Living Proof Page 11

  “It’s a side effect of the drug I got,” she explained. “Pretty creepy, huh? Too bad I didn’t need it on Halloween. Instant costume!”

  Trent laughed weakly. “You’re all bandaged up,” he said, taking in her covered chin, elbows, and knees. She was leaning on a cane, wearing pajama shorts and a tank top. “How are you doing?”

  “Good, now that you’re here. Come in, let me show you my place.”

  His heart sped up. “Great.”

  “Thanks for doing this,” she said, taking the cooler from him. “You don’t have to make anything fancy. I’m not even hungry yet.”

  “No problem.”

  He followed her to the kitchen, glancing around the apartment. On the right, there was a small living room with a black leather sofa, a low glass table, a bookshelf, and a television. There was no room for a lab here, he thought with disappointment. His gaze lingered in the room, as if he needed only to look a little harder. Covering most of the living room floor was a white fur area rug. He stared at it, suddenly transfixed by a bizarre image of lying naked across it, feeling it tickle his bare back.

  “Do you like it?” Arianna asked, seeing him looking at the rug. He whipped his head back to her, feeling sheepish. She was opening the refrigerator to put away the cooler, and he peeked inside to look for glass test tubes. The only contents of her fridge were butter, milk, a lettuce head, and a few apples.

  “Nice place,” he muttered.

  She smiled and led him out of the kitchen to the sofa, hobbling with the cane. He didn’t ask if she needed help, sensing her hard-nosed independence. Instead, he hung behind her, unsure if he should walk in front of her at a normal pace, pretending to ignore her disability, or allow her to keep the lead.

  “Race you to the couch,” she announced. He laughed genuinely, recognizing the woman he remembered.

  “Last one there has to cook dinner,” he responded, darting in front of her. Then, taking what he knew was a risk, he turned back around with a devilish grin. “Slowpoke.”

  She snorted as he plopped onto the couch. “You’re lucky I can’t kick you right now.” A few steps later, she laid the cane down and gingerly sat back next to him. He put his left arm around her, making sure his wristwatch skimmed her shoulder.

  “And I’m lucky you were free to see me tonight.”

  “I think getting stitches and intravenous drugs does a pretty good job of clearing one’s schedule.”

  “True,” he said, stroking her hair, “but you’re always so busy. It’s pretty admirable how you keep that schedule up.”

  “You mean my work?”

  “Yeah … and after work. You never talk about it. Maybe it’s the fiction writer in me, but I can’t help being curious.”

  She smirked. “What, are you imagining I have some exciting double life? Doctor by day, superwoman by night?”

  He shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “Well,” she said, locking eyes with him, “it might come as a surprise, but I’m actually going to church.”

  He laughed at the utter improbability of those words escaping her lips. But her expression remained the same: slight smile, wide eyes.

  “Why?” he blurted, as if there were more than one reason why someone might go to church.

  “To practice my religion,” she said; a strange amusement in her eyes made it seem as though she was joking.

  “Well, what’s your religion?” he asked, playing along to whatever punch line she was aiming at.

  “I go to a Christian church, like most everyone else.”

  “Which one?”

  “A small congregation in the East Village. You wouldn’t know it.”

  The East Village, he thought with a start. That is where you have been going.…

  “So wait, you’re serious? You really go to church?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled broadly.

  “Even midweek services?” he asked, unable to believe that she believed. They had hardly discussed religion before, and yet, somehow, her faith seemed contradictory.

  “Yep.”

  “How about tomorrow morning?” He knew no devout churchgoer would miss Sunday morning Mass, except in the most extreme circumstances.

  “I expect to be strong enough to go.”

  “Wow. I guess we have a lot left to learn about each other.” He frowned.

  She merely laughed. “What’s wrong?”

  “The thing is, no offense, but it just doesn’t make sense. How can you be so passionate about science and be that devout?”

  She chuckled, slid her hand around the nape of his neck and pushed his head toward her lips. As they kissed, he was distracted by his own bewilderment: First she tells me she’s a good Christian, and now we’re making out? She wasn’t drunk, but maybe the drug she received was making her act loopy.

  Her tongue sought out his, sliding into his mouth and setting off a tingling in his groin. No, his conscience scolded, you cannot let her turn you on. He slipped a hand underneath her tank top, caressing her flat stomach. Stop this now! the voice in his head shrieked. He leaned into her, wrapping her in his arms–

  “Ow,” she said, depositing the word into his mouth.

  He jerked away. “What happened?”

  “My ribs are really bruised from my fall.” She sighed, leaning back. “This probably isn’t a good idea right now, as much as I wish it were.”

  “You’re right,” he said as his sense flooded back, stinging as it scrubbed away his desire. “We should definitely wait.”

  She lifted a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes, and winced. “You know what, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I think I actually need to go lie down. I really did want to see you, but I need to rest.”

  He cringed as he watched another flash of pain wrinkle her brow. “Sure,” he said. “You should do that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, opening her eyes. “I owe you a dinner. I’m actually a pretty good cook when I can get myself together.”

  He smiled and got up, glancing past her into the hallway leading to another room, when a last-minute idea struck him.

