The Queen of Hearts(6)

“Hey, Wyatt,” Zadie said, trying not to smile.

“Your pants are hanging in your closet, Wy,” I reminded him.

“No, they’re not. It’s like the world is clamoring for me to go out in my unders.”

“I’ll go look.”

“No, no, no, no.” Wyatt switched gears. “You ladies stay right here. I’ll reassess.”

I touched a drawer on the kitchen island, which sprang open, proffering baby wipes. I grabbed one, and after mopping up the coffee tsunami, I turned my attention back to Zadie. “I’m sorry. I should have figured out a better way to tell you. I just found out myself. I—”

From the adjacent first-floor master: “Muffin! Are we out of Product?”

Zadie and I glanced at each other, mutually agreeing not to continue in earshot of Wyatt.

“What’s Product?” she whispered.

“His hairdresser suggested he try to manhandle the ’fro a little,” I whispered back. “It’s in your vanity shelf,” I called.

“Thanks, beloved. By the way, I’ve located the pants. They were hidden in plastic stuff.”

“That’s how they come back from the dry cleaner’s, Wy. How have you never noticed that before?”

“I’m sure I have, but in general I’m blissfully unconcerned with wrinkles,” said Wyatt, emerging fully dressed from the bedroom, his hair now sporting an unnatural shine. “They’re going to bunch up as soon as you put them on, so why bother? When you’ve got all this going on”—he motioned in an up-and-down gesture to himself—“people will let a few wrinkles slide—you know what I’m sayin’?”

“I think what you’re saying is that before Emma, you always wore wrinkled pants?” Zadie asked. Wyatt and I had been married for three years, but he persisted in plenty of ingrained bachelor habits, which often required me to repress my reactions for the sake of our marriage.

“Wellll, I did have a little help from time to time. With laundry and such.”

“Who helped you?” I asked.

“Really, that’s irrelevant,” Wyatt protested feebly.

“Who?”

“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”

Deadpan: “No.”

“Fine. Sometimes Mama gave me a little hand with things,” Wyatt muttered.

“I knew it!” I said. “Your mom did all your laundry. That explains a lot.”

“Let’s not go there, pumpkin. I’m late enough.”

Zadie leapt to her feet. “Oh, shoot!” she yowled. “I’m going to be late for work.”

I stood and kissed her on the cheek, thankful for this unexpected reprieve. “I’m off Friday. Let’s get together then.” I flicked a quick glance at Wyatt, who was incautiously pouring himself another coffee, and lowered my voice. “Listen. Zadie.”

“Yeah?”

I felt my body language shift: a signaling of emotion I couldn’t quite conceal. Over the years, Zadie’d learned to read the subtle telegraphs of my face: a raised eyebrow, a half smile, a quick blink were all you might get from me, whereas another person’s visage would reflect open disgust or wild joy. But now I struggled to keep my expression impassive.

“I don’t . . .” I began, but then stopped. I waited, but nothing happened. I was frozen.

“Em?” Zadie tried.

I blinked, feeling the corners of my mouth elevate in a parody of a smile.

“It’s fine,” I said. “See you Friday.”

I could tell Zadie wanted to shake the details out of me, but she acquiesced with good grace, bounding out of the house and down the driveway in a tear. Although I couldn’t prove it, I suspected Zadie’s office staff actually scheduled her first patient fifteen minutes later than they told her they did, since she was late nearly one hundred percent of the time. I watched her peel out of the driveway, my mind churning. I had more than a decade of repression when it came to the subject of all the things that had gone wrong during our third year of medical school. There’s an indescribable comfort in the telepathy that develops over many years of friendship; I knew exactly why Nick’s reemergence would trigger embarrassment and anger for Zadie, and I could almost read her mind about how she’d approach him when she saw him again. Thinking of it, I lowered my face to my hands, squeezing my eyes shut, and settled into a familiar slumped-shoulder posture of defeat.





Chapter Three


MORE TUBES THAN THE UNDERGROUND





Late Summer, 1999: Louisville, Kentucky


   Zadie


“What are you waiting for? Stab him in the chest.”

I was pretty certain this was the first time in my life I’d heard those precise words spoken in my vicinity. I didn’t stab—mainly because I didn’t think I was competent to stab anyone in the chest—but also because I wasn’t certain the chief resident was talking to me. In case he was, I tried to banish the excitement I felt flitting across my face.

Clancy got it, however. He was our team’s intern, and he was a notorious procedure hog, known for prematurely dashing in and inserting lines and tubes while everyone else was still fumbling to get their booties and gowns on. “She can’t do the tube. She’s a third-year med student,” he protested, his words emerging behind his mask in a muffled whine.