Under the Knife(6)

Rita.

Spencer couldn’t help but envy his friends who’d shifted smoothly into the next phases of their lives. Sometimes, alone late at night on his phone, after a few beers, Spencer would scroll through pictures of his friends’ young families on Facebook. There were always firsts. Lots of them. First smile. First steps. First day of ballet class. First day of soccer. First day of school.

Spencer, single and sad and loyal, pointed and clicked, liking each and every one.

Rita.

But wait. He had his freedom. Right? He could do whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted. He wasn’t tied down. He didn’t have a steady girlfriend. He got to play the field. He was living the dream. Right? Isn’t that what all guys were supposed to want?

After all, forty was when the other guys who’d settled down were supposed to flip into midlife-crisis mode. Rage against conformity. Ditch the wife and kids. Have a fling with a pretty little thing just this side of statutory. Buy a really cool car. Wear skinny jeans.

But Spencer liked conformity. He craved normality. He went to church on Sunday; paid his taxes every April; visited his parents back in their small town in Washington State every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter; bought Girl Scout cookies once a year from the uniformed girls staked out in front of the supermarket, then bought some more from their mothers selling them at work. These things made him happy.

Nor was he the kind of guy who’d ever run out on a family. He’d be grateful to have a family. What he wouldn’t give to post pictures on Facebook of his own smiling, walking, dancing, soccer-playing, school-age children.

He could indulge himself in an attractive young woman, he supposed. He was a good-looking guy—he wasn’t vain about it, or anything, but it presented certain advantages he wasn’t going to ignore. He lived and worked near the local college, so there were plenty of nubile coeds running around. One lithe, flirtatious barista at his neighborhood Starbucks, with glorious coffee-colored eyes and sheets of lustrous chocolaty hair, had made her intentions pretty clear. But she looked like she was barely out of her teens, if that. She belonged with a guy her own age.

And the really cool car? Well, that would just be plain irresponsible. Why waste that kind of money? He was perfectly happy with his nice, practical, environmentally sound Toyota Prius, thanks.

And trendy skinny jeans were not an option. Even if he had the inclination to try to squeeze into a pair, which he most certainly did not, his thighs were each as big around as a tree trunk.

That’s all great, Spencer. Good for you. So, let me in on a little secret, Dudley Do-Right: If you’re such a boring, stand-up citizen, what the hell are you doing stalking your ex-girlfriend? The one who told you she wants nothing more to do with you?

He gritted his teeth.

It’s not stalking, he answered himself. Not really.

Is it?

He was sweating now, and his scalp itched underneath his knit cap. His chest and legs burned, but it was a pleasant burn. There was a nice onshore breeze, rich and moist, carrying with it the scent of the Pacific, half a mile away. He inhaled deeply, savoring it, timing it with the controlled breathing of his run.

A car turned onto the street ahead. It accelerated away from him, careening from one side of the street to the other, coughing newspapers from its open passenger-side window, the driver a dark silhouette.

Spencer, who preferred to read his news on his phone, didn’t understand the appeal of newspapers, which were supposed to have gone the way of the dodo by now. It astonished him how many of his neighbors still insisted on having one delivered. The final payload, tossed to a home just short of an intersection at which the car cornered hard to the left before speeding away, fell short of the driveway, landing in the gutter.

The home was a cozy, Mediterranean-style one-story with native Southern California landscaping and cheerful red-ceramic roof tiles. On his morning runs, Spencer always passed by it; on days he didn’t run, he altered his driving route to include this street, just to drive by it, even though other routes were faster.

Because it was Rita’s house.

He sighed to himself.

So maybe it was stalking. Kind of.

He frowned.

Something about Rita’s house this morning felt wrong.





RITA


“Lisa,” Rita croaked. Rita hugged herself and struggled to sit up. She felt something small and cold and metallic, hanging on a chain from her neck, knock against her bare chest.

Her father’s dog tags.

So she wasn’t completely naked.

She lurched to one side, almost toppling off the table.

“Careful.” Lisa grabbed her by the arm and helped her to a sitting position. “Hey, Wendy.” The blond-haired nurse was standing a few feet away, still holding the folded blankets and gaping at Rita. “Wendy.”

“What?” Wendy asked distractedly.

Rita’s teeth began to chatter.

“The blankets, Wendy.”

“Oh. Right. The blankets.” She handed both blankets to Lisa, oblivious to Lisa’s glare.

Lisa snapped each blanket open with a practiced flick of her wrists, then wrapped one around Rita’s shoulders and chest and the other across her midsection.

“Thank you.” Rita huddled within the blankets, grateful for the warmth. Her shivering slowed, then stopped. She pressed her hand to her aching head, rubbed her temples with her fingers, and tried to scrape together her thoughts, which felt like leaves tumbling in the wind.