Read Online Diagnosis Murder 7 - The Double LIfe by Lee Goldberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
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She slept on the left side.
Mark slipped into bed on the right side, lay on his back, and stared up at the ceiling. He felt like he was sleeping in someone else's bed. His eyes blurred and he blinked hard, trying to sharpen the world around him as if it was merely a picture on a TV screen. His vision cleared, but he still felt blurry. Perhaps it was his entire being, not his eyesight, that was out of focus.
You're just tired, he thought. But it was more than fatigue. It was the effort of trying to adjust to how dramatically his life had changed in just three days.
Only that wasn't what had happened. He was experiencing two years' worth of changes all at once, with no memory of the events that had led to them.
It would take more than a day to cope, especially to adjust to the idea that he was married again after decades of life on his own. Although Steve had lived in the same house, they still managed to live mostly separate lives. It was a fine arrangement that he realized now he'd been in no hurry at all to change.
He glanced at the closed bathroom door, heard the sound of water running behind it. Emily had changed all that. He apparently loved her enough to make seismic shifts in his life for her.
At that moment, Emily came out of the bathroom, opening the door as if his gaze had been knocking. She was in a thin nightgown, but she didn't seem any more comfortable in it than he did in the bed. He wondered if she ordinarily slept in the nude and was wearing the nightgown to make him feel more at ease.
She was beautiful. There was no denying that.
"You look like you're lying on broken glass," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I'm afraid I'm the one who has been inflicting the pain around here."
Emily flicked off the lights and got into bed, turning on her side to face him. He could feel the heat radiating from her and drew his arms closer to his body, afraid to brush against her.
"I know you don't mean to," she said. "So I try instead to imagine what it must be like for you, how lost you must feel."
"Does that help?"
"Not really," she admitted. "Maybe you should tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"How it feels," she said.
Mark shrugged. "I feel like a time traveler who has been yanked into the future. The world has changed, but I haven't."
"It's the other way around."
"Intellectually I know that. But at the same time I feel whole. I don't sense the gap in my memory. When I reach back, everything is there."
"I'm not," she said.
"And you wish I was trying as hard to know you as I am to solve the murder."
"That's our marriage in a nutshell," she said. "You're making progress already."
He couldn't see her smile, but he could hear the levity in her voice. What she said wasn't meant as a reproach—even though it was one.
"The thing is, I remember Jesse. I feel that pain and I have to do something about it."
"But you don't feel anything for me," she said.
Mark winced. He'd hurt her again. "You asked how I felt and I'm telling you. I'm not trying to be cruel. Investigating the mystery behind Jesse's death is familiar to me. I know how to do that. I have no idea how to find you again."
"I'm right here," she said, placing her hand on his chest. "We'll find the way together."
He nodded, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sorry."
She kissed him on the cheek. "Sweet dreams."
Mark let go of her hand and rolled onto his side, his back to her. He doubted his dreams would be sweet and wondered in what disturbing ways his guilt, anxiety, and grief would be dramatized on the stage of his unconscious. And within a moment or two he was asleep, where he found peace. The theater of his mind remained dark.
Medical neighborhoods sprang up and grew in much the same way ethnic neighborhoods did. All it took was one restaurant, grocery store, or church to serve as a social and cultural magnet and like-minded people would gather and stay, taking possession of one block after
She slept on the left side.
Mark slipped into bed on the right side, lay on his back, and stared up at the ceiling. He felt like he was sleeping in someone else's bed. His eyes blurred and he blinked hard, trying to sharpen the world around him as if it was merely a picture on a TV screen. His vision cleared, but he still felt blurry. Perhaps it was his entire being, not his eyesight, that was out of focus.
You're just tired, he thought. But it was more than fatigue. It was the effort of trying to adjust to how dramatically his life had changed in just three days.
Only that wasn't what had happened. He was experiencing two years' worth of changes all at once, with no memory of the events that had led to them.
It would take more than a day to cope, especially to adjust to the idea that he was married again after decades of life on his own. Although Steve had lived in the same house, they still managed to live mostly separate lives. It was a fine arrangement that he realized now he'd been in no hurry at all to change.
He glanced at the closed bathroom door, heard the sound of water running behind it. Emily had changed all that. He apparently loved her enough to make seismic shifts in his life for her.
At that moment, Emily came out of the bathroom, opening the door as if his gaze had been knocking. She was in a thin nightgown, but she didn't seem any more comfortable in it than he did in the bed. He wondered if she ordinarily slept in the nude and was wearing the nightgown to make him feel more at ease.
She was beautiful. There was no denying that.
"You look like you're lying on broken glass," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I'm afraid I'm the one who has been inflicting the pain around here."
Emily flicked off the lights and got into bed, turning on her side to face him. He could feel the heat radiating from her and drew his arms closer to his body, afraid to brush against her.
"I know you don't mean to," she said. "So I try instead to imagine what it must be like for you, how lost you must feel."
"Does that help?"
"Not really," she admitted. "Maybe you should tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"How it feels," she said.
Mark shrugged. "I feel like a time traveler who has been yanked into the future. The world has changed, but I haven't."
"It's the other way around."
"Intellectually I know that. But at the same time I feel whole. I don't sense the gap in my memory. When I reach back, everything is there."
"I'm not," she said.
"And you wish I was trying as hard to know you as I am to solve the murder."
"That's our marriage in a nutshell," she said. "You're making progress already."
He couldn't see her smile, but he could hear the levity in her voice. What she said wasn't meant as a reproach—even though it was one.
"The thing is, I remember Jesse. I feel that pain and I have to do something about it."
"But you don't feel anything for me," she said.
Mark winced. He'd hurt her again. "You asked how I felt and I'm telling you. I'm not trying to be cruel. Investigating the mystery behind Jesse's death is familiar to me. I know how to do that. I have no idea how to find you again."
"I'm right here," she said, placing her hand on his chest. "We'll find the way together."
He nodded, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sorry."
She kissed him on the cheek. "Sweet dreams."
Mark let go of her hand and rolled onto his side, his back to her. He doubted his dreams would be sweet and wondered in what disturbing ways his guilt, anxiety, and grief would be dramatized on the stage of his unconscious. And within a moment or two he was asleep, where he found peace. The theater of his mind remained dark.
Medical neighborhoods sprang up and grew in much the same way ethnic neighborhoods did. All it took was one restaurant, grocery store, or church to serve as a social and cultural magnet and like-minded people would gather and stay, taking possession of one block after
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