Living Proof Page 8

  What he had so far gathered from her was mostly insignificant. She had grown up in NYU faculty housing, raised by her father alone after her mother’s death in a car accident when she was sixteen. She attended Columbia University for both undergraduate and medical school, NYU for residency, and then established her small fertility practice with several colleagues in Greenwich Village, along the border of the park that tethered her to the nostalgia of home, across from the fountain she had splashed in as a child. She spoke of her mother fondly—in two decades, her mother’s memory had eased into a beloved recollection, rather than a traumatic one—but rarely mentioned her father. Trent learned why after he asked one day what had happened to him. She responded in a strained voice, her topaz-blue eyes watering, that he had died unexpectedly from colon cancer two years prior. Although Trent felt certain that her father’s influence somehow tied in to the case, he did not mention it again.

  They talked about books and movies and music only if she had an opinion to share. It was time Trent considered wasted, although Dopp told him it was not. It reminded Trent of practicing scales on the piano: nothing enjoyable came of it directly, but it would enable fluid playing later. He couldn’t always manipulate the conversation back to her interest in biology, but when he did, she would discuss only cutting-edge research in fertility treatments that affected her practice. He encouraged her to tell him more about her practice, but she never hinted at anything unusual, so he tried another approach; when he asked for a primer on biochemical research for his “novel,” she directed him to a textbook, explaining that research was not her field of expertise, though she did offer to guide him to certain sections that would be clearer for him to understand. Her graciousness frustrated him; she was so willing to help him that he half doubted she might be hiding something from him relating to exactly that topic.

  But a curious incident yesterday had kindled his suspicion again.

  Squirming on the wet bench now, with the rain driving tiny pellets into his umbrella, he moved the knob up on his watch to listen to their short, perplexing exchange from the day before. They had just been mounting their bikes when her phone rang.

  Their voices emerged from the circular face—hers abrupt, his surprised:

  “Hang on, I have to take this call. Hello?… Uh-huh … hmm … Okay … Soon. Bye.” Her phone snapping shut. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

  “What do you mean? Where? We haven’t even started—”

  “Something came up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Look, I can’t— Call me later, okay?”

  The recording clicked off, and in the ensuing silence, he recalled her wheeling her bike to the curb and then hailing a cab. He played the exchange for Dopp this morning. They listened to it several times, trying to detect nuances in her tone. But beyond an obvious impatience and a slight excitement, they could glean no substantial clues from the recording except for one: The watch had picked up the low-frequency grumble of a man’s voice coming from the earpiece of her cell phone.

  “What does it mean?” Trent demanded. “She can’t what? Stay? Tell me where she was going? And who was so important that she dropped everything for him?”

  “I don’t know,” Dopp had said, lifting his pointed chin. “Have you mentioned her off-nights yet?”

  Arianna always scheduled their bike rides around certain evenings, telling Trent she was busy then. Otherwise, she never mentioned those nights, let alone offered an explanation for her whereabouts. The nights had no consistent pattern—one week, she said she was busy on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but the next week, it was Wednesday and Thursday.

  “No,” Trent said. “I feel that it’s not my business.”

  Dopp had been standing sideways at the window, his nose and chin a jagged silhouette against the light. But at this remark, he turned to face Trent, and the room seemed to darken with his expression.

  “That is exactly what it is, Trent.” His voice was deeper and softer, as if it were emerging from a cave in the back of his throat. “I want you to find out, however you can, where she is going. That’s your job. Do it.” He spoke evenly; his lips were the only part of his face that moved. There was no trace of anger in his tone, yet Trent felt the hot rise of intimidation tempered by resentment. Then Dopp’s lip lifted, stretching one corner of his mouth up: I have faith in you. It was the parentheses to his command that reassured Trent he was still in his boss’s good graces.

  He had marched out of Dopp’s office, cell phone in hand, and called Arianna to schedule another bike ride for today after work, ostensibly to make up for the previous day’s foiled ride. But she had declined without an excuse.

  “I’ll call you,” she told him, though her tone was not unfriendly. She said nothing about her sudden exit, and despite his determination to learn more, Trent could not bring himself to ask about it. He returned to Dopp ashamed, unable to push the boundaries of propriety. And his control was sliding; she had swiftly seized the upper hand for their future planning.

  “If you can’t call her right away, and you can’t ask her where she’s going,” Dopp said, “then watch.”

  The window behind Dopp’s head was streaked with rain; the storm had just begun. Trent saw his advantage: the umbrella was a lucky tool in a last-minute arsenal of disguises.

  Now he brought it low over his forehead, just above his eyes. Where was she going to go when she left the clinic? Not home, he hoped. If he could find out even just an address, then he would have a location to investigate.

  Rain could not have been her reason for declining to bike, he realized, since this storm had started within the last hour. He sighed impatiently, bouncing his knees and staring at the door of the squat, old building that housed her clinic. It was squeezed (ironically, he thought) next to the university’s Catholic Center, which peaked much higher than its neighbor. Adding five feet to its height, atop the center stood a gold cross. On sunny days, the clinic dwelt in its thin, elongated shadow. Trent’s eyes wandered up to admire the cross, and then a peripheral movement on the ground tugged his focus back.

