The Frenchman's Slow Seduction Page 6

  “So go back to locum work,” he says, with a simplicity born of good parenting. “I felt the same way after I graduated from business school and went to work for a bank: I hated every day of it. There was no way I was going to spend the rest of my life hating what I did for a living, so I took an objective look at myself and decided to get into police work. I figured I liked keeping fit, working with people, and working outdoors, so why not? Turned out to be one of the best things I ever did. Just take a step back, Rach. Nothing’s lost. You’ll just appreciate life more when you find what you really want to do.”

  As we leave the restaurant, Bryan suggests a walk in a nearby woodlot, which I happily agree to.

  “You’re always ready for a walk,” he says.

  Deciding to take his jeep, we leave my car at the restaurant.

  After a long hike, we return to the jeep feeling mellow. “I love this time of year,” Bryan says. “The air gets so warm just before fall sets in.”

  On the drive back to the restaurant, large lazy flies, drunk from their afternoon in the sun, buzz noisily against the jeep’s back window.

  “I’ll pick you and your bike up at eight tomorrow morning,” Bryan says, as he pulls into the restaurant driveway.

  Why is everything so easy with Bryan?

  Feeling blissfully happy, I drive home. After a quiet dinner, I leave for the clinic to work on visual aids; the conference is only two weeks away. Checking the animals, I find KoKo restless and take him for a long walk before settling down to work.

  Around nine thirty, as I’m sifting through X-rays, I hear KoKo violently barking in the kennel room. It’s a loud, threatening bark that scares the hell out of me, and I run out of the clinic, not bothering to lock up. When I’ve driven a safe distance away, I phone Mike on my mobile.

  “Mike, something’s up at the clinic. KoKo’s barking like crazy and it has me scared.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Dixie’s Hair Salon, in the parking lot. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I know where it is. Stay where you are. I’ll meet you there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Mike shows up in his truck. I rush over to him. “I know someone was there, Mike.”

  He nods. “The dog’s probably scared them. I’ll go check.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Okay, but I want you to stay in your car.”

  Outside the clinic, I get an awful feeling in my gut. Mike grabs a baseball bat from his truck and goes into the clinic through the front door. Five minutes later he comes out, pale and shaken.

  “Don’t go in, Rach,” he says. “It’s KoKo. He’s dead. He’s been hit over the head with something. I’ve called the police.”

  I race into the clinic. A piece of plywood is wedged into KoKo’s cage, and KoKo is lying on the floor, blood oozing from his nose and ears. There’s a gash on his head.

  I don’t notice the police as they go about their business until one of them asks me questions. There’s no forced entry.

  “Let’s go,” Mike says, when the police have gone.

  “Give me a minute,” I tell him. “I need to cover KoKo with a blanket.”

  Outside, I tell Mike that I want to go home alone. He tries to change my mind, but I stay firm.

  At seven the following morning, I phone Bryan to tell him what’s happened and to cancel biking plans. He offers to keep me company, but I don’t take up his offer, feigning the need for sleep.

  All day, there’s no escaping the sadness, and I don’t even try.

  Around dinner time, Bryan drops by. I show him to the living room sofa.

  “I was just talking to a friend of mine, Andy McMahon,” he says. “He was my self-defence instructor at the academy. He’s starting a new class Tuesday night. It’s for women cadets, but he’s agreed to let you in.” His eyes search mine. “I want you to go, Rachel. Will you go?”

  He looks so concerned that I find myself saying, “Sure. I’ve always wanted to take a class.”

  “It won’t be easy for you,” he says. “And it won’t be easy for Mac either, dealing with a civilian. He has a police academy mentality. He’s tough on the cadets because he has to prepare them for the life-and-death confrontations they’ll be faced with in their work. He can scare the living shit out of you, but I’ve never met anyone who cares as much about people as he does.”

  I smile. “I won’t let you down, Bryan.”

