A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [83]
“You cannot believe that you love me,” Hazel said. “It’s simply not possible.”
“You can’t speak for me,” he said.
“No, of course not,” Hazel said. “I’m sorry. You’ve been only kind.”
“‘Kind’ is a cruel word at this moment.”
“Yes,” she said. “I imagine it is.”
Innes knew that he had lost. Unprepared, the battle thrust upon him without warning, he was defeated before the contest had begun. That Hazel had imagined them together in some way, had even debated it within herself, might have given Innes some joy had hope not been snatched away so quickly.
“I shall miss you,” he said simply. “I shall miss the possibility of you.”
“One has many possibilities,” Hazel said. She rose up on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss, brief and papery, suggested an entire universe he would never know. “I must go,” she said, putting on her hat as if the kiss were but one more fact of her long and busy day. “I must be in my regular spot when my uncle picks me up. It would be inconvenient for him to have to leave the carriage and go inside to find me.”
“Hazel,” Innes said. “Please.”
Hazel shook her head. She put her gloved fingers to her eyes, as if to blot out the sight of him. “This is hard,” she said.
Innes reached for her shoulder, but already she had turned away. She ran back the way they had come. Innes watched until Hazel was swallowed into the dark. He made a sound that was part anguish, part frustration. His voice, he knew, would carry for quite a distance.
Innes returned to the hospital for the evening shift. He had, of course, missed the opportunity of a meal. An exhaustion he had kept at bay overwhelmed him now, and he performed his duties as if bludgeoned. Another physician asked him if he was feeling poorly. Innes answered that he was tired, but so was everyone else. The colleague agreed, nodding his head.
Innes worked until he was dismissed. Despite his fatigue, he didn’t head for his sleeping quarters, however, but rather to the third floor. It was, he knew, an attempt to detain Hazel a moment longer. In seeing Louise, he might see the sister. His hands in his pockets, he shouldered his way through the double doors. He stopped on the other side.
In a corner, by a lantern, Louise was sitting in her wheelchair. Innes wondered why she was not in bed. He meant not to announce himself, merely to watch her sleep. More surprising was the utter repose of her posture. She was sitting erect in the chair, face forward, as if she could see. The features that were visible were preternaturally calm. He wondered if Louise had been given opiates and, if so, why. He took a few steps forward, moving stealthily so that she wouldn’t hear him. When he was twenty feet away from her, he saw, with some astonishment, that she was crying. She was very calm, but she was crying.
Innes remembered the small white breasts, the taut stomach. He thought about his mother, who had been blind and who had often needed him.
He took another step forward and bumped into a metal tray on wheels. The sound rattled through the ward, and Louise turned in his direction.
Harrison was first down to the dining room, having been unable to sleep despite the late hour he’d gone to bed. He picked up a New York Times on a low table and was led to a seat by the window. The view beyond the glass revealed a vastly different geography from the day before: the blue of the mountains in the distance had been replaced by the whiteout of a thick snowstorm, considerably heavier than when Harrison had left Nora just a few hours ago. The roads would not be good, he thought, and he wondered if Bridget’s relatives, who were scheduled to arrive today, would be able to make it to the ceremony. Harrison hadn’t seen a weather forecast.