The Venus Fix

Tuesday Three days remaining
Sixty-One

There wasn’t a moment when I was asleep and then awake. There was only the slow emergence from a complicated dream of a giant checkerboard, Noah standing in the middle of it, holding out both a red and a black checker to me, asking me if I was ready to play.

I had a hangover from the painkillers, a headache, and my wrist was throbbing.

Sitting up, I looked down at the pajamas I was wearing. I didn’t remember getting undressed. Nina must have helped me. I stood up, felt woozy and slowly made my way to the bathroom.

Navigating with one hand proved more complicated than I had imagined. It was difficult to pull the pajama bottoms down and then up with only my left hand.

It was going to be a long six weeks.

I found Nina sitting in the kitchen at a small table by the window that looked out into a winter garden.

“You must be in a lot of pain,” she said when she saw me. “Come, sit down. I’ll get you some juice and some pills.”

“It’s not that bad,” I said, maneuvering the chair.

“You’re not going to play martyr, are you?” She put a crystal glass of orange juice down on the table, along with a plate that had two white pills on it. Without thinking, I reached with my right hand for the juice, felt the stab of pain, grimaced, put my hurt arm back in my lap and took a deep breath.

“Where’s your sling?”

“I forgot.”

“I’ll be right back. In the meantime, take the pills.”

When Nina returned, she was holding a lovely silk Hermès scarf. It was black with large copper poppies on it. She draped it over my chest and tied it around my neck.

“I have a sling from the hospital.”

“It’s hideous.”

“Nina, you’re crazy.” I couldn’t imagine using something so expensive to hold my arm in place.

“You’re worth it.” She smiled.

After I’d finished the juice, Nina looked down at the plate, where the two pills still sat, untouched.

“Am I going to have to sneak these into your food?”

“I don’t need them.”

“Of course you do.”

I shook my head.

“You are the most stubborn creature. Aren’t you in pain?”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Morgan, you are not going to get addicted to pain pills if you take them for two or three days.”

“If you have two extra-strength over-the-counter painkillers, I’ll take those.”

We’d been over it before. About me. About what kind of medication I’d give Dulcie. I was afraid that we might have inherited my mother’s tendency toward substance abuse. She’d been on uppers and downers and muscle relaxants and pain pills, all washed down with vodka, during my short life with her.

Nina left for the institute at eight and it didn’t take much urging on her part for me to agree to let her cancel my appointments and stay in bed. I slept most of the morning, woke up about noon, ate some of the soup and sandwich she’d made for me before she left, and then spent the afternoon watching old movies on television, avoiding the relentless news coverage of the confession from Judge Alan Leightman.

There was a lot I had to work out, but the pain, as gripping as it was, had given me a short reprieve.