Read Online Looking for Mr. Goodbar by Judith Rossner - Free Book Online Page A

whole body wanted to cry. She was an idiot. She didn’t blame him for being angry with her. For hating her. She hated herself. Her back ached; she wanted very badly to lie down.
    “But I hope that if you can’t trust me enough to tell me what’s going on, at least you’re seeing a doctor.”
    “It’s my back,” she said weakly. “Can I lie down?”
    “Of course you can lie down. What do you take me for?”
    Ashamed but relieved, she stretched out on the studio bed, looking up at the ceiling, still badly wanting to cry. He probably wouldn’t want her to come back after this. He’d find someone else who could do the same work and wasn’t sick-crazy.
    He came over to her and sat down on the edge of the bed.
    “What about your back?” he asked, more softly, now.
    “There’s nothing wrong with it, really,” she began, but then he seemed about to get up and walk away so she said quickly, “I’m not lying to you, I had—when I was a kid I had trouble with it, but it hasn’t hurt me in years.”
    He relaxed. “What trouble did you have with it when you were a child?”
    “It’s called scoliosis. Do you know what that is?”
    “No.”
    “It’s something wrong with the spine. I had an operation for it and it was all taken care of. I see the doctor a couple of times a year just to make sure, and it’s perfectly okay now.”
    “Except that you’ve been in pain for a couple of weeks.”
    “Only here.” It came out without thinking. “I mean,” she saidquickly, “only when I sit in the same position for a long time. I think I strained it a couple of weeks ago.” She cast around in her mind frantically. “I was moving some heavy furniture. In my room. I think I just strained it.”
    “I think you should see a doctor.”
    “I just went a couple of months ago.” But he was tender now, and her fear was going away. “You don’t know how my parents are about . . . if I just tell them something’s hurting me they’ll have a . . .”
    “Then perhaps,” he said after a moment, “my wife should have a look at you.”
    “Oh, no!” She bolted up. “I’ll go to the family doctor. I promise.” He gently pushed her back on the bed.
    “How old were you when all this happened?”
    “Eleven, twelve,” she said.
    “Which?”
    “I was eleven when I had the operation.”
    “How long were you in the hospital?”
    She looked at him tearfully. Wanting to lie but afraid to. His wife was a doctor, anyway. He could find out. There was no point to lying.
    “A year.”
    He stared at her. He was obviously shocked. His shock stirred up something buried way down inside her, that sense of her illness as a badge of shame. In knowing that she had been in the hospital for a year, he knew something about her against which little could be balanced. She closed her eyes. A moment later she felt his cool hand on her forehead, stroking it softly, brushing back the wispy hairs. She wanted to open her eyes and look at him but she was afraid if she did he would take away his hand so she kept them closed. She held her breath as he bent over her, kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She couldn’t believe how tender he was being with her. Not at all as though he’d been repelled by her confession—almost the opposite.
    “Move over,” he whispered.
    Her eyes still closed she made room for him on the bed and he lay down beside her, on his side, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek.
    “Poor little fishie,” he murmured softly.
    She opened her eyes and turned on her side to face him.
    “Why did you call me that?”
    “I don’t know. Do you mind it?”
    “No.” Because he had sounded as though he loved her when he said it.
    “Then it doesn’t matter.”
    She smiled.
    “Such a sad smile you have, Theresa.”
    She stopped smiling.
    “And such beautiful green eyes. Or are they beautiful gray eyes?”
    She shrugged. Their faces were so close—if only he would really kiss her. She moved toward him