Anne can’t sit still. She’s overwhelmed by anxiety, and she hates this overdecorated suite at Kayla’s hotel. She wants to rip down the hideous window treatments-acres of swag-infested paisley. The coffee on the room-service tray is cold but she takes another gulp anyway, lights a Kent, and flicks on the television. She races through the channels until they blur into a vomitous kaleidoscope of American culture. She walks into one of the enormous bathrooms and turns on a hot bath. Then she turns it off. She tosses her cigarette into the toilet. When she walks back out into the living room Kayla is standing there.
“You look strung out,” Kayla says.
“Oh, I’m way beyond strung out.”
The two friends hug long and hard.
“It’ll all be over in a few hours. Sit down,” Kayla says, picking up the phone. “Yes, could you send up a big pot of mint tea, please?… I said sit down.”
Anne obeys. Only Kayla could look so good fresh off the red eye; relaxed and fit in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and a navy cashmere blazer-she calls it her Goldie Hawn uniform. Her frizzy hair erupts around her round face, which-to the untrained eye-looks makeup-free. She finds Mozart on the radio, takes off her blazer, kneels, pulls off Anne’s flats and begins to give her an expert foot massage. Anne closes her eyes and rests her head against the back of the sofa.
“Thanks for coming, Kayla.”
“You couldn’t have kept me away. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“You sure?”
Anne nods.
“I called my ‘friend,’ ” Kayla says.
“Will she take the job?”
“She will. It’s not going to be cheap, though.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” Anne says.
Anne and Kayla are the only people in the clinic waiting room. It’s a pleasant room painted in mellow tones; Bach plays softly. Dr. Arnold comes out. She’s reassuring, maternal, with shoulder-length gray hair superbly cut, a handsome face, warm gray eyes. She greets them, gives Anne a Valium, explains the procedure, tells her she’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.
Anne is calmer. She and Kayla sit there in silence. What is there to say?
And then Anne’s body starts to tremble. Her face contorts and the tears come, thick and salty. Now she’s rocking back and forth and shaking and moaning and Kayla is afraid she’s having a convulsion of some kind. She tries to put her arms around her but Anne pushes her away and runs out of the office and Kayla races after her and Anne falls in the hallway and Kayla can hear her knee crack against the floor. She clambers up and runs past the receptionist and out onto the street. Kayla follows. It’s starting to rain, a gusty rain that sends leaves and bits of trash swirling through the air. Passersby turn and stare as Anne runs past them. Kayla struggles not to lose sight of her.
And then she does.
Kayla stands on the street corner, frantic, scanning, searching, afraid at any second she’s going to hear the screech of tires, a thud, a scream.
There’s a church behind her, a beautiful stone church. She sprints up the steps and opens the heavy wooden doors. The vaulted sanctuary is hushed, her footfalls echo, she smells incense and candles. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light pouring through stained glass. Half a dozen worshipers are scattered among the front pews, praying silently. No Anne. Then she hears a noise. She walks silently down the center aisle. Anne is lying in the second to last pew, curled in on herself like a cat, her body heaving with choked sobs.