Heroic Measures (continued)

The door slid closed once again and the elevator began to rise.

Walter watched the progression of the numbers, wondering where they would stop. He felt a tight knot in his stomach as they passed the floor of his room and continued upward. After reaching the topmost level, the elevator slowed and stopped, emitting a chime with a different pitch than Walter had heard before. One of the guards moved forward and passed his badge over the security access panel. There was an answering chirp and the doors opened.

The woman exited and then stopped in the doorway.

“Bring him,” she commanded the guard to her left, waving toward Dr. Robert. Her head turned to face the other security guard. “Return him to his room.” Her eyes turned toward Walter, narrowing as they appraised him. “See that he’s released.”

Walter thought he heard a veiled threat in her tone, but decided that he might also be imagining it. So far, she had done nothing that could truly be considered sinister evil. Nothing, that is, except behave like a cold, arrogant witch.

“Yes, ma’am,” the guard responded smartly. She quickly stepped back into the elevator, effectively blocking Walter’s exit. Her eyes played over Walter, as if daring him to attempt something rash. Walter broke eye contact almost immediately, although he could not see how he was much of a threat dressed only in his bathrobe and clutching his pajamas.

They descended back to his floor. Neither of them said a word, but Walter was certain that she kept casting furtive, watchful glances in his direction. A part of his ego took issue that her attention, in some ways, held even less interest than had Bernat’s.

The guard escorted him back to his room. Before opening the room for him, however, she gave him a long, hard stare. The silent warning it carried was apparent to Walter. A silent anger burned at the pit of his stomach, but he knew that he would say nothing. Seeming to sense his understanding, she opened the door.

His parents and Abigail were waiting inside. His suitcase was closed on the bed, apparently packed and ready. The three of them reacted with varying degrees of surprise.

“Where’s the wheelchair?” his father asked, somewhat sternly.

His mother peered past him, as if hoping to spot it out in the corridor. Walter was uncomfortably aware of the security guard at his back.

“I’m fine,” he said, deciding on the safest and most neutral-sounding statement.

His father looked slightly dubious and looked over at the security guard. Walter did not see how the guard reacted, but felt considerable relief when he heard the door close behind him.

“What happened?” Abigail asked. There was deep and genuine concern in her eyes.

Walter began to smile at her and started to reach for her hands. He saw then that he still carried his pajamas and then remembered that only his bathrobe separated her from his naked body. It was not the situation as he would have envisioned it—and certainly not with his parents present.

“They had some trouble with the equipment,” he explained in what he hoped was a casual, slightly annoyed, tone. His eyes found the open bathroom door. “Excuse me just a minute.”

He dashed inside, although trying not to make it look like he was in too much of a rush, and closed the door. Once inside, he took a long, slow breath. He then fumbled in the dark for the light switch, found it, and started to dress again in his pajamas. He found that his hands shook slightly as he pulled them over his legs. I guess I’m more rattled than I thought.

After he was done, and the robe fastened once more about his waist, he took a moment to splash some water on his face. It seemed to help steady him. Still, he allowed himself several more deep breaths before opening the door. He knew that he could not delay too long before someone got worried and came in after him.

Most of the surprise was gone from their faces when he came out. His father still surveyed him with a critical eye, but any remark he was going to make was forgotten when there was a knock on the door.

“Yes,” his mother said evenly. “Come in.”

The door opened, admitting an orderly with a wheelchair. He was dark-skinned and Walter wondered how much English he spoke, much less understood.

His accent was heavy, but understandable. It carried hints of the Caribbean islands. “Are you ready to go?”

Walter nodded. You have no idea . . .

#

June 10, 1978 . . .

Abigail was late. Walter found it only mildly surprising, and not entirely unexpected. Although it had been the last day of classes until Fall—not to mention a brutal week of final exams—Abigail had been unable to convince her employer to give her the afternoon off, even with a week’s advance notice. While the woman who ran the flower shop where Abigail worked was generally fair and reasonable about Abigail’s class schedule, her staunch refusal to hire any additional help made it difficult for Abigail to leave early or take much additional time off. Walter had ceased to grouse about it, for it only made Abigail irritable to discuss it, and there was really nothing he could say or do that would alter the situation.

He toyed with the glass of water, eyeing the condensation forming on its sides, and wondered if he should wander over to the bar and see whether he could manage to order a beer. Truthfully, he did not care for the taste of it all that much (although Abigail seemed to, the few times he had seen her sample some), it was the thrill of the challenge to see whether he could actually obtain one. He had decided against it when someone he sensed someone arrive at the table. At first, he thought it was the increasingly annoyed (and annoying) waiter returning again to see if he was ready to order.

