The Fall of Never(68)

He followed Josh down the dark hallway and through a half-opened door just before the bathroom. In here, the stench of sweat and rotten citrus fruit was so ripe, Mendes felt his eyes begin to water immediately.

Like the rest of the apartment, the old woman’s bedroom was also cloaked in darkness. The shade was drawn across the single window opposite the bed. It glowed a dull white-blue. He could just barely make out the huddled shape beneath the bedclothes. It occurred to him that it was very possible the old woman had suffered another stroke. That would explain her inability to communicate her sickness with Josh.

God, if You are going to take this woman, please let me at least speak with her first. I know how selfish that sounds, but please…please…

“Nellie,” Josh said, his voice just above a whisper. “Nellie, are you awake?”

The person on the bed shifted positions. Then a voice, more like a monster’s voice than a human being’s: “Daaahl…”

“Wha—” Mendes stuttered…then recalled the effects of the stroke, the speech aphasia.

“Hey there, Nellie,” Josh said. Even in the dark Mendes could tell he was smiling. “You feeling all right?”

“All right,” the woman managed.

“Doctor Mendes is here,” Josh said. “From the hospital.”

Silence from the bed.

Josh made a sound of discomfort. “Nellie,” he said again.

“Doctor?” In her handicap, the old woman managed to break the word in half: Dah-tuh.

Uncertain whether he should even respond, Mendes forced out a weak, “I’m here.”

More silence. Then she spoke again, “Please wait…wait outside…Doctor…”

“Yes.”

He turned and quickly negotiated his way out of the darkened room without slamming into anything. Finally out in the hallway, he released what felt like a week’s worth of pent-up breath, and moved into the tiny living room where he collapsed against the arm of the sofa. God, the smell. Somewhere behind him, Ellington had concluded “Black Beauty” and now had his orchestra rolling through an up-tempo rendition of “Cotton Tail.”

Again he thought of the dream in the hallway and the umbilical cord that had glided with sinuous conviction from between those two subway doors and across the floor toward him. Having just learned of Nellie’s powers—“abilities,” as Josh called them—he wondered if his dreams were somehow connected to the old woman. Surely that would explain him dreaming of her hallway—a hallway he’d never been in before until tonight. Yet…was that even possible? True, he knew nothing about telepathy and those who possessed such an ability, but didn’t it seem just a bit inconceivable?

Josh came up behind him, walked past him and toward the kitchen. “Have a seat,” he said. “You look like you’re about to topple over.”

Mendes eased himself onto the sofa. His head was throbbing, the palms of his hands dripping with sweat. “What did she say? Is she upset? Is she sick?”

From the kitchen, Josh said, “She’s confused, that’s all. She doesn’t want you to think she’s upset that you’re here. Like me, she knew you’d pop up eventually.”

Pop up eventually, Mendes thought, his mind racing. Christ, you make me sound like a goddamn piece of toast!

“Will she speak with me?”

“Yes,” Josh said. Mendes heard him turn on the sink, run water into what he assumed was the coffee pot. “She’ll be out shortly.”

“Is she sick?” Mendes repeated. And when Josh didn’t answer, he picked himself off the couch and poked his head into the kitchen. “Josh…”

“She’s sick, yeah,” Josh said. He was pulling coffee mugs from a cupboard with deliberate slowness.

“You know, I’m still…” He regrouped his thoughts. “I can have a look at her, Josh. I’m still a doctor. I don’t mean to come off so selfish. I know you care for her. You’re a good friend.”

“Thank you,” Josh said, not facing him, “but I don’t really think there’s anything you can do.”

“I can try.”

Josh rolled his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said in a voice that conveyed not even the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Josh,” Mendes began, “I think—”

“Doctor,” Nellie said from behind him.

Startled, Mendes jerked his head around. The little woman had crept up behind him in her wheelchair. In the short time she’d been absent from the hospital, Nellie Worthridge had lost considerable weight. Her face was gaunt and bony, her skin the color of drying wax. Her eyes looked as though someone had hastily thumbed them in place. Mendes could see the strain the stroke had on the left side of her face: her mouth was pulled slightly down and to the left in a perpetual scowl, the skin taut and nearly transparent across her left cheek. Enormous blue veins pulsed at her temples.

“Nellie,” he heard himself say. To his own ears, his voice sounded very far away. And very frightened.

“Come,” she managed.

“Yes?”

With her good hand she motioned for the doctor to move nearer. With some hesitation, he did. The old woman accomplished a smile and wrapped her arthritic fingers around the thumb of his right hand.