The Heart Specialist by Claire Holden Rothman Read Free Book Online

pulled myself up to the back window, but the pane was so filthy that all I ended up seeing was my own dusty reflection. A dog began to bark so I dropped back down and retraced my steps to St. Catherine Street. I was within a few feet of the light and noise when a voice called out for me to stop. A man had stepped out of the house. In the morning light he sort of shimmered, more ghost than human. I could not see much more than his profile. He was not tall but made up for this by his girth. I was straining forward, trying to make out his face, when he spoke again.
    The words were French but the accent, I realized, was not. He stepped closer and I found myself staring into the face of a stranger.
    “ Mais qu’est-ce que vous faîtes là? ”
    He was as scared as I was. He had probably mistaken me for a thief prowling among the garbage cans. I did not answer right away so he switched to English, speaking again with a foreigner’s precision. “This is private property.” He was German, I guessed, recently arrived.
    A dog came tearing toward us, barking. It reached us so fast I had no time to protect myself. I fell forward spectacularly onto my hands and chin, the impact sending my glasses flying. The alley was suddenly a blur.
    The dog had slobbery pink gums — that much I could see — and made threatening sounds even after the man grabbed it by the collar and pulled it off me. I had never liked dogs. My grandmother had said it was because of Galen, the animal my father had kept when I was small. It had been nervous and bitten me. The man must have seen my fear for he raised his hand as if to strike the animal. After it quieted he turned back to me and for the first time seemed to see who I was.
    “But you are a girl,” he exclaimed, his eyes taking in my clean hair and school uniform. “A young girl. I am so sorry,” He reached out his free hand but had to retract it to keep hold of the dog. “Come inside,” he said, yanking the animal toward the front door. “She is a guard dog. You must excuse her. But please, come in and rest. My wife will prepare something for you.”
    His spine curved like a shepherd’s crook and he was balding. He looked nothing like my father. He opened the front door and ushered me in, then tied the dog outside to a post.
    Stepping over the threshold I felt like a thief. The old man had no idea what it meant to me to be inside his house. I remembered everything as if it had stayed inside me, intact, just waiting to be remembered. The smells were wrong but everything else was deeply familiar. I could have led him without difficulty to the kitchen, where his wife would fix us coffee. The corridor that stretched out before us was long and dark with a runner covering its entire length. I had dreamt of this hallway and of this very rug, I realized with a start. I knew the wide oak staircase leading to the bedrooms on the second floor and the smaller, darker set of stairs that continued to the attic. We passed the parlour first, where my parents had welcomed doctors and professors and their wives. I peered into it but did not stop. The place I was after was located at the back of the house in the more private interior.
    It was a shock when we reached it. The room itself was the same but its contents were so changed that, at first glance, I recognized nothing. The window I had tried to peer into let in little light, which contributed to the difficulty. The shelves were still there, but instead of holding jars they were piled high with bolts of cloth, the round ends gaping like surprised mouths. There was a central table, perhaps the same one my father had once used for his dissections, but now it was strewn with dress patterns and strips of fabric. Two sewing machines sat in a corner.
    “You like dresses?” the man asked.
    “Yes,” I lied.
    “You want I should make you something? My wife can fit you.”
    Just then an older woman with worried eyes came down the hall. She examined me