  “I’m just going to use your restroom before I leave,” he said.

  “It’s in the hallway right next to my bedroom.”

  As he got up, she lifted her bandaged legs onto the couch. He walked around her into the hallway, which was plastered with old-looking pictures of her and her parents, and a painting of the Sistine Chapel.

  Maybe she really is religious, he marveled. He stepped into the bathroom and saw that it was far too tiny to hold laboratory materials like a freezer, a laminar flow hood, or a centrifuge. As she reclined on the sofa, he tiptoed out of the bathroom and ducked into her bedroom. The room smelled floral, like her hair. It was simply decorated, with a dark red bedspread, lacy white curtains dangling over a window, and white carpeting. On top of an oak dresser stood an array of orange prescription tubes filled with pills.

  Feeling foolish, he turned and walked back into the hallway. As he passed the Sistine Chapel painting again, a shocking thought stopped him short: She could have found religion after college, and now she’s not doing anything wrong—we could be suspicious for nothing.… She could be innocent!

  The possibility was so tantalizing that he felt a physical longing, a dull ache tug at his gut: the birth of hope produced its own set of pains. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished.

  I am an agent of the DEP, he reminded himself, as if thinking it would properly align his loyalties.

  He strode to the sofa, where Arianna was lying with her eyes closed. They fluttered open when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Good night,” he said.

  She pulled on his arm, and as he leaned down to her, she planted a soft kiss on his lips. “You’re amazing,” she whispered.

  He swallowed and drew back. “You, too.”

  * * *

  As soon as Trent closed her door behind him, he whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and called Dopp. He longed to hear
the crystalline voice of reason, not the voice that had splintered in his mind, with each slice staking claim on a conflicting realm: logic versus emotion, right versus wrong, duty versus desire.

  “No lab, boss,” he told Dopp. “But we did have an odd conversation.…” He recounted what she had told him. “I don’t know why,” he finished, “but it seems like she was lying or joking about church. It just doesn’t fit. Maybe she really is religious, though.”

  “How could she be religious if she was upset about a creationist museum?”

  “Maybe she was just upset about the blurred distinction between church and state? I remember her saying something about that.”

  “I don’t buy it. I bet she’s lying and using the church excuse to cover something up. Tomorrow morning, go and poke your head into all the Christian churches in the East Village. We need to verify if she’s going where she claims.”

  “And if she is?”

  “Then find a way to ask her directly what she thinks of embryonic stem cell research—if she really is a good Christian, she’ll reject it with disgust, and at that point, I would have to be inclined to believe her. A worshipful person has no reason to lie, because she knows God will have the final say. As far as her clinic’s high numbers, I guess sheer popularity could explain them … although it would be bizarrely unprecedented.”

  “And we could drop the case if so?”

  “I guess so. But let’s not write her off yet. I want to see if she’s going to church like she says.”

  “And if she’s not?”

  “Then find out where she is going, and the faster, the better.”

  “You got it,” Trent said.

  * * *

  On the subway the next morning, Trent tried to ignore the tension in his gut that was keeping his abs in a perpetual state of crunch. Whether it was anticipation alone or mixed with the poisonous handle of hope, he did not care to learn. For hope—of seeing Arianna in a church, and of ending this pursuit—signaled a selfish investment in the case that could derail his judgment.

  He studied the two printouts in his hand: one, a list of addresses of the six Christian churches in the East Village that had a congregation of two hundred or fewer; the other page was a map marking out fourteen blocks long and six avenues wide, the neighborhood of tattoo shops and bars, smoke shops and dives, peppered here and there with a sobering house of worship to repent for last night’s sins.

  He got out of the subway at Astor Place, right at the block where she had fallen off her bicycle two days earlier. The streets were littered with glass bottles and crushed cans, and the late-late-night stragglers who were only now heading home. Trent felt out of place in his formal suit, but he focused on his list. Calvary Christian Church was four blocks north and two avenues east. He walked briskly, crossing streets in the absence of traffic, until he came up to a building that was narrow and tall, with sharply pointed spires. The bronze door was engraved with a cross. He pulled it open, relieved when it did not creak.

  Words bellowed throughout the modest chamber, coming from a pastor facing his rapt audience: “To serve Christ is to live for Him, even if it means losing it all. As we learn in John twelve twenty-five and eight forty-four, everyone serves something: Some serve themselves, and don’t realize they’re serving Satan.…”

  Trent scanned the backs of heads along the pews, looking for thick black waves over dainty shoulders. Even before he finished looking, he somehow sensed she would not be there. Quietly, he slipped back outside, and headed four more avenues east and a block south to the next church, Saint Mary’s Mount of God, which was nestled next to a Chinese restaurant and a cigar lounge. He had never walked so far east in this part of town, and it felt as if he were in a different, more dilapidated city. This church looked older than the first, with a crumbling brick exterior and a peeling wooden door. Inside was a surprisingly large hall lit only by candle chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling. A pastor, bowing his head, stood at the pulpit underneath a life-size painting of the Crucifixion. The room of about 150 was silent, filled with the fervor of prayer. Feeling like a voyeur, Trent quickly examined the rows—to no avail.

