps, just a slow leaking of his eyes, then rose and stood in the middle of the room in his white underwear. He pulled on some loose scrub bottoms and his yellowed Adidas sneakers. Hunting around, he found an old button-up shirt under the bed. He pulled it out and shook it to rid it of cat hair. Laying it on the bed, he flattened it as best he could with a swollen hand.
He pulled it on and looked at himself in the mirror. He fixed the collar, twisting it back into place. He practiced a smile, then murmured a greeting to himself. In the kitchen, a jar atop the refrigerator was filled with change. He poured it on the floor and counted the few silver coins out of the wash of copper.
When he left the apartment, he made sure to turn all three deadbolts.
The bar at the corner had tinted windows and a torn green awning. He shuffled inside, eyes on the ground, and climbed onto a bar stool with considerable effort. He rested his hands on the bar, but then looked down at them-swollen with pitted nails-and put them in his lap.
The bartender, an older lady with wrinkles and blush, slid a rag up the counter. 'What'll it be?'
He lowered his eyes, his hand clutching the ball of quarters in his pocket. 'Water,' he said. 'Two waters.'
She made a disappointed clucking noise. 'We're not a welfare office. You don't order something soon, we'll ask you to leave.'
A blush bloomed beneath his pocked cheeks. His button-up shirt clung to his body, dotted with sweat. 'Sorry,' he said. 'I'm just thirsty. So thirsty.'
'Then buy a goddamned beer,' she muttered, as she filled two glasses with water from the tap.
An attractive blonde sat on the stool two over from him, turned toward a girlfriend. The water glasses banging down on the bar in front of him nearly startled him off his stool.
The bartender looked regretful when she saw his expression. 'Look, I'm sorry. You can take some time and finish those up before you go.' She moved down the bar to serve other customers.
He sat alone in his little bubble-a man on a bar stool at a bar-breathing heavily, murmuring to himself, counting down from three.
He drained one glass of water, then the other.
His thumbnail was so severely pitted it had begun to flake. The skin beneath it had reddened, like an enormous hangnail. He worried it with his teeth for a moment, head angled down, and chanced a look at the blonde to his left.
She turned with a jangle of bracelets, mouth open in a bark of a laugh from her girlfriend's joke, and then she spotted him.
Her face changed. The light in her eyes vanished. Her lips drew together and curled in disgust, distorting her