Walter looked up instead to find Abigail standing there. She stared down at him, making no move to sit down. Her eyes seemed pink and slightly puffy. The muscles along her jaw trembled. Something in her taut expression told Walter that something was very, very wrong.

“What is it, Abby?” he asked softly, reaching toward her.

She backed away from him, almost flinching.

What the hell?

Walter frowned, truly puzzled now. “What’s going on?”

Abigail continued to stare back at him. Her arms were wrapped protectively across her stomach, as if she were trying to hold inside whatever was causing her such pain. Walter tried to think of something else to say, but his so far questions had brought no answers. He watched her swallow, seeming to gather her courage.

“I’m leaving,” she announced. Her words sounded choked and just barely audible enough for him to hear.

The wrinkles on Walter’s forehead deepened. Leaving? Where? And then his stomach sank as if suddenly filled with icy lead. Are we breaking up?

“Oh.”

It was all he could think of to say. If she was ending their relationship, he wanted her to say it outright, not make him guess until he got it right. Because it wouldn’t be all right. It would be . . .

“That’s it?” She asked, clearly growing angry with him. “That’s all you can say? Just ‘oh’?”

He could not find it within himself to feel the same ire. In fact, he was having trouble trying to feel anything—anything but a cold and hollow sense of loss.

“I guess I’d like to know why,” he offered. I don’t ‘guess’, he thought with a small glow of irritation. I do want to know.

“I’m going to Amherst,” she said evenly, as if that explained everything.

They had discussed it before. She had been offered a scholarship there, but had been unable to afford the move. More than once, they had considered the solution of seeing if they would accept her there for graduate school instead and they would both go as soon as they had both received their degrees. As far as he could remember, nothing had ever been decided as that milestone was still a few years away. What had changed?

“Now?” he managed to ask.

She nodded slowly, her mouth working before they formed her next words. “For Fall,” she said. “But I’m leaving next week to find housing. And a job.”

Walter just stared at her until his eyes grew dry. Abigail studied him in return and then, unable to bear his unblinking scrutiny, looked away.

“Just like that,” he whispered, feeling a small hint of anger.

Abigail looked at him once more. She seemed ready to say something and then changed her mind. Her posture changed in a way as if to indicate that she had accepted the situation and was ready to face it. Walter wished that he could say the same.

“I need to get away,” she said. Her voice was firm, but Walter heard a note of regret.

“From me?” he asked quietly, surprised at the sharp sarcasm he heard there.

“From you,” Abigail agreed. “From us.” Her eyes flashed around the interior of the restaurant. “From here.”

Walter continued to stare at her, not understanding. What had he done? Or had not done? Was it because they had never finished what they had started—what she had started—back during that picnic before the accident? There had never seemed to be the right time since then.

It was then that he felt a renewed flush of anger. She had apparently been thinking about for this for a long time without telling him. He could not imagine her just deciding to pack up and go on a moment’s notice. To be leaving next week, she must have been . . . he stopped, his teeth now grinding tightly together. Was she going there to be with someone else?

“I see,” he said tightly.

Abigail’s eyes flashed. “Do you?” she challenged him hotly.

Walter knew immediately that his last guess had been wrong. He saw no hint of guilt in her expression, just a growing fury.

“Do you?” she repeated, demanding, her voice rising. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. “I don’t think you do.”

He said nothing, for he could think of nothing to say.

“I just don’t know who you are any more, Walter,” she went on.

Her statement struck him as if he had been slapped. What does she mean? I haven’t . . . And then he realized that it was true. Ever since the incident at the St. Patrick’s Day bash, he had been afraid to touch her, terrified that he might hurt her . . . or worse. Just as there were things that she had not said to him, he was just as responsible for the same omissions.

He wanted to apologize, to say that he was sorry, but something told him that was the last thing she wanted to hear. Her resentment and frustration toward him had been building for some time, and he had chosen to ignore it. The signs had surely been there—had he cared to take notice of them. He could think of many things he wanted to say now: of how much he cared for her, that he did not want her to go, that he could . . . could what? Go back to how they had been before? It was not possible. He had changed—been changed.

Mentally, he sagged with defeat. “You’re right,” he said.

“And that’s supposed to just make it all okay?” she snapped back.

Walter tried not to look around. He was reasonably certain that they were drawing the attention of others around them.