Living Proof, стр. 28
By default, Trent started to walk north, as if a magnetic pull was dragging him to the one place he had no interest in going: home. It was more than sixty blocks away, but he passed the subway in Union Square that would have accelerated his trip, unable to bear standing still on a packed rush hour train. Moving his legs provided a release of his escalating energy and gave him a sensation of purpose. As the sky deepened to indigo dusk, he walked on, passing store owners pulling down metal fronts, closing their clothing boutiques, pet shops, used bookstores. Trent took no notice, insulated in a mental world by thick walls of concern, coated with dread. His body reacted appropriately to stoplights and traffic, although later he would have little memory of the journey home. After twenty blocks, he began to tire, but pushed on, ignoring his chilled bones, blistering heels, and grumbling stomach. He had not eaten for six hours. As he walked, he recalled his boss’s words: Don’t hesitate to call me at home if you get anywhere significant this time.
Trent snorted as he considered the last few words. What if they were forced to close the case because of significant injuries to the targeted party? That was certainly not the outcome his boss was expecting. And how would he explain the accident to Dopp? He imagined how their exchange might go:
“She fell off her bike.”
“How come?”
“Missed the pedal.”
“Was she going very fast?”
“No.”
It doesn’t make sense, Trent thought. Nothing was in her way to distract her. Suddenly he remembered that she had been limping several days before, but it had not been severe enough to hamper her speed, and he hadn’t noticed it when they walked home last night. Though he hadn’t been too steady himself. Then he remembered their plans for tomorrow morning and cringed: They were supposed to bike the path on the West Side.… He was supposed to call her tonight to confirm.… So that’s exactly what he would do. It gave him a perfectly innocent reason to call her.
The starless sky was now navy blue—as dark as the city of infinite night-lights would allow. Soon Trent noticed that the blur of stores around him was beginning to assume a familiar pattern, and he saw he was only four blocks from home. He stopped by a corner pizza place, then went up to his apartment with one goal flashing in his mind: Talk to her.
His studio apartment on the seventh floor looked like the physical form of an afterthought: it was halfheartedly decorated with a tan sofa, a futon with a black bedspread, a small wooden table with two chairs, and a bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a Yamaha keyboard waiting for its daily dose of attention. A nineteen-inch flat-screen television hung on the wall. Near the head of his futon, overlooking Seventy-third Street, there was one window. Maroon curtains hung from either side, the one touch of color in the room. He liked the fiery glow they emitted in the mornings, making it seem as if he were tucked into a cozy den lush with color, rather than a sparse room, alone.
He walked to the window and called her. The phone rang as he contemplated the possibility that she might not be able to answer at all. He paced over the wood floor, pressing the phone hard against his ear. One, two, three rings passed.
“Hello?” came her voice, scratchy and soft.
“Hey, Arianna,” he said, his tone chipper. “How are you? I just wanted to see if we’re still biking tomorrow?”
“Actually, no. I’m in the hospital.”
“What?”
Her voice was flat. “I had a bike accident. Had to get six stitches on my chin, and my knees and elbows are all ripped up.”
“Holy shit, are you okay?”
“Luckily, that was about it.”
He exhaled a breath he did not know he was holding. “Thank God.”
Silence.
“Arianna?”
“I’m here.”
“What’s wrong?”
She sighed a long breath, and when she spoke, even her voice sounded deflated. “I guess it’s only fair to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“Look, Trent, I owe you an apology. I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Okay…” In spite of the irony, his heart began to race; was this the moment of her confession? He hadn’t imagined it like this—with his opponent bandaged and broken, a suddenly weaker match—but why would she tell him now about a secret lab?
“I have malignantly progressive multiple sclerosis. I lose my balance sometimes, and my limbs go numb out of nowhere, like today. I shouldn’t have been riding anymore, but I hate letting it interfere with my life. Which is also why I didn’t tell you. You may not mean to, but I don’t want you to start treating me like I’m some cripple. Because I’m not. Maybe it’s only in my mind, but I’m not.” Her voice rose, lifted by self-respect. “And if you still want anything to do with me after this, you’ll have to get that straight.”
Trent’s mind swirled with a montage of instantly linked events: her limp, her stumbling into the lobby, her foot thrust into the spokes of the wheel. He had never known anyone with MS, had no idea what it involved or implied.
“Jesus, Arianna. I had no idea.… I can’t believe you were still biking, when you knew the danger—you’re a doctor, for God’s sake!”
“Oh, and don’t even dare patronize me. I will live my life however I choose and take whatever risks I want. If I decide to skydive tomorrow as my last life’s wish, then you can either wave to me from the ground or—”
“Your