By the next afternoon, Helen was starting to feel a little stir crazy. She was tired of wearing flannel pajamas and clicking listlessly through the television channels—not that she was supposed to watch too much TV. She was well enough to be on her own now, but she still needed bed rest. What a crock. Forget about cures for progressive brain degeneration, forget about concussion and hockey: When she was better, she was going to expose the stupidity of rest and recovery. Because all that idle time led to brooding, and brooding led to regrets, and regrets were really terrible and useless.
The problem was, she knew all the rules for dealing with concussion, and that made her want to flout every single one of them. She wanted to stand on her head or do cartwheels across her living room. She wanted to stay up all night playing video games and bike to the office. She wanted to blare Beyoncé and dance around her kitchen shout-screaming the lyrics. She wanted to check the statistical analysis on the cervical spine-injury study that she and her colleagues in the neurology department had started, despite the fact that it wasn’t her job—she wanted to get obnoxious about the numbers and yell at the study statistician even though she knew she wouldn’t win. She even wanted to do her practice paperwork so that she could rail at the insurance company, for God’s sake.
But her own body kept betraying her. She would sit down and try to read or think, and her concentration would wander. She would get indignant only to have the outrage die away when she got too tired. The only thing she managed to do was sleep and watch TCM. Every time she woke up, she was in the middle of a different black and white movie.
It would have been easy to start watching hockey again, she thought, sitting in her bathtub. But Adam hadn’t contacted her, even though she suspected that he should be able to find a way if he wanted to—she could probably get his number if she tried. But she didn’t. And she didn’t watch any of the games, although she did check the Wolves’ schedule and learn that they were on an extended road trip. That made her feel a little better.
She did not have a crush on him. Except, she probably did.
She also did not sit in the cool water of her bathtub and think of how his lips felt on her shoulder and neck or imagine her fingers passing over the soft bristles of his hair and wonder how they would feel wet. Except, of course, she did.
She thought of how his big hands cupped her ass and drew her to him, how gentle his fingers had been, the feeling of his breath on her chest. Her middle and index finger were trilling at her clit now. She had to stop thinking about him, she told herself, midstroke. Desperately, she replaced Adam with someone—anyone. Zachary Quinto. Christian Bale. The guy who invented the Dyson vacuum cleaner. The water splashed as she worked herself tensely. But although the painful knot of arousal was there, her mind kept going back to Adam, to his pale eyes and his rueful smile. She pictured his lips curving up at her breast, and she threw her head back and came with a series of splashes. Her panting seemed to echo in the bathroom.
Almost immediately—while her muscles were still calming themselves—she picked up a bar of pale green soap and began washing the hand she’d been using. She cleaned under her fingernails and sniffed to make sure that her scent was gone. It wasn’t. Her fingers smelled like cucumber and self-pleasure.
Sex salad. Just what she’d ordered.
She stepped out and heard someone downstairs. She toweled herself off and threw on a clean sweatshirt and another not-so-immaculate pair of yoga pants. It was Joanie.
“This came for you at the office,” Joanie said, pushing a box toward her. “It’s Harry & David! Open it up!”
Inside was a box of salty caramel popcorn.
“Wow, whoever sent it really knows you,” Joanie said.
Joanie looked at it longingly. She was on some sort of complicated diet that involved juicing. She and Sarah had a lot to talk about during off hours.
“Wasn’t there a card?” Helen asked.
She checked the box. Adam Magnus, the gift slip said. No message.
Helen’s face flamed. She stared at the box, feeling a little as if masturbating to his image had conjured up a big package of sweet and crunchy. Had she psychically contacted him across thousands of miles? If so, should she expect similar packages from Dyson guy?
She took a deep breath, and her inner scientist reasserted herself. The more important question was when had she mentioned her love of popcorn? Or was it simply a coincidence?
The next morning, Petra ferried over a delivery of artisanal Pop-Tarts that had come to the office from Adam. She also mentioned, casually, that she had texted Adam to assure him that Helen was doing well enough to be on her own now.
So yes, Helen admitted to herself, he knew certain things about her. He’d recalled bits that she’d dropped in casual conversation. No damage to that memory. Petra or Sarah might have gotten her these kinds of snacks, if they thought it would make her happy, or if they thought she was as unhappy as she was. Although, they were more likely to simply bring her the real thing, in grocery bags, from an ordinary store. Adam’s presents had a moreness to them. The extra salty sweet layer of the popcorn, the rough-hewn edges of the homemade Pop-Tarts—they were about her, but they were also about him. If she cared to read more into them, that was. It was funny to think of Adam, hunched over his iPhone, ordering treats for her. The gestures were, well, almost romantic. Which suited her idea of Adam Magnus, she supposed. He could produce small acts of delicacy with that large body of his.
Definitely reading too much into it, she thought with a shiver.
Thank God she was going back to work tomorrow, because she would likely spend the day diddling herself and muttering his name if she didn’t have something to occupy her hands and mind soon. She supposed that she should write some sort of thank-you note: I appreciate the gifts. So thoughtful for you to have remembered! My many fond memories of you have caused me to rub one out—several, actually. Looking forward to more lively debates! Helen.
Oh yes, she had just the stationary for that.
The caramel corn was really delicious.
She racked her addled brain for a gift. What did she know about him? He had been a farm boy; he sang in the choir. He was pretty good at softball. Something about seraphim and cherubim.
A Google search revealed some music by Handel. She listened to the choruses, and tried to imagine a young, skinny Adam Magnus, standing in the midst of a choir, singing his heart out. She could almost picture white blond hair, ears that stuck out a little too much, and an eager mouth opening wide. The image made her breastbone ache. With a few clicks, she had downloaded him a Christmas present. If only she could figure out his e-mail address so she could send the music.
Because yes, it was almost Christmas. Her ticket home was booked, and she felt guilty that she had already taken so much time from work. But home could not be avoided either. Her mother would have her head on a platter, decorated with cranberries, Helen supposed, to suit the season.
Home. Well. Vancouver was where she would slink off to now. Stephen and Gordon had probably decked out their home in tasteful white lights. But the holidays had never been a huge deal in their family. Her father was usually on call, and her mother turned her nose up at red and green decorations, loathed cooking large, bland potato-based meals, and didn’t believe in giving presents to children without ample reason. So basically, May Yin and Harry Frobisher disliked everything about it. Still, Helen had enjoyed it because she was at home, sitting in the den, watching old movies with Stephen. They would both drowse under several layers of afghans, because her parents were of the “If you’re cold, put on another sweater,” mentality. And she and Stephen were always cold.
But now, that old house was cleared of furniture. The piano that her father wanted her to have, sold. There was no reason to drive down to the Okanagan Valley anymore. Likely, they would just go out to dinner on Christmas, and there would be no snuggling. Stephen and Gordon kept their place at a reasonable temperature, partly because, Helen suspected, they liked to go around in tight t-shirts and stare at each other’s pecs.
But really, she was happy for them.
There would also be her father. Christmas was probably garish and loud in the facility. Her mother might have to listen to carols, and her father would be confused. Were they allowed to check him out for the day? She wondered if they would be able to stay in the facility. She wondered how much he knew about what was going on at this point.
She wished she could stay in Portland.
Adam Magnus, she supposed, was going back to Minnesota. He hadn’t told her much about his family, but she could imagine snow-covered fields and a big farmhouse.
She had a sudden impulse to talk to him. Petra had mentioned casually (maybe a little too casually) that she had Adam’s number. Helen needed to thank him, and she wanted to know where to send these mp3s, anyway.
She texted Petra and held her breath.
• • •
“I could spread the rumor that Yevgeny paid the golfer to finish her off, and that when the golfer didn’t do it, you tried to clean up and you pushed a bunch of people aside in order to hug her to death,” Serge said.
Silence.
Serge had been talking, talking, talking over the drone of the plane for hours, it seemed, and Adam had not responded. The cabin lights were dim, and most of his teammates were asleep. A few watched movies on their phones. They would land in about twenty minutes. The Wolves had lost two games, and now they were off to Minnesota. Adam’s family would be in the arena—his nephews, his brother and sister, even his mother and father. He would try to go out with them afterward, but they had a long drive and were early risers and he was sure to be tired. Judging by the exhausted silence that hung around them after his games, he wondered why they insisted on seeing him. There was nothing quite like the cranky, dutiful love of one’s family, was there?
It wasn’t that he disliked them. They weren’t unpleasant. But they treated him gingerly. He wondered exactly what he had done to merit this treatment.
Plus, he would be back so soon for Christmas. He had already found great presents for his nephews.
Personal toy shopper, he thought. That could be a career.
He told himself to make a note of it in his smart phone, but he didn’t move.
Adam wasn’t sure why Janel was so annoyed with him. Yevgeny wasn’t distressed with Adam—or at least Adam hadn’t received any sneering e-mails or phone calls from his big billionaire boss. Plus, a picture of Helen Frobisher dressed in those ugly leggings shaking the hands of the hospital chair and her anti-Yevgeny developer husband was making the rounds, too.
Of course, all of the gossip and innuendo was playing out in the admittedly narrow circle of Portland municipal politics. Frankly, Adam was surprised that Yevgeny even bothered trying to win in that arena.
Serge was still nattering. “I suppose Dr. Helen is going to argue that we ban charity softball, too. Maybe golf. Definitely golf. Is it even a sport? Of course, now that she has a brain injury, you could tell Yevgeny to start a campaign questioning her judgment.”
“I’m sure that’s already underway.”
“Well then, Janel’s doing a great job diverting the argument.”
They landed smoothly, and they made it off the plane fairly quickly.
Adam breathed in the air of his home state.
Outside the large windows of the airport, snow glittered on the ground like diamonds. He used to like the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. It was large and airy, like a giant art gallery. It was the kind of place that made one feel simultaneously larger and so much smaller. There was life everywhere, but somehow muted, as if the midwestern attitude had just taken everything to a civilized notch.
But still, he felt that familiar guilt settle over him. The air was layered with the sense of his failure, pushing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
The players were hushed as they came out into the chilly air and then shuttled to their hotel. Adam had just put his luggage down in his room when his phone beeped. He read
IT’S HELEN. WHAT IS YOUR E-MAIL ADDRESS?
He had to read the simple message several times because he couldn’t quite believe it was Helen—his Helen. On screen, her named looked so simple compared to the complicated feelings she summoned up. He told himself to stay cool.
IT’S MADAMIMMAGNUS@GMAIL.COM. WHY NOT JUST TEXT?
Her reply came with an eyeroll emoji.
I DON’T WANT TO GET MY PHONE STICKY WITH DELICIOUS CARAMEL CORN.
He snorted.
IS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE A THANK-YOU?
He heard the ping of a message to his e-mail account just as her answer came.
INCOMING E-MAIL IS THE THANK-YOU. GOTTA GO.
He opened his e-mail. There was a file attached. He downloaded the file and clicked. The music of strings started up, and then the voices, the beautiful voices, flooded the room.
He sat down on the hotel room bed, and he listened.