The Heart Specialist by Claire Holden Rothman Read Free Book Online Page A

suspiciously, but after the tailor, who introduced himself as Mr. Froelich, said something in German her face softened. “The dog jumped on you,” she said to me in English. “We are sorry for that.”
    I told her I was fine, even though I’d knocked my chin badly enough that it ached.
    The woman noticed. “You are bruised,” she said, touching my jaw. “It is swelling. Come to the kitchen and I fix you.”
    I did not want to leave the workroom but could see no way to object, so I followed her down the hall. She sat me down at her kitchen table, producing chips of ice in a hankie and then prepared me a snack. “Mandelbrot,” she said, laying down a plate of eggcoloured cookies and a mug. “A little sweet won’t hurt you.”
    The coffee was so strong my fingers tingled, but it helped. The woman smiled. “You are a student? We have a client from this school,” she said, indicating my uniform. She turned to her husband and asked for the name.
    “Something with banks,” he answered.
    “Banks Geoffreys,” I said, horrified that Janie might have set foot here.
    “That’s it!” the woman laughed. “You know her? A sweet girl.”
    I drank my coffee and lowered my eyes. The mandelbrot, with its hints of apricot and almonds, was delicious.
    “You need a gown for graduating, maybe?” she asked when the conversation lulled. From her pocket she extracted a yellow measuring tape.
    I shook my head. She and Mr. Froelich had been hoping I was a client. Now that I had indicated I was not they would expect an explanation as to why I had been prowling in their alley. “I did not come to buy anything.”
    Mrs. Froelich’s eyes narrowed.
    I could not think of a convincing lie so I ended up telling part of my story.
    “What did your father work at?” the woman asked. She was still wondering if she should trust me.
    “Medicine,” I said. “He was a doctor who taught at McGill.”
    “Yes,” laughed the tailor. “That is correct. When we moved in there were many strange things he left. Do you remember, Erika?”
    The old woman shuddered. “Remember? I had nightmares for months. Things in bottles. Things cut from the bodies of the dead.”
    “That room just next to the kitchen,” I said. “Your workshop …”
    I never finished my sentence, for Mr. Froelich interrupted, saying it had been the worst room in the house. “It was your father’s office. My wife hated it. To this day she swears it is inhabited by ghosts.”
    I looked at his wife, but really I was remembering another woman who had also hated it. My mother had even given it a name — the Room of Horrors. I had not thought of it in years.
    “What happened to the specimens?” I tried to pose the question casually, even though casual was not what I was feeling. My father had left many of our possessions here when we fled to St. Andrews East, including the contents of that room. I had no idea what arrangements had been made. Maybe the Froelichs had simply taken possession of everything, in which case some of my father’s things might still be here.
    Mrs. Froelich was looking at me with a queer expression. “It was all properly done. There was a deed from the notary.” She was worrying that I might make a claim. I took a moment to reassure her.
    “We are only renters,” added her husband.
    “Tenants,” corrected the old woman, whose English was more precise.
    “So you do not actually own the place?” I asked.
    The old man shook his head. “Another doctor bought it from your father. William Howlett is this man’s name. He is our landlord. Perhaps you know him?”
    The name meant nothing to me. I was more interested in my father’s possessions and directed the conversation back to them. I could not help picturing the little skeleton with which I had once played, wondering if it had ended in the rubbish.
    “We packed them all away,” the old man finally said. Then he looked at his wife and corrected himself. “I packed them. My wife refused to