Do Not Disturb(73)

I can vaguely hear the television blaring in the background. Most of the time, there’s a sports game playing on the screen. But tonight, a game show is on. The host’s face fills the screen as he reads a question off the card in front of him.

What friend of Charles de Gaulle was premier of France for much of the 1960s?

I whirl around, trying to catch whoever has been staring at me in the act. No such luck. There are people behind me, but nobody is looking at me. At least, nobody’s looking at me at this moment.

It’s probably something innocent. Maybe a man who is thinking about buying me a drink. Maybe somebody who recognizes me from work.

It doesn’t mean it’s somebody who knows who I really am. It never is. I’m probably just paranoid tonight because it’s the twenty-sixth anniversary of the day my whole life changed.

The day they found out what was in our basement.

“You okay, Doc?”

The bartender is leaning toward me, his muscular forearms balanced on the slightly sticky counter. He’s a new bartender—I’ve seen him only a handful of times. He’s slightly older than the last guy, maybe mid-thirties like me.

I tug at the collar of my green scrubs. He started calling me “doc” because of the scrubs. It is, in fact, an accurate guess—I’m a general surgeon. Because I’m a woman, most people see the scrubs and think I’m a nurse, but he went with doctor.

My father is probably proud if he knows about it. Whatever feelings or emotions he is capable of, pride is certainly one of them—that was clear from his trial. He always wanted to be a surgeon himself, but he didn’t have the grades. Maybe if he had become a surgeon, it would’ve kept him from doing the things he ended up doing.

“I’m fine.” I run a finger along the rim of my glass. “Just fine.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “How’s the drink? How’d I do?”

“Good.”

That’s an understatement. He made it perfectly. I watched him place the sugar cube at the bottom of the glass—he didn’t just dump a packet of sugar into the drink like some other bartenders I’ve seen. He put in exactly the right amount of bitters. And I didn’t have to tell him not to use soda water.

“I have to tell you,” he says, “I didn’t expect you to order an Old Fashioned. You don’t seem like the type.”

“Mmm.” I try to keep any interest out of my voice, so he’ll go away and leave me alone. I should never have sat at the bar. But to be fair, the bartenders here are rarely this chatty.

He smiles disarmingly. “I thought you’d order a Cosmopolitan or lemonade spritzer or something like that.”

I bite my cheek to keep from responding. I love drinking Old Fashioneds. That’s been my drink since I was twenty-one, and maybe even a little before, if I’m being honest. They’re dark and boozy, a little sweet and a little bitter. As I take a sip from my drink, my annoyance with the chatty bartender evaporates.

“Anyway.” The bartender gives me one last long look. “You give me a yell if you want anything else.”

I watch him walk away. For a split second, I allow myself to appreciate the lean muscles that stand out under his T-shirt. He’s attractive in a nonthreatening way, with light brown hair and mild brown eyes. The stubble on his face is not quite enough to be called a beard. He’s very nondescript—the sort of guy you couldn’t pick out of a lineup. Sort of like my father was.

I start to tick off on my fingers the number of months since I’ve had a man over at my house. Then I start counting off the years. Actually, we may be getting into the decades territory. I’ve lost track, which is disturbing in itself.

But I’m not interested in a rendezvous with the hot bartender or anyone else. A long time ago, I decided relationships wouldn’t be a part of my life anymore. There was a time when it made me sad, but now I’ve accepted that it’s better that way.

I lift my drink again and swish the liquid around. I still have that crawling sensation in the back of my neck like somebody is watching me. But maybe it’s not real. Maybe it’s all in my head.

Twenty-six years. I can’t believe it’s been that long.

The game show host on the screen interrupts my thoughts, ripping my eyes away from my drink.

What serial killer was commonly known as the Handyman?

The bartender glances at the screen and says in an offhand way, “Aaron Nierling.”

My father is a game show answer tonight. It could be because of the anniversary of his arrest, but it’s more likely a coincidence. No matter how many years go by, what he did will never be forgotten. I wonder if he’s watching. He used to like game shows. Is he allowed to watch TV in there? It’s not clear what they allow him to do in prison. I haven’t spoken to him since the police took him away.

Even though he writes me a letter every week.

I push thoughts of my father out of my head as I sip on my drink, allowing that nice warm feeling to wash over me. The bartender is wiping down the counter on the other side of the bar, his muscles flexing under his T-shirt. He pauses briefly to look over at me—and he winks.

Hmm. Maybe my self-imposed abstinence isn’t such a great idea. Would it kill me to enjoy myself one night? To wear something besides scrubs? Or let my black hair hang loose instead of pinning it into a tight bun that makes my hair follicles scream with agony.