JUST ANOTHER WEEKEND

“Doc, I have this hernia that keeps poking out whenever I laugh-” I listened to my sister burble on over the answering machine, but made no move to touch the phone. I was home on a Saturday evening, totally unemployed. After six days 9-to-9 work at my clinic, being faced with nothing to do for a whole 30 hours was a frightening prospect.

“Come on, bachelor boy.” Went on my sister. “I know you’re there, sitting on a couch, nursing a beer…” I lowered my pint as if I had stepped on something sharp then grimaced. She had done this before, calling Saturdays to fix me up with the newest gal on the block. If I didn’t answer, she would eventually get around to dropping by in person.

I killed the lights, and slipped out the house into darkness. If I was going to drown my sorrows effectively better I do it in the sacred confines of some reputable watering hole.

My SUV was parked in the drive. I moved toward it then stopped cold.

She was lying unconscious, behind the rear Tyre. I checked for a pulse. A cursory pat on the face produced no response, so I carried her to my sitting room and onto the couch. Sponging away the blood, I found a little gash on her forehead. I applied antiseptic and plaster. I rechecked pulse and breathing. No cause for alarm, I thought and glanced down at her face.

My breathing suddenly stilled. For several minutes I had worked on her and I hadn’t even noticed. Hers was the most bewitching face I’d seen in a lifetime of looking at faces. I gaped, and when she opened her eyes the first thing she saw was me. She abruptly backed into the couch, terrified.

“Where am I?” She looked about, then back at me. “Who are you?”

“I’m a doctor. Who are you?”

She didn’t reply. Instead, she stood and backed away. “I recall feeling groggy… You must have found me unconscious and then seeing the possibilities, brought me here!” She faltered. “I noticed how you were gaping. If I hadn’t recovered then-” She shuddered.

“Right you are. If you hadn’t recovered I might have undressed you and snatched your outfit for my collection.” I shrugged. “Or maybe not: I prefer my garments untainted and that-” I pointed to a blood-stain. “- isn’t part of the original design.” I gestured at the plaster. “Neither is that.” Flustered, she touched the bandage. “If that injury hasn’t caused much damage, you’ll find your shoes at the door.”

Her face dissolved. “I’m sorry.” she whispered. She sat. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

There goes the rest of the evening.

“You may have saved my life.” Was her comment a few minutes later.

I gave her a nonchalant shrug then noticed her looking at a photo frame. “Your wife?”

I smiled. “My sister.”

She turned to me and I felt the brunt of that visual attack. Without warning, she smiled.

What a smile! A sudden feeling of light-headedness came over me. “How about a drink?” I blurted struggling to my feet.

I picked up glasses. She was still on my couch, looking more at-ease now. Just as I reached her, she moved to make place. I reached out with her glass. Her hand brushed mine as she took it and she smiled that magnificent smile of hers at me all over again, and then the earth moved and I spilt the glass in her lap.

“Damn, damn!” I cried angrily, and I was on my knees wiping at the stain on her dress and she had caught me by the shoulders, shaking her head, half-laughing and telling me it was alright, and then I must have stopped because I remember looking into her gorgeous eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said morose. “I’ve never spilt alcohol in my life.”

“It’s a first for me.” she admitted, hands still on my shoulders. “Makes a change from Poison.” My turn to smile. “Will you get me something to change into while this dries?”

I was sipping at a brandy when she walked back into the living room. Swamped in my pyjamas, she came to me with the stateliness of an angel flitting over a cloud; she sat next to me with a tender smile gracing her features.

I nodded to the table where I’d placed her glass. She could take it from there. I wasn’t taking any more chances: they were the only set of pyjamas I owned.

She settled in comfortably, took a nip at her brandy and gave me a lingering once-over. “I must admit to being a little surprised.”

I looked up.

She held aloft her free hand, engulfed in one enormous sleeve. “With all the brandy that must be getting spilt in here on cold winter nights, I would have assumed you’d have lingerie on hand.”

