He drove with surprising skill to Mel's place - his hands steady on the
wheel, his eyes trained and focused on the road. Somehow, the automatic
action of driving seemed to help to clear his head, inasmuch as he nearly
forgot why he was driving to see Mel in the first place. The needle on the
speedometer stayed at precisely at 33 mph. Two miles under the speed
limit. Of course it would make no sense whatsoever to be pulled over for
speeding, he thought.
He parked - parallel-parked, actually, and perfectly - a short ways down the street from Mel's building. When he got to her apartment he was briefly stymied; he should have known she'd have had her locks changed. He spent a good five minutes fiddling with his wallet and keys, looking for a key he obviously didn't have, the key that would fit the new lock. That was when he first recognized clearly that he was afraid to go in.
Standing on his tiptoes (not having Mel's advantage of five-inch high heels), he felt along the top of the doorjamb, and there, sure enough, was the spare key. Funny, that she hadn't changed its location. Then again, if she didn't trust the doorman's discretion she'd never have hidden her spare in such an obvious place to begin with. In reality, Niles barely remembered brushing the man off, and he certainly hadn't been pursued. Perhaps the man had simply assumed that Niles and Mel were reconciling. Or perhaps he hadn't cared.
Pointless thoughts. Procrastination. Open the door.
He turned the key in the lock and went in.
The apartment was still, and the air was oddly stale, as if fresh air had been the least of Mel's concerns in these last few days. He walked through the apartment calling her name, hesitantly at first and then more firmly, forcing himself to remember why he was here. He was here to demand answers from her. He needed the truth, needed to know what to expect before he did anything so rash as ordering a blood test. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, in fact (his thoughts and those damn eyes in that damn face that seemed to be hanging before him all the time, regarding him solemnly, as if - *no, he wasn't!*) that he barely registered that there was no answer to his calls. It also never crossed his mind that she might have gone out somewhere. Which is why his shock was even less than his current lack of affect might have rendered it when he entered the bedroom and found her sprawled carelessly across the bed, one arm and part of her head sliding over the edge. The empty prescription bottle standing on the nightstand made the whole situation perfectly clear.
He forced himself to cross the room to her, still moving as if in a dream, and picked up her arm, the one dangling over the side of the bed. He found a pulse. "Good," he said aloud. It sounded strange, as if the voice were not his own. The pulse wasn't particularly strong, and he had no idea how long it had been since she'd taken the pills, so he walked back across the room to the phone, dialed 911, gave them the name and location and pertinent facts. He declined to give them his own name or his relationship to the victim (was that what you called it, a victim? the victim of a suicide attempt? Self-victimization, was that what this was?). He hung up the phone and went back again, to make sure she was still breathing. She was, though he didn't know for how long. He knew he should stay with her until the paramedics came - in fact, as a medical doctor, he was bound to stay until help arrived - but he couldn't make himself do it. They were on their way, after all. "And she's a medical doctor," he murmured to himself, for no reason at all. "She'll be all right." His hand moved to smooth back a lock of her hair; it hovered in the air just above her head indecisively for a moment, and in the end he couldn't make himself do that either. He turned and walked out of the room.
As he walked back down the street to where his car was he saw the ambulance come flying down the street, siren blaring and lights flashing. "Good," he said again, and climbed into his car.
He drove away, but not back to the Montana. He needed to be alone. To think.
He spent the next four hours driving aimlessly through the rainswept streets of Seattle, as gray day faded to twilight faded to black.
He parked - parallel-parked, actