Fire & Water by Betsy Graziani Fasbinder Read Free Book Online Page B

covered the truth of my mom’s death to protect me, the newfound presence of deceit rankled me. Mary K and I saw little of each other because of our schedules. I found I was grateful for the solitude. What little sleep I got was filled with dreams that toggled between fitful and erotic. Whenever there was a lull in the ER, despite my resolve, thoughts of Jake spun webs around my mind.
    With patients, I could concentrate. Crisis provides focus. Adrenaline moments upstage all else in the ER: hunger, pain, exhaustion, even passion. But when I was able to tell the wife of a patient that her husband had not had a heart attack, just a simple bout of indigestion, the look on her face made me want to tell Jake all about her. I made mental note of the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and the smell of bath powder when she hugged me in gratitude. Jake would want details.
    The next day, my last as an intern, was set aside just to close out charts and tie up loose ends. I got off in the early afternoon. My coat was weak protection against the biting wind. I could not remember ever feeling that cold in San Francisco. Snow fell to a thousand feet and dusted Mt. Tam and Mt. Diablo.
    On the hood of my Bug in the parking garage, blowing on his fingers, sat Jake.
    “You look like a woman who could use an adventure,” he said as I approached. The pleasure in his eyes was like a child’s, full of a wonderful secret.
    My fatigue vanished. “What? You’re taking me to McDonald’s for filet mignon and Baked Alaska?”
    Until that second, I hadn’t noticed his missing eye patch. His eye was still bruised, but his dark brow hid the black stitches I’d sewn. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a gentle, intellectual look.
    Jake brought his fingers to my chin and tilted my face toward his own. He studied me, searching my brow, my hairline, the curve of my jaw, warming each part with his gaze. His forehead pleated, then smoothed. “Your face is even more fascinating in three dimensions.”
    My lips pulsed, anticipating the kiss I’d hoped for two nights before but only received in my dreams. He winked again, acknowledging he’d seen my kiss-me signal. “How about joining me? I’ve got my own wheels and both of my peepers.”
    I glanced around the lot.
    “Come on. I know this is your last day. No excuses.”
    I climbed into his Valiant. While it was of similar vintage to my Volkswagen, the Valiant was pristine. Its idle was the soft purr of a kitten, whereas my Bug suffered conniptions seismic enough to remove your fillings.
    We drove down Irving Street, toward Ocean Beach, listening to Bach on the radio. Without explanation, Jake pulled his car into a beachfront parking lot. Thick crowds milled around the beach. “I want you to see something,” he said.
    He pulled a down parka from his back seat and offered it to me. Stepping out of the car, I found myself following throngs of people who were gathering into crowds along the beach. My eyes watered from the wind and cold.
    The first group formed a circle. I eased myself in among them, only to see a winding, ten-foot-round gully in the sand. Deep inside was a sculpted, circular river formed of a delicate web of icicles. Icicles—in San Francisco! Onlookers snapped photographs. They murmured and pointed, wearing wonder on their faces. Jake guided me on.
    The next sculpture was a round pit dug deep into the sand. The sand started as pale, dry oatmeal on the surface and darkened to a rich mocha color toward the moist center of the hole. A bed of khaki green seaweed lay in the center, a tower built of icicles reaching ten feet high perched atop it. It appeared that it had somehow evolved naturally where it lay. Nature had complied with the artist. The mushroom-gray sky was a background, matte and unobtrusive. Temperatures and the icy beach wind allowed the frozen foreign elements to linger.
    I moved down the beach, taking in each of five massive structures formed of natural elements