I shook my head. “Lingerie costs money.”

“So?”

“I’ve spent all mine on the brandy.”

She made a face. “So much for Goan hospitality.”

“Well, the pyjamas fit, don’t they?”

She had twisted the collar around and was examining something on the inside. “One wonders how many feminine forms have slipped into these before me.”

“Not many. I’m rather particular about who I spill my brandy on.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m flattered…”

“Aha, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Her own reply was one of those smashing smiles, but I was developing a resistance to those smiles. Whenever she smiled now, it only paralysed me from the waist down.

“Time for a refill.” I observed, seeing her near empty glass.

She watched as I topped my glass. “Perhaps you ought to slow down.”

“It’s just brandy.” I gave her a wink. “Besides, I’m less dangerous when I’m drunk. More captivating too, I’ve been told.”

She shook her head sadly. “You should have stuck to lingerie.”

“Pah!” I said unkindly.

She gave me an appraising look. I merely turned my head and looked back into those emerald eyes. Powerful stuff, brandy. “You’re a doctor, young, yet single.”

I capped the bottle. “My autobiography wouldn’t interest a starved mouse.”

“Ah!” she said with a light chuckle. “But I’m no mouse.” She unfolded a long leg and I followed its progress till it was fully extended.

“This interest in my legs, doc – purely professional, right?”

“It was, until I spilt the brandy.”

She leaned forward and took my glass away. “Better not spill any more brandy.”

Two strangers in a single room. One with a horde of long-forgotten memories, locked up inside, the other with a key. And then the floodgates were breached and out rushed those past memories in an outburst I found difficult to dam, that I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop. I poured out my heart to that beautiful stranger in my pyjamas at my side. I told her stuff I’ve never told anyone before: of the girl who couldn’t stop laughing when I asked her for a dance; of the time I was caught copying; of the professor who’d chucked me out of class because I’d been caught tossing chalk bits; of the first time I rode a scooter and had almost come away disfigured; of the crushes I’d had on every lass from a newscaster to my swimming instructor, especially the swim instructor. And it felt good. To be talking and have someone listen in sincerity, laughing at the funny parts, sympathising at the sad ones – really sharing.

I went on into the early hours, but I hardly noticed: I’d lost track of time, just as I’d lost count of how often she reached out to clasp my hand, the times she slumped against me, rocking with laughter, or clutching my shoulder in support, gazing into my eyes as though to feel my emotions. For two perfect strangers in a room, time lost all meaning.

It was three when my memory banks ran dry, but as I looked at her I saw sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. She met my look stolidly and I wished I could read her eyes, but they were expressionless. “What are you thinking?” Her voice had gone soft.

Without thinking, I reached for her hands. She made no move to stop me, gave no sign that what I had done was anything but expected. “Strange,” I said. “I feel I’ve known you a long time.” My eyes were frozen onto her, not relinquishing her image for even a second. “I never thought it possible for me to feel what I’m feeling now.” My voice had changed, going softer, betraying my feelings. My heart was beating faster even as I realised it. I had gone too far to back away. “I-” I faltered as she lowered her eyes.

Then she looked back at me and I read in those eyes a message so unmistakable I was overwhelmed. Her hands tightened around mine and my face came close to hers, hope buoying within me like spirits set free and I was suddenly aware of the scent of Poison.

Our faces were only inches away now and I felt joy and exhilaration wash through me when I realized the inevitable was about to happen.