  He exited as noiselessly as he could, feeling strangely criminal, as if he were getting away with something. As he walked toward the third church, he realized why: It was the first time he had walked out of church in the middle of a service. For a moment, he worried that he was not observing Sunday Mass, the earmark of his religious life. But I have Dopp’s permission, he thought. Certainly a former pastor had the authority to dismiss him. It was a free pass, redeemable this morning only, to skip church—and it was guiltily liberating.

  At the sight of a peeling cross on a door that was several steps up from the sidewalk, Trent stopped. Stained glass windows on either side of the door were smashed in. The handle of the door was green with rust and grime. He climbed the stairs and seized it. The door didn’t budge. Peering inside the broken windows, he could see empty pews and stray cats milling around. He stepped back, wiping years of accumulated filth off his hands, and glanced at the street signs. He was at Avenue C and East Tenth Street, one block north of the actual third church on his list, so he hurried down the steps, and walked on.

  This looks more like it, he thought, walking up to a red-painted door with a polished gold handle and a sign that read DAMASCUS CHURCH OF CHRIST. He opened the door to the smallest hall yet, which set off a twinge of hope that she might be there. The pastor didn’t pause in his sermon as Trent entered, but smiled welcomingly and continued speaking:

  “Man has a natural inclination to worship—it is built into his faculty of thought to worship something. For some, it is the perverted call of the flesh, and others, the greedy call of the dollar, and still others, the hedonistic call of the bottle. The challenge is to worship God, for only He is worthy of true worship. Let us refer to the passage of John four twenty-four.…”

  Trent felt, before he saw, that Arianna was not there. Something was off in this roomful of dutiful churchgoers. He recognized what he was accustomed to seeing and hearing in churches—in the preacher’s tone, the content of his sermon, the deferential bowing of heads praying for redemption—and that was the problem. She does not fit in here, he realized, because she is not like them—she is not subservient. But if it’s true that everyone worships something, what does she worship?

  “What man worships,” the preacher was saying, “is indicative of his very essence, for reverence is man’s deepest form of love, one which holds the key to his soul.”

  Trent bit his lip, confronted by the rise of his own insecurities about life and truth, God and meaning, that he had managed to repress since focusing on the case. I worship nothing, he thought. Journalism, traveling, music, nature, food. Nothing worthy enough.

  Suddenly he couldn’t bear to stand in the back of the hall any longer. He turned and ran out, clutching the list he knew was useless. He stood on the cracked sidewalk, staring at the names of the last three churches, squinting to focus on anything but his own thoughts. The next address was only one avenue west; for the sake of activity, more than thoroughness, he trudged there. At that church, and the next, and the last, he sought her out in vain. She is as absent as my faith, he thought. Now, where to find both?

  Leaving the final church, he called Dopp. “She wasn’t in any of the churches that matched her description.”

  Dopp let out a low whistle. “I thought her religiousness was too good to be true.”

  “But why would she lie to me?” A voice of denial suggested that maybe she had not lied; she could have been too sick to attend church after all.…

  “She’s obviously hiding something and trying to get around it,” Dopp said. “But I have a new idea.”

  “What?”

  “Dealing with liars is tricky, and I’d be able to guide you better if I could observe her up close. I’ve never even set eyes on the woman.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Next weekend is Christmas. I plan
to have a family dinner with a few special guests: you, your parents, and Ms. Drake.”

  “What do my parents have to do with this? They don’t know anything!”

  “You can tell them now. I know from my friend Father Paul that they are honest Christians, and we need their help. You are going to be my nephew for the day, and your father will be my brother. It’s going to be a simple family get-together, and she will be your date. Now that she’s starting to fall for you, we need to push her to trust you, so we’re ramping up the game.”

  Trent flinched at the last word. “Okay…”

  “Introducing her to your parents will show that you care enough that you won’t abandon her, despite her disease. And I’ll get to observe her.”

  “I see.”

  “Call her right now to invite her—it’s for next Saturday night, Christmas Eve—and then call me back to confirm.”

  “Okay. But wait, what if she recognizes who you are?”

  “She can’t.”

  “Why not? She could have seen your picture online, or—”

  “Have you seen my picture online ever?”

  Trent thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t. You know why? I’ve never allowed it to be published.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you think I want to run the risk of being recognized in the most liberal city in the country?”

  “No.”

  “So call her.”

  When Arianna answered, Trent could hear voices in the background.

  “Hey,” she said cheerfully.

  “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Better, thanks. Sorry about last night, but I really needed to sleep. What’s up?”

  “Actually, I, uh, was wondering what you’re doing for Christmas Eve next weekend?”

  “Nothing much, why?”

  “Well, my family always has this dinner party on Long Island, and they—we—were hoping you could join us.”

  There was a pause, and her voice dropped. “Are you sure you want to introduce me to your parents? It’s sweet, but aren’t you—?” Her voice trailed off.

  “I just want to enjoy the present with you,” he declared, wondering desperately if that were a lie. “We’ll deal with that when we have to. And my family doesn’t know. All I told them was that I’m seeing an amazing woman. So they really want to meet you.”