  “It’s not about letting me down, Rachel. You can stop whenever you like. It’s just that I want you to know where Mac’s coming from, and I want you to know that you can trust him. His daughter, Nicole, was killed during an assault; that’s why he’s so dedicated. She was twenty-one when it happened and it almost killed him. I’m not trying to scare you. The cadets there will be nice.” He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. Handing it to me, he says, “You’ll have to get a brown track suit. It’s part of the uniform and bonding thing. I’ve written down the address of a place where you can pick one up.”

  “I’ll get one tomorrow.”

  “Great,” he says, and stands up. “Now, let’s go out for dinner. I’m starving.”

  We go to the Lily Season Restaurant. The taste of green tea, won ton soup, egg rolls, and stir-fry provide a temporary distraction.

  It’s still early when we leave the restaurant. For the first time in my life I feel like getting drunk and wonder if this is how my mother felt. Bryan suggests a movie, which seems like a better idea.

  At the end of the evening, as Bryan drives me back to my place, an oppressive force hovers over me, and I have the irrational fear that someone wishes me dead. Get a grip, I tell myself. You’re just tired. Remember the angels. When I was young and afraid of the dark, those were the words my grandmother would use to lull me back to sleep. “Just remember,” she’d say, “you’re never really alone.”

  As Bryan and I walk up the stairs to my apartment, Myra pops out of her apartment. I introduce Bryan and tell her about KoKo.

  “What kind of person kills a dog?” she says. “Rachel, you’ve got to be more careful. You were lucky, and that’s all.”

  Before Bryan leaves, he checks the security measures in my apartment. I’d make a joke if he didn’t look so serious. Satisfied, he makes plans to drop by after work the following day. When he’s gone, I take a long shower.

  Chapter 10

  Monday is a tough day for everybody except Shane, who doesn’t show up for work. I’ve come in on my morning off to work on conference notes. Tim, who’s been badly affected by the news, hardly says a word. As security people arrive to install an alarm system, I escape to Mike’s office to check for emails. There’s one from Lou Ann and another one from Jean Paul:

  Oh, Rachel!

  Thrilled about you coming, but have bad news. We’re in Oklahoma for a week until late Friday, the 12th. Joe’s crowd is having a big family reunion. Please tell me you’ll be around for the weekend. I can pick you up early Saturday morning. Luv ya to bits! Lou Ann

  Dear Rachel:

  I look forward to our meeting. Since the hotel will have many people, I suggest we meet outside the front door by the two trees. JP

  Mike has booked us a return flight that leaves College Station at 6:40am on Sunday. I email Lou Ann to okay her plans for Saturday. Then I email Jean Paul to confirm his plans.

  When I get to Northcliff shortly after ten, I feel a bit tense. Verna and Liz are playing cribbage in Verna’s room.

  “What’s happened?” Liz asks. The woman is pure emotion.

  I tell them about the break-in.

  “Rachel, you must use your brain and concentrate on your life,” Liz says. “Don’t spend your life reacting to life’s crises. Think about your life, make conscious decisions about it. Direct your fate. Think about your spirit and your place on Earth. Only in this way can you develop your soul. Spend some time thinking about your connection to humanity and the spirit world. Have conversations about it. Otherwise you’ll just be
out there free-floating in the universe with nothing to hold on to.”

  I feel close to understanding myself when Liz talks.

  She relaxes into her chair. “I developed my spirit through my work. My first spiritual experience was with Lyssa, a fifty-eight-year-old woman dying of breast cancer. I stayed with her until the end. People died in their homes in those days. It’s a great shame people don’t die in their homes anymore. There’s a lot of spiritual energy around at that time. Angels hover nearby. It’s a privilege to be present. People these days are afraid of death because they’re so distant from it.”

  “Will you tell me about it?” I ask her.

  “Well, I lived in Lyssa’s home for the last two weeks of her life. She couldn’t walk anymore because of the muscle wastage in her legs. One night, in the wee hours, her dead mother appeared to me while I was in bed. ‘Elizabeth,’ she said, ‘I need you to give a message to Lyssa. She doesn’t hear me. Tell her that she’s forgotten about the angels. Everyone is given an angel when they die, and I’m her angel. Remind her of the poem she wrote for me the day I died.’ Then she disappeared. I knew I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t afraid at all. When I woke up in the morning, I told myself that it was better if I didn’t make mention of what happened because it would just frighten Lyssa.

