Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [122]
“I didn’t know what you take in it, so I just brought everything.” Nate sits down on the mauve sofa, opens two packets of sugar, and empties them into his coffee. “I wasn’t sure it was you, when you walked in. I should have said something. I guess I’m just not thinking too clearly. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not thinking too clearly myself.” I take a seat opposite Nate and watch him stir his coffee. “I can’t believe this. When did it happen?” I take too big a sip of the coffee, which is so hot it scalds the roof of my mouth.
“Tonight, around six, I guess.”
Nate hangs his head, cups his neck with two delicate hands, and massages the nape.
“Were you with him?”
Nate looks up sharply, but he doesn’t answer; instead, he runs his hands from his neck up through his dark hair, encircling a lock in between his fingers and tugging gently. It’s a languid and luxurious gesture, as if he’s just awakened from a nap, sleeping off the chill of an autumn afternoon. His face is expressionless, with clear white skin and a hint of a dark beard. His eyes are too blue to be real, his features finely sculpted, high cheekbones, a small pointed chin, full lips, smooth and pink and bloodless. He’s young, probably no more than twenty-five or twenty-six. For an instant I see him as Richard must, his face a mesmerizing combination of man and boy.
“He wasn’t wearing any shoes, for God’s sake. I don’t know what he was doing. He was drunk.” Nate’s voice is low and angry. “He called me this morning because he thought I took something that belonged to him. We argued, and he threatened to come to where I work, so I went over to his house. I thought I could calm him down. But when I got there he was in the front yard, shoeless and drunk, shouting at me. I left, but he kept calling me on the phone. For hours he wouldn’t leave me alone. I finally told him to stop calling me or I would report him—get a restraining order or something when he”—Nate’s voice grows softer, his anger reduced to a dull whine—“when he crashed. I heard the whole thing.”
“You left him like that? When you knew he was drunk and upset? What were you thinking?”
Nate inhales slowly, once again meeting my gaze, the harsh and artificial blue of his eyes flashing defiantly in the dim glow of the waiting room.
“What was I supposed to do? He was being abusive.”
“I don’t believe that. That’s not Richard. He isn’t—I mean he doesn’t—” Overwhelmed by the picture Nate has drawn, I have trouble finding words to describe just how unlike Richard any of this is. All I seem to be able to focus on are the absurd details of this story, and I finish indignantly, “Richard doesn’t walk around in his yard barefoot!”
Nate looks at me strangely, his full, bloodless lips set in a pitying smirk.
“Listen,” Nate says, picking up his jacket and standing up. “Now that you’re here, if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave. I really don’t belong here. Not anymore. I’ll come and see him later.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, holding my arm out to keep him from leaving. “How can I get in touch with you?” He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, takes out a pen, writes his phone number on a crumpled sugar wrapper, and hands it to me. Even though it’s warm in the ICU, his hands are cold, the nails tinged with blue.
He turns to leave, presses the buzzer to open the unit doors, and steps out into the hallway. I follow him to the elevators and watch as he jabs the button accusingly.
“Nate?” I call. He turns toward me. “I need Richard’s phone or address book. There are people I need to call.”
Nate reaches into the front pocket of his leather jacket, takes out Richard’s phone, and hands it to me. “Here,” he says, glancing at me. “But I already checked, his parents aren’t in there. You are his emergency contact.”
I take the phone and slip it into my pocket. There’s a sudden draft as the elevator doors open, and Nate steps inside. As the doors glide shut, I stick out my arm, causing them to bounce back abruptly, as if recoiling from my touch. Startled, Nate leans