Read Online Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) by P.G. Lengsfelder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P.G. Lengsfelder
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too. But I thought about a big city, where I could be involved firsthand in research, and where healthy, attractive people congregated and new ideas germinated daily. Would he fit in? Would he slow me down? How would I be, surrounded by concrete rather than Bemidji’s comforting trees and waterways? And realistically, where would I get the money to live in such a place, even if I could find a research job there?
Furthermore, I’d need to tell him that there would be no children. Neither of us had good symmetrical genes, but it was moot anyway. “I need time to think about it.” I made steady eye contact with him.
“Really?” As if his world had been swept away, the dark blue rings around his eyes grew darker still.
“I’m not saying no.”
“Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it.”
“You want me to be happy?”
“Of course, that’s why—”
“Ssh.” I placed my fingers to his lips with one hand and placed his hand over my left breast with the other. We were both diverted by the physical. “It will all work out.”
***
When I could get away from Momma and her prying questions, our evenings were quiet, and always alone, he with his Poe and Dickens and Dickinson, me with my studies in medical technology. A generous time with little said. Lights kept low. Still, he was pressing me for a decision and I was still studying him for answers.
Occasionally he breathed irregularly, with difficulty. I felt it moments before it started. I raised my head, concerned.
“Listen to this,” he said and read a passage:
"There is nothing . . . no nothing innocent and good, that dies and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith or none . . . There is not an angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its blessed work in those that loved it here."
“A bit depressing.”
“Really? Well, it is Dickens. Do you think it’s true? Aren’t we all connected?”
“I suppose.”
He flashed a small admiring smile. “I know you do. You care about people. You’re one of those who understands instinctively; you feel without being touched. Dickinson would say you’re not waiting for Eternity, you’re close to it.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Hmmm.”
Despite that his eyes brightened, as if he was releasing a bucket of safe light on me. “And soon we’ll formalize our connection.”
I mustered a half-smile, hoping he was right, but worried how it might end if he wasn’t.
“I know, I know,” he said. “You think you’re systematic, all scientist. Always carrying a measuring stick.” He pointed to the book in my lap, Davis’s Comprehensive Handbook of Laboratory and Diagnostic Tests with Nursing Implications .
“Dickens wrote something in American Notes . It’s here somewhere.” He rose, plucked the book from the shelf and seated himself in one uncharacteristically smooth move. His fingers searched for a certain thickness of pages, then opened the book accordingly. “Here. This is systematic.”
Again, he quoted Dickens:
“A woman was locked up alone. She was bent, they told me, on committing suicide. If anything could have strengthened her in her resolution, it would certainly have been the insupportable monotony of such an existence.”
He closed the book. A contorted grin seized his face. My pulse quickened; we’re biologically evolved to detect deception in facial imbalance. And wasn’t Harold ‘locked up’ in some ways? Wasn’t I?
His grimace swiftly vanished. “A report on how Americans deal with the unconventional. Systematic. Not much has changed since Dickens visited in the 1800s and wrote his journal. You don’t want to be systematic. It’s not for you. It’s a kind of confinement. You can’t do your good work hidden behind a curtain. You need to be out and about.”
“Confinement? Really?” I affected solemnity, surprised at this apparent turnaround in his philosophy but perhaps, like Momma, he’d be okay if I was out and about without visual connection to him . I
Furthermore, I’d need to tell him that there would be no children. Neither of us had good symmetrical genes, but it was moot anyway. “I need time to think about it.” I made steady eye contact with him.
“Really?” As if his world had been swept away, the dark blue rings around his eyes grew darker still.
“I’m not saying no.”
“Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it.”
“You want me to be happy?”
“Of course, that’s why—”
“Ssh.” I placed my fingers to his lips with one hand and placed his hand over my left breast with the other. We were both diverted by the physical. “It will all work out.”
***
When I could get away from Momma and her prying questions, our evenings were quiet, and always alone, he with his Poe and Dickens and Dickinson, me with my studies in medical technology. A generous time with little said. Lights kept low. Still, he was pressing me for a decision and I was still studying him for answers.
Occasionally he breathed irregularly, with difficulty. I felt it moments before it started. I raised my head, concerned.
“Listen to this,” he said and read a passage:
"There is nothing . . . no nothing innocent and good, that dies and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith or none . . . There is not an angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its blessed work in those that loved it here."
“A bit depressing.”
“Really? Well, it is Dickens. Do you think it’s true? Aren’t we all connected?”
“I suppose.”
He flashed a small admiring smile. “I know you do. You care about people. You’re one of those who understands instinctively; you feel without being touched. Dickinson would say you’re not waiting for Eternity, you’re close to it.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Hmmm.”
Despite that his eyes brightened, as if he was releasing a bucket of safe light on me. “And soon we’ll formalize our connection.”
I mustered a half-smile, hoping he was right, but worried how it might end if he wasn’t.
“I know, I know,” he said. “You think you’re systematic, all scientist. Always carrying a measuring stick.” He pointed to the book in my lap, Davis’s Comprehensive Handbook of Laboratory and Diagnostic Tests with Nursing Implications .
“Dickens wrote something in American Notes . It’s here somewhere.” He rose, plucked the book from the shelf and seated himself in one uncharacteristically smooth move. His fingers searched for a certain thickness of pages, then opened the book accordingly. “Here. This is systematic.”
Again, he quoted Dickens:
“A woman was locked up alone. She was bent, they told me, on committing suicide. If anything could have strengthened her in her resolution, it would certainly have been the insupportable monotony of such an existence.”
He closed the book. A contorted grin seized his face. My pulse quickened; we’re biologically evolved to detect deception in facial imbalance. And wasn’t Harold ‘locked up’ in some ways? Wasn’t I?
His grimace swiftly vanished. “A report on how Americans deal with the unconventional. Systematic. Not much has changed since Dickens visited in the 1800s and wrote his journal. You don’t want to be systematic. It’s not for you. It’s a kind of confinement. You can’t do your good work hidden behind a curtain. You need to be out and about.”
“Confinement? Really?” I affected solemnity, surprised at this apparent turnaround in his philosophy but perhaps, like Momma, he’d be okay if I was out and about without visual connection to him . I
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