  The brown door had swung open, and in the moment before a purple NYU umbrella bloomed in front of her, Arianna’s face was visible. From Trent’s distance, he could not pinpoint her expression, only her distinctly tall figure. She pulled her umbrella down over her head and started walking east, away from Trent. Her stride was quicker than usual, despite her slightly uneven gait.

  A strange limp kept some pressure off her right leg. Maybe she had sprained her ankle, and that was her excuse. But why wouldn’t she have said so? He kept his eyes on her retreating figure. Trent knew from their conversations, and had confirmed it with a public record search, that she lived at Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street, just one block north of the park. If she was going home, walking due east, she was certainly taking a roundabout route.

  He waited until she reached the southeast corner of the park before he jumped up from the bench. He walked briskly with his black umbrella touching his head, so the canopy completely blocked his face. Her purple umbrella stood out on the drab street, so when he lifted his own periodically, he caught sight of her. She continued walking east for six blocks until reaching Broadway, and then crossed the wide street and started walking north, without slowing her step. Fifteen seconds behind her, Trent neared the crosswalk. The red hand flashed at him in vain: His eyes were riveted to her figure across the street with such focus, he was almost surprised she did not turn around to acknowledge it. At the threshold of the curb, with his umbrella hoisted above his eyes, Trent sized up the situation: four lanes of cars lined the crosswalk; beyond the intersection, Arianna was nearing the block’s first corner, hugging the sidewalk’s edge as though she was about to turn out of sight.

  His feet made the decision for him, hitting the asphalt a second before the light dropped to green. He reached the middle of the intersection before the honking started—an angry cab swerved around him, forcing him to straddle th
e white line of one middle lane; behind the first cab, another driver honked and glared when he saw Trent, frozen amidst the flow of cars. The honking swelled to a cacophony of dissident pitches sustained in annoyance. More than fear, Trent felt frustrated by his trap, and he looked past the traffic to regain his focus on Arianna. As she turned the corner, he saw her lift her umbrella to look back, no doubt to assess the commotion he had caused—

  He pulled his own umbrella down so quickly, it slammed his head. But seconds later, he dared to lift his makeshift tent and saw she was gone. At least she didn’t see me, he thought; if she had, she would have backtracked over to him. As the green light sucked away precious seconds, Trent kneaded the white line with his toes to keep his feet from dashing in front of any other cars as they continued to honk and swerve around him. The rain was pounding merciless bullets on his umbrella, as the windshield wipers of the cars swished furiously back and forth. When he saw red brake lights reflecting off the glistening street, he raced to the sidewalk and rushed up to the first block. So determined was he to find her that he didn’t notice he was drenched, sprayed from the cars zooming around him.

  The heaviness of his soaked jeans slowed him down as he rounded the corner, wheezing from anxiety and suspense. He stared down the sidewalk as far as he could see, wiping away the raindrops sliding through his eyelashes. But that bright lure, her bobbing purple umbrella, had vanished.

  * * *

  The next day, Trent sat in Dopp’s office, brainstorming strategies to proceed. Next to Arianna’s file on the desk lay a copy of The New York Times. The top of the fold showed a photo of New York’s governor, Warren Vance, ducking into a black car with a grim expression, surrounded by a gaggle of reporters who were thrusting their recorders at him. The headline read, STATE BUDGET NEGOTIATIONS COLLAPSE AMID REVELATIONS OF VANCE’S IMPROPRIETY. Trent picked up the article and read:

  ALBANY—New evidence, including e-mail and phone messages retrieved by The New York Times, appears to reveal that Democratic Gov. Warren E. Vance channeled state funds in an attempt to tarnish the reputation of Senate majority leader Chuck R. Windra, the state’s top Republican, who has opposed the governor on multiple issues during preliminary budget discussions. The budget has been tabled indefinitely, pending investigation by the state attorney general.

  Trent looked up and rolled his eyes.

  “This is why I hate politics. It’s so full of this corrupt crap.” He threw the newspaper back on the desk and it slid toward Dopp, who stopped it with one hand.

  “I’ve never liked Vance so much as I do today,” Dopp said.

  Trent raised one eyebrow incredulously, then both.

  Dopp leaned forward, putting his elbow on the newspaper. “With all of his corrupt crap, Vance has done us a huge favor: He’s bought us time. As long as the budget talks are stalled, we have that much more time to crack Arianna, and then bring her down in a very public way.” Dopp raised his eyebrows, and Trent knew he was thinking of certain lawmakers’ claims that they were a black hole of tax dollars; but if they could loudly bring down a nefarious doctor, they might be granted an extra life during the budget talks.

  “I just need to get her to feel close enough to trust me,” Trent said.

  They discussed ways to ease her into socializing with him in a way that was more than a workout but less than a date, which she clearly did not want. If Trent suggested that each bring along a friend to a group dinner, it would shake off the romantic vibe. All the better if his “friend” was someone privy to the mission—like Jed—who could vouch for Trent’s strength of character in front of Arianna.