  “One week later, Lyssa’s mother appeared to me again during the night. She asked me why I hadn’t given Lyssa her message. She wasn’t happy with me. ‘I don’t want to scare her,’ I told her. ‘She might think she’s dying.’ ‘But she is dying,’ her mother said, ‘and she’s already very afraid. That’s why I’m here. You must give her my message. It’ll make her feel better.’

  “Around seven o’clock the following night, Lyssa and I were alone, which was unusual. Her relatives had taken to visiting, and many of them stayed overnight.

  “Since Lyssa was afraid of death and talking about the afterlife, I told her that I had a dream about her mother rather than a visitation. She looked at me, interested.

  “‘Your mother told me to tell you that everyone gets an angel when they die and that she’s your angel. She said that you forgot about the angels, and that you’ve forgotten about the poem you wrote for her when she died.’

  “Lyssa’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Could you get my wallet for me?’ she asked. When I gave it to her, she pulled out a carefully folded, yellowed piece of paper from one of the pockets and handed it to me. In a child’s hand, a poem was written: Mother, I will always remember you as you were: young and beautiful and very kind. It was a poem Lyssa had written when she was twelve, on the day of her mother’s passing.

  “Lyssa changed that day. Every night during her final week, her spirit wandered, even though she was bedridden. She would appear at my bedside to give me messages during the night.

  “On her first visit to my bedside, she said, ‘I want you to know that you’re part of me, Elizabeth. You know what I need and what I think. I’ll never forget you for that.’ The next morning, I rushed to her bedroom thinking that she might have died in the night and come to my bedside to give me one last message, but she was alive. She was also wide awake, which was odd for her at that time of the morning.

  “‘I wanted to stay awake,’ Lyssa told me, ‘because I had to make sure that I talked to you. I want you to know that you’re an extension of me, Elizabeth. You know what I need and what I think even before I do, and I’ll never forget you for that.’ It felt so strange to hear her words, which were almost identical to the words she used when she visited me in the night.

  “When Lyssa’s time for dying came, I held her hand and stroked it for four hours, from two to six in the morning, as family members surrounded her. Around six o’clock, I saw and felt a vortex suddenly appear above us. A hole opened and a hand reached out. It was Lyssa’s mother’s hand. ‘I’m here for you, Lyssa. It’s your time,’ she said. ‘Oh no!’ I thought. ‘Lyssa is so scared of the spirit world, she’ll never go!’ But just as quick as I had the thought, I saw Lyssa’s spirit shoot up towards her mother. They were finally reunited. Instantly, the hole closed, and the vortex swooped upwards. When I looked down at Lyssa, I could see that her body was dead.”

  Liz takes my hand and says, “Rachel, get busy living and experiencing all aspects of life. If something or someone is making you unhappy, you must not endure it. It’s bad for the spirit and it indicates that you’re on the wrong path.”

  For the rest of my visit, we play card games.

  Spiritually uplifted, I leave Northcliff and drive to the address Bryan gave me to pick up a brown track suit. I can’t believe how butt ugly it is.

  At the clinic, the mood is still tense. Mike doesn’t know how to talk to me since the incident with KoKo.

  “The dinner’s arranged with Vanessa and Gordon for the Friday before your birthday,” he says. “Do you want to do something tonight?”

  “Not tonight, Mike. I’m just not up to it.”

  “Okay. Call me if you change your mind.”

  By the time I get home, it’s six o’clock. A half hour later, Bryan drops by and suggests a bike ride.

  “Maybe I could wear this,” I tell him, pulling out the track suit.

  His eyes pop wide open. “Wow. That’s really ugly.”

  A one hour bike ride makes me realize how much I’ve missed the endorphin rush that comes with exercise; no strings attached.

