Read Online Love Gone Mad by Mark Rubinstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Rubinstein
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car first thing tomorrow.”
“Are you all right?” Megan asks him at the front door. Her eyes look glassy.
He takes her hands in his and says, “I’ll be okay. How’re you?”
“I’m taking tomorrow off,” she says.
“I don’t have that luxury. I’ll have to get to the hospital early … by taxi.”
“This is some way to end an evening, huh?”
“There’ll be others,” he says, wanting to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he squeezes her hands gently. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nods her head, presses her lips together, and then says, “Adrian, why not come to my place for dinner Tuesday night. Just the three of us … you, me, and Marlee …?”
“I’d love that,” he says, wanting desperately to kiss her, hold her. But it’s neither the time nor the place.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, blinking rapidly as her eyes grow wet.
Their lips meet in a quick kiss. After saying goodbye to everyone, Adrian and Bob head out the door. Walking toward Bob’s car, Adrian glances back and sees Megan standing on the front steps. She looks like she’s shivering, and Adrian knows whatever she wants to tell him, it won’t be a good thing.
A drian gets out of the leased Altima. It’s nine o’clock on a moonless night. The incident on the Post Road two nights earlier—a mere forty-eight hours ago—replays in his head. It’s flashed back to him a hundred times since then: the screech of brakes, the slamming impact, the heat and suffocating fumes. And Megan, looking so completely wrecked.
He unlocks the front door and steps into the cottage. The living room is dark. It strikes Adrian that something’s wrong. He always leaves a small accent lamp on so he doesn’t return to a dark house. It’s an early morning ritual—something automatic—one he doesn’t even think about. Did he do it this morning? It would’ve been dark, so he can’t imagine he’d forgotten. But then, he’s been so preoccupied, it could’ve slipped his mind.
He snaps on the lamplight and glances at the stone fireplace, chestnut beams, built-in bookshelves, and furnishings. Everything’s in place. But there’s a hint of an odor—barely discernible. He wonders if he left the kitchen garbage can open. He recalls a few aging items sitting in the refrigerator: a carton of garlicky takeout Chinese and some prepared crap from Stop & Shop.
He opens the refrigerator door, grabs the leftovers, tosses them in a plastic garbage bag, and carries it to the bin outside the rear door. He laughs to himself, realizing how tough it is to find good ethnic food in Connecticut. He was spoiled silly in Manhattan: great exotic cuisine was everywhere—from every nation on earth. And New Haven had plenty of ethnic places, too—especially Indian and Italian restaurants. Every tribe has its cuisine.
He realizes suddenly there was something wrong in the refrigerator, something out of place. He opens the door again.
Yes, it’s strange: no milk. He recalls clearly going to the supermarket only yesterday and buying a carton of Skim Plus; he uses it on his Total every morning. But it’s not there. Did he throw it out by mistake? Has he been that zoned out thinking of Megan—and about what happened two nights ago? Is this an episode of Fringe ?
Is it the long hours at the hospital, invading patients’ chests and fixing God’s mistakes? he wonders, knowing he’s quoting Megan.
He returns to the outside garbage bin, snaps open the lid, and rummages through the contents. And there it is—an empty carton of Skim Plus with milk sopping through to the bin’s bottom. The carton was emptied into the garbage.
Adrian recalls reading about REM Sleep Behavior Disorder. You can have violent dreams and do bizarre things. Some people sleepwalk—trudge into the kitchen in a somnambulistic state and raid the refrigerator. Others punch or kick some dreamed-up attacker, thrash their bed partner—actually beat them. And the
“Are you all right?” Megan asks him at the front door. Her eyes look glassy.
He takes her hands in his and says, “I’ll be okay. How’re you?”
“I’m taking tomorrow off,” she says.
“I don’t have that luxury. I’ll have to get to the hospital early … by taxi.”
“This is some way to end an evening, huh?”
“There’ll be others,” he says, wanting to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he squeezes her hands gently. “You sure you’re okay?”
She nods her head, presses her lips together, and then says, “Adrian, why not come to my place for dinner Tuesday night. Just the three of us … you, me, and Marlee …?”
“I’d love that,” he says, wanting desperately to kiss her, hold her. But it’s neither the time nor the place.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, blinking rapidly as her eyes grow wet.
Their lips meet in a quick kiss. After saying goodbye to everyone, Adrian and Bob head out the door. Walking toward Bob’s car, Adrian glances back and sees Megan standing on the front steps. She looks like she’s shivering, and Adrian knows whatever she wants to tell him, it won’t be a good thing.
A drian gets out of the leased Altima. It’s nine o’clock on a moonless night. The incident on the Post Road two nights earlier—a mere forty-eight hours ago—replays in his head. It’s flashed back to him a hundred times since then: the screech of brakes, the slamming impact, the heat and suffocating fumes. And Megan, looking so completely wrecked.
He unlocks the front door and steps into the cottage. The living room is dark. It strikes Adrian that something’s wrong. He always leaves a small accent lamp on so he doesn’t return to a dark house. It’s an early morning ritual—something automatic—one he doesn’t even think about. Did he do it this morning? It would’ve been dark, so he can’t imagine he’d forgotten. But then, he’s been so preoccupied, it could’ve slipped his mind.
He snaps on the lamplight and glances at the stone fireplace, chestnut beams, built-in bookshelves, and furnishings. Everything’s in place. But there’s a hint of an odor—barely discernible. He wonders if he left the kitchen garbage can open. He recalls a few aging items sitting in the refrigerator: a carton of garlicky takeout Chinese and some prepared crap from Stop & Shop.
He opens the refrigerator door, grabs the leftovers, tosses them in a plastic garbage bag, and carries it to the bin outside the rear door. He laughs to himself, realizing how tough it is to find good ethnic food in Connecticut. He was spoiled silly in Manhattan: great exotic cuisine was everywhere—from every nation on earth. And New Haven had plenty of ethnic places, too—especially Indian and Italian restaurants. Every tribe has its cuisine.
He realizes suddenly there was something wrong in the refrigerator, something out of place. He opens the door again.
Yes, it’s strange: no milk. He recalls clearly going to the supermarket only yesterday and buying a carton of Skim Plus; he uses it on his Total every morning. But it’s not there. Did he throw it out by mistake? Has he been that zoned out thinking of Megan—and about what happened two nights ago? Is this an episode of Fringe ?
Is it the long hours at the hospital, invading patients’ chests and fixing God’s mistakes? he wonders, knowing he’s quoting Megan.
He returns to the outside garbage bin, snaps open the lid, and rummages through the contents. And there it is—an empty carton of Skim Plus with milk sopping through to the bin’s bottom. The carton was emptied into the garbage.
Adrian recalls reading about REM Sleep Behavior Disorder. You can have violent dreams and do bizarre things. Some people sleepwalk—trudge into the kitchen in a somnambulistic state and raid the refrigerator. Others punch or kick some dreamed-up attacker, thrash their bed partner—actually beat them. And the
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