  “How else to deepen her trust, but to have someone reassure her?” Dopp said.

  “I’ll set it up,” Trent promised.

  “On another note, besides finding out where she’s going, I want you to get her to invite you inside her apartment, so you can see if there’s anything unusual going on there.”

  “Unusual, you mean, like a home lab? Nobody’s done that for years.”

  “It’s still possible. If she is doing something illegal with those embryos, she needs to have a space to do it, and it’s not her clinic—that’s covered. No judge will give us a warrant to search her apartment at this point, so it’s up to you to get her to let you in of her own accord.”

  “Which basically means getting her to trust me.”

  “Right. It’s like a hammer and a nail; see, right now they’re lined up straight, and now you’ve got to whack it in. Might take a few swings before you get there, but just keep trying.”

  But why else would she invite me in, Trent thought, unless she wanted sex—and then what?

  Throughout his twenties, while his friends were indulging their sexual appetites, he had prided himself for his restraint, always waiting to sleep with a woman until they were both ready, whether it was two weeks or two months—a behavior that usually impressed women rather than insulted them. Whenever the priest at church would speak of abstinence before marriage, though, Trent would feel a guilty tightness in his abs, knowing it was the one teaching of Catholicism he could not follow, a reflection of his too-weak convictions and too-strong desires. Once he had broken the rule at age eighteen—in his freshman dorm, single bed, first love—he rationalized that it was too late to be abstinent anyway.

  I will not use Arianna, he thought. But what if she wants to sleep with me? The possibility of needing to escape gracefully from such an awkward situation intimidated him.

  But she won’t, he thought, she doesn’t even want to date me. A pause as the tide in his mind swept over this reassuring voice, carrying it away. What swept back was a conundrum: But if she doesn’t want me, she won’t invite me into her apartment.… So how in the world am I going to get in?

  * * *

  The frosted martini glass in front of Arianna was nearly empty. She picked it up, swirled the magenta liquid, and then drained it all into her mouth in one tart trail of cranberry vodka.

  “That,” she announced to Trent and Jed, setting the glass down, “was the perfect martini. And I’m not even a drinker. What did you guys slip in there to make it so good?”

  Across the booth, Trent and Jed exchanged pretend conspiratorial grins. All three leaned back, sated with food and drink, soaking up the ambience of La Lanterna. Live jazz ricocheted off exposed brick walls. In the fireplace, flames crackled and shivered. The restaurant was a Greenwich Village staple of classy nightlife, just one block away from her clinic—the reason Trent said he had invited her to come along.

  When he had called the other night, she was scrutinizing the clinic’s records for errors, methodically going over pages of patient information alone in her office. The numbers were blurring on paper like hovering black insects. Frustrated by her degenerating optical nerve, she had squinted her eyes until she saw white behind her lids, and that was when her phone rang. She’d been meaning to call Trent about rescheduling their bike ride, and apologized for what must have seemed like the cold shoulder. But he wasn’t offended. And luckily, she thought, he was confident enough to call her. His invitation to join him and a friend for dinner at La Lanterna, extended to Megan as well, had sounded like an antidote to her stress and an easy way to make up for putting him off.

  But to her disappointment, Megan would not be able to join them; she had opening-night theater tickets, a treat for successfully undergoing her egg-retrieval surgery the month before, despite a minor complication from the hormone injections. Trent seemed eager to keep their plans regardless. Anyway, she told herself, the presence of his friend implied that it was not a date, so he could not have any expectations.

  Jed, a freelance reporter, and Trent were entertaining company, lively without being draining. They teased her about her low tolerance for alcohol (little did they know why she hardly drank), and after she asked them how they met, they amused her with anecdotes about their college fraternity, releasing tension from her mind, much like the joy she found in dancing, painting, and her own friends.
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  She wasn’t sure quite how Trent fit into her social life, but she knew that seeing him gave her a much-coveted escape to normal life, one in which dinner and drinks and skilled saxophonists were their own end, pleasure for the sake of pleasure, and not just a distraction from pain. Her frenzied week—keeping the group fully stocked with embryos, manipulating the records, scheduling new donations, and seeing her actual patients—began to recede in her mind. She noticed the dimple in Trent’s chin when he cracked a joke. He was the only person she socialized with who did not know about her condition, and so felt comfortable teasing her. “What’s the problem, slowpoke?” he had shouted once from the top of a hill they had biked up, relishing watching her huff in his wake. She had merely smiled, granting his victory with a thumbs-up.

  Across the room, the drummer in the jazz band was playing a solo, and they turned to watch.

  “He’s got amazing chops,” Trent said. Arianna nodded; she had lately regretted never learning an instrument.

  Jed elbowed Trent’s arm, smiling at her. “This guy was a rock star in a different life.”

  “What makes you think I’m not now?” He laughed, and in that moment, he seemed contentment personified; but rather than envy, Arianna felt drawn to his effortless smile. She recognized a mirror of her own nature in that smile—a pure delight in life and living that made her think, Suffering is only an interlude to this, and not the other way around. If only we had met sooner.