I'm Glad About You(43)
They were so close to kissing, and they had been waiting for that kiss for too much time, and so had the fans. Alison felt herself fading into an ancient longing to be held and valued and even worshiped. Bradley held her, uncertain—the scene was meant to go much longer, and the fight was meant to be more fierce, and the collision of lovers was meant to be more violent, more filled with disappointment and pain and a rash hunger for sexual connection. But in that stumbling half step, where her body instinctively refused to back away and her scene partner felt no more urge to push her, the two actors knew they were meant to represent the union of man and woman, and that further rage and conflict was not necessary. Bradley leaned in and kissed her for both of them, and their sojourn in the wilderness, and also for the fans of the tsunami, who wanted not so much a ruthless and relentless f*ck on a pool table in some tawdry back room, but an answer to their yearning for relief from the exhaustion of what it meant to be human.
“Cut cut cut! Okay, that was great, guys, but we left a lot of the script on the floor,” the director moaned at them from the darkness behind the cameras, but they could not let go of each other. Fiction, this is all fiction, Alison reminded herself, the whole of my life is fiction. Bradley’s hands were inside that perfect sweater. Some of this take might be usable. In spite of the fact that they had gone completely off script.
Rage and wrangling ensued. They shot the scene the way it was written. Alison went home to her empty apartment, and Bradley went home to his wife.
ten
THE OLD PRIEST made a terrible patient. Slumped forward on the edge of the examining table, his eyes gazed up at Kyle with watery disinterest.
“How is your digestion? Is there any reflux? Up in your throat, do you feel a burning sensation?”
More staring.
“Bowel movements regular?”
Kyle felt a vague tension creeping along his jawline. He knew that the monks took a vow of silence, but he had been told that it wasn’t anything they adhered to rigorously. How was he going to diagnose this old man’s digestive malfunction, whatever it was, if he wouldn’t even answer a simple question?
“I realize that you have taken a vow of silence but you will have to communicate with me, Father. If I ask you a question, can you write down the answer? That’s all right, isn’t it?” The priest continued to simply stare, but there was a whisper of movement behind him, and a hand was laid upon the doctor’s shoulder with such tender grace that for a moment Kyle thought that in fact he was the patient, not the old man.
“He has dementia. Some days are better than others.” The second monk, bespectacled, was nearly bald, but rigorous, clear, and sensible, decades younger. He took the old priest’s hand as he spoke. Lifted so lightly upon the younger man’s open palm, Kyle now could see the palsy there. “Father Timothy, this is the new doctor, he’s going to be with us for a whole week, while Dr. Murrough has his operation in Louisville. This is Dr. Wallace. He needs to ask you some questions about why you’ve not been eating. Can you answer his questions today?” Father Timothy stared at the young monk with the same indifference he had directed at Kyle mere moments before.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware,” Kyle began.
“I apologize for that, someone should have mentioned it. On his good days he’s fine. People want to believe that means he’s on the mend. He’s very beloved.” The younger monk continued to hold the old priest’s hand with such simple affection that Kyle felt his throat tighten with emotion. The unself-conscious use of the word “beloved” caught him by surprise. Father McManahan, the friendly parish administrator who had informed Kyle that the Abbey of Gesthemani monastery needed a doctor to oversee their infirmary for a week, had filled him in on barely anything and Kyle had arrived carrying the slenderest set of facts: The regular physician, one Dr. Murrough, was scheduled for hernia surgery. The doctor meant to replace him had come down with a bronchial infection. They needed someone right away. The monastery was a good two-hour drive from Cincinnati, so it would be best for him to be in residence there, where they could put him up in the retreat hall. They realized it was a lot to ask, but it would be only a week. Kyle’s internal monologue had a quick enough answer to all of it: Only a week? My daily life is a Gethsemani. This one might be an actual break.
Which of course was completely unfair, absurd even, or at least it would have seemed that way to anyone who knew him. The past three years had slipped by with an idyllic ease. He was successful and well liked at Pediatrics West and had even been encouraged to take on some of the practice’s shifts at the local hospital. He and Van lucked into a charming prewar house in an exclusive section of Hyde Park, which they would never have been able to afford under normal circumstances, but the market was wobbly and the sellers were desperate. He hadn’t wanted to take on the debt, but Van’s parents stepped up and released the money they had been holding in trust for her from her grandparents. It was her money and she was his wife; there was no way to refuse, and why would he? The property was beautiful, with old-growth trees and dazzling azalea bushes, and the kitchen had just been redone with a Sub-Zero freezer and a chef’s stovetop. The wood detailing was stunning, the neighborhood impeccable. Van was in love with the location and the eccentric charm of the architecture. And there was money left over to pay off almost half of his med school loans! He was in his late twenties, and already he had money, health, looks, a great job, a gorgeous house, and his wife was beautiful, sociable, and educated. No one would have called his life a Gethsemani.