The Venus Fix

Forty-Six

The message light was blinking when I walked in the door that night. I dropped my coat on the couch, but before I had a chance to hit the play button, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Dulcie’s gone to bed,” Mitch said. “I thought we could talk.”

“Did she say anything?” I unwound my scarf from around my neck and walked into the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine in the fridge; I poured myself a glass.

“No. She asked me if I’d pick up some things for her from your place. I told her that I wouldn’t. That she needed to ask you herself.”

“I’m not going to force the issue with her,” I replied. “I need some time to figure it out, to try to come up with a way to reach her.”

“While you’re thinking about that, I want you to think about us, too.”

“Okay.”

“That’s all? Okay?”

“Yes. That’s all. I’m tired. I’m angry with Dulcie. I can’t think about us, too. Not tonight.”

The apartment was so stuffy. With the phone up to my ear, I took my wine back into the den and walked over to the window, put the glass down on the floor, reached up, opened the window, felt the quick rush of cold and took a gulp of sharp air.

“What’s that noise?”

“I just opened the window.”

“It’s freezing outside, Morgan.”

“I know, but it’s hot in here. I left the heat on too high. Mitch, I’m tired. Let me go, we can talk tomorrow.”

I sat on the couch, thinking about the words I’d used when I’d said goodbye to him. Nothing was an accident. I’d said let me go but I’d really meant I want to go.

I didn’t want to think about Mitch.

I wanted to work out what to do about Dulcie.

What could I say to her to make her understand that everything I do, I do for her?

The red light was still blinking. I hadn’t listened to my messages. Over at the desk, I looked down at the machine. The flashing LED light showed fifteen calls. It had to be a patient in crisis. I hit the play button.

“Morgan? Are you there?” It was Noah, his voice low and soft and just a little concerned. “I’m at work. Can you give me a call when you get home?”

I felt the tug of wanting to pick up the phone and call him right away, but the next message had already started and was so loud it startled me.

“Dr. Snow. It’s Bob. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

The mechanical voice on the answering machine told me that he’d made that call at 11:40 p.m.

The next twelve messages, only minutes apart, were all from him, and in each he sounded more disturbed and agitated than the one before.

And then the last message. “Christ, where are you? You have to help me figure out how to deal with this. I have to see you. I have to tell you what a mess this is. I have to tell you who I really am.”