“I did.”
“That’s funny. Talking to the girls I got the impression they went together.”
“Yeah, well, I thought she might enjoy it better if she went with a friend.”
“Sure.”
Neil’s eyes had shrunk to ball bearings. “Is that it?”
“Yeah.”
And Neil walked away.
30
Steve drove up Ruggles and took a right onto Huntington. At the stoplight at Gainsborough he made a U-turn and pulled beside a hydrant in front of Conor Larkins.
Conor Larkins was an underground bar with blue awnings and a staircase separating two storefront windows with Guinness signs, Northeastern banners, and stuffed NU huskies behind the glass. His eyes rested on the entrance while waiting for images to solidify out of the fog.
He took out her photograph.
He put the car in gear and moved down Huntington. At its end he cut down to Jamaica Way, where he drove in the slower right-hand lane, his mind wide-open and poised for the sudden zap.
But nothing came back.
He pulled down Payson and parked across the street from 123. Mrs. Sabo’s light was on, but the second-floor apartment looked dead. He tried to recall walking up those steps and ringing the second-floor doorbell and Terry coming down, dressed in her black sheath. He couldn’t get it. Couldn’t even recall what she wore in the restaurant.
After maybe twenty minutes he left and drove down Center Street still expecting the brutal epiphany. He stopped at a deserted parking lot with a large Dumpster in back. Nothing. He continued for another couple of miles, stopping to see if the psychic trail would warm.
Nothing.
The sun had dropped behind the wall of buildings on St. Botolph when he pulled into a spot near his apartment. With his key, he let himself into the front door. On the floor was a large manila envelope with his name on it. Dana’s handwriting. Inside was some mail that had been sent to his Carleton address. And a handwritten note:
Am in town with Lanie. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven. These came the other day for you. Might want to give them your new address. Dana.
No “Love” or “XOXO.” Just “Dana.” Just plain ole “Dana” as if it were a note to the lawn service guy. “Might want to give them your new address.”
Inside were some bills and magazines. He climbed the stairs to his apartment. All he wanted to do was monkey work—dull mechanical brain stem stuff. So he decided to pay some bills and send notes to the senders informing them of his change of address. He went online and paid the bills. Electric. Telephone. Magazines. He filled out online forms with the change of address. He logged onto his Visa account. He scrolled down his recent purchases. His Conor Larkins bill was listed—$36.18 for the sandwich and drinks. Then his eyes fixed on the entry below that, and for a moment his brain had no reaction.
CENTER STREET LIQUORS, JAMAICA PLAIN MA. 06/02, 6:22 P.M.
The bottle of Taittinger.
For special occasions he always bought Veuve Clicquot, which was his and Dana’s champagne of choice. But maybe they were out and he purchased the Taittinger instead. He could not recall buying champagne. He could not recall stopping at a liquor store.
But Terry Farina had left Conor Larkins to drop off her exam and probably arrived at her place around five thirty. Sometime after that he had called to say she had left her sunglasses behind. Would drop them off.
A soupy horror filled his head. He had gone over there full of meds and booze and smoldering anger.
31
“Is that me?”
“It could be.”
The left half of the monitor showed a digitally enhanced postop image made from the photo Dr. Monks’s assistant had taken on Dana’s first visit. On the right, the original. By comparison, the tired, strained look had yielded to eyes more open and youthful. She couldn’t help feeling elated at the improvement.
“This is you with upper lid plasty.” With his pen, the doctor demonstrated. “What we’d do is make an incision along the lash line and smile creases here and remove excess fat and skin. Fine sutures close the incision, and after four days you come back to have them removed.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. The actual procedure would take about an hour, recovery in a week or so. If you’re good and apply an ice compact and don’t do any heavy lifting, the bruising will fade fast. You’ll have some discomfort for a couple of days, but we’ll give you something for that.”
It was noon on Friday when she arrived at Dr. Monks’s office. She was taken into a room where she sat in a reclining chair. An assistant applied numbing cream along her smile lines. After a few minutes, Dr. Monks made the needle injections of Restylane. She felt minimal discomfort, and after the procedure he brought her into his office to consult about other possibilities.
He maneuvered the mouse to show her face with both lids done. “As you can see, there isn’t much difference, and I frankly think that the uppers alone will give you the eyes of a woman at least ten years younger.