  “You looked just like a kid on that bike,” Bryan says.

  When I offer to make him dinner, he accepts.

  “Are you looking forward to tomorrow night?” he asks, as we sit down to toasted western sandwiches.

  “Sure, but am I going to get thrown around?”

  “Maybe.”

  I laugh. “It’s at times like this that I wish I worked out.”

  Tuesday is as strained as Monday, except Shane shows up for work and gives us something else to think about. Mike tells him what happened.

  “Bummer,” he says, and heads out back to start his day. Wearing headphones, he sings along with a heavy metal song. There is some comfort in seeing someone oblivious to what’s going on around him.

  Mid-morning, after I’m finished with a client, Mike walks into the treatment room. “Rachel, shouldn’t we talk about things?”

  I turn to him. “Not yet, Mike. Can we hold off? I just need some time.”

  At the end of the day, I decide to bring the conference material home with me. Working late at the clinic is no longer an option.

  The self-defence class runs from seven to eight thirty, so I get to the gym at six thirty. The cadets are already in the changing room talking and laughing about some guy named Eddy, who was at the pub the previous Friday and who got a woody every time some blonde with fake boobs walked by.

  I walk up to them. “Hi. I’m Rachel. I’m here for the class.”

  A tall sturdy woman with a brush cut holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Sondra. Welcome to McMahon’s Magical Mystery Tour.”

  I remember Bryan saying Andy McMahon was the instructor.

  Sondra introduces the others who take turns shaking my hand. I like them already.

  “You know why he picks brown for the track suits?” a cadet named Rhoda asks.

  “No,” Sondra says. “Why?”

  “Because it hides the blood stains.” They kill themselves laughing and call her a liar.

  When we walk into the gym, the instructor, a tall, solid man, is standing at the far end. He looks about fifty-five, has gray hair that’s thinning at the top, and has a broad face and broad nose. An ex-boxer? At precisely seven o’clock, he blows the whistle around his neck.

  “Alright, cadets, approach the front and sit on the floor mats, two people to a mat.” He has a loud deep voice that carries.

  I’m sharing a mat with Joanna, who looks like a professional athlete.

  “My name is Sergeant McMahon. My friends call me Andy or Mac. You’ll call me Sergeant McMahon, or sir. When I ask you a question, or when you want to address me, I want every se
ntence to finish with Sergeant McMahon, or sir. Is that understood?”

  They all shout, “Yes, sir!”

  “Pardon me.”

  We all shout, “Yes, sir!”

  “That’s better. When I ask you a question, I want you to answer quickly. I want your gut response, and I want you to respond loudly. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Introductions first. When I call your name, I want you to call out, “Here, sir!” and raise your hand.

  “Cadet Flemming.”

  “Here, sir!” Sondra shouts.

  “Cadet Paul.”

  “Here, sir!” comes from Sheena, a Native American woman with short black hair.

  I’m the eighth and last name to be called out.

  “Cadet Wiley, you are not with the force. However, for this class, I will address you as cadet, and I will expect the same performance from you as I do from the others. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” It comes out weak.

  “Pardon?”

  “Yes, sir!” I shout.

  “My job is to change what’s between your ears. As women you have a big disability compared to men when involved in an altercation. Cadet Flemming, would you like to hazard a guess as to what that disability is?”

  “Strength, sir,” Sondra calls out.

  “Strength is of secondary importance. Of primary importance are the conventions society has thrust upon you as women to not hurt others physically; or for that matter, emotionally. Breaking through these social conventions is the one determining factor that will indicate whether you have a fighting chance in a violent altercation. If you can overcome these conventions, you will be an even contender.

  “Of secondary importance are training, strength, and instinct. As a man, I was taught that pummeling into someone else was not only okay, it was expected. Hell, you see it on TV all the time in sports. As a man, I was not taught to be nice to everyone. I do not feel that everyone has to like me. Each one of you here will hate me and think I’m a bastard at one time or another during this course. That does not affect me. I’m here to do a job, not to have you like me.