Only it didn’t. She turned her face slightly, sadly. “You never even asked my name.” It was an observation, not an accusation, but I waited, knowing that whatever was coming would determine the course of one or both our lives. “My name is Eliza Carla Paul. I come from Mumbai; that’s where I was born and that’s where I was married.” My hands fell limp, but she went on not noticing or choosing to ignore it. “We were married two years ago, and if all marriages are made in heaven, then I want to go to hell when I die.” Bitterness. There was bitterness in her face, and along with it anguish. “I hate him so much. I think I hated him from the first time we met, but things were so bad for us then that I had to say yes. His proposition was a Godsend to my mother. I accepted. Anything less would have broken her heart. So I broke mine instead and married him. I think I had hopes of making him a better person, a man I could care about and love. So foolish! I waited as long as I could, always hopeful things would change for the better. Then, yesterday, I decided I simply wouldn’t take it any longer. I ran away.” She said it so straightforwardly it could have been someone else’s story she was telling. “I had an accident and I guess I staggered here where I blacked out.” Shadows pranced over her features as she leaned forward and laid her head on my shoulder. Her tears still flowed.

My jaw had gone tight, but as I sat there, staring fixedly at the far wall, her tears running down my neck, I began to flounder. “You left him.” I whispered. “You made your decision and you ran away. It’s over. It’s behind you now.”

She moved against my shoulder. “Oh, David, how I wish it were that simple.”

“Simply forget it. Forget him!” I said it fiercely. “Don’t go back! That part of your life is over; there’s no looking back.”

She raised her head, shaking it. “No, David; it’s far from over. You don’t know him. The monster I married is ruthless. Nothing will come between him and his compulsion to find me – dead or alive. The only reason he married me was so no one else could.” She smiled faintly. “He told me that one day – after we married.”

“You can hide here.” Excitement crept into my voice as ideas and renewed hope flooded through me. “I live in the middle of nowhere, alone. No one would find you here!”

“I can’t hide forever. Someday I’d have to come out, and he’ll be waiting.” A sob escaped her and she caressed my face. “I don’t want you to get involved in this.”

“Eliza, we can try!” I said, knowing how desperate I sounded but just as suddenly not caring. “I’m ready – I want to-“

“No!” she said sharply and pressed a trembling finger against my lips. “Don’t. Don’t say it. There’s nothing to be said.” Her words fell upon my ears like hammer-blows. “You said it was over and I’m afraid it is. I’m asking you to forget; forget about me: forget about last night and this morning and everything that’s happened these last few hours; forget I ever stepped into this house.”

“What!” I nearly laughed out loud. “You did more than just step into my house: you stepped into my life, and now you’re turning it upside-down.” I shook my head, my disbelief rivalling the shock I felt. “How can I just forget all that happened this morning? Do you expect me to turn this into another memory? Like all the memories I told you? Another memory to be related with my others to another woman at another time?” The moment I said it I regretted it. “I’m sorry.” I muttered, and looked away.

Wiping her tears, she got up and went to my bedroom. When she came out, she was wearing her dress. She took my hand and opening it, placed something on my palm.

It was a gold earring, in the shape of a lotus with an emerald at its center. “We have a local tradition: if a woman gives one of her earring to a man, it shows she is forever indebted to him.”

I felt wetness smear my cheeks. “And if she gives him both earrings?”

She shook her head. “A woman never gives any man both earrings, unless he is her husband, for that would mean she loves him. Goodbye, David.” She kissed me lightly on the forehead and was gone, out the front door and out of my life.
* * *

I never expected to see her again, but I did. Sunday evening on the local news. Eliza looked defiant, proud and radiant as she was led into a van by lady constables. The newscaster said police had been on the lookout for her. She was suspected of having murdered her husband three days ago; he had been knifed as he slept.

The phone trilled loudly. It was my sister. “Bob and I are coming over for drinks.”

“Uh…” I said then shrugged. “Sure, why not…”

She cheered. “Ten minutes then. By the way, how was your weekend?”

I shrugged again. “Just another weekend.”

The doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was surprised. A courier operating on Sunday? He shrugged. “I was paid extra for this delivery.” I signed and he handed me a parcel. No senders’ name. I tore open the wrapping and removed the plain brown box within. It had a simple lid and as I pulled it off, Poison suddenly flooded my nostrils.

Within the tissue inside was a tiny gold earring with an emerald at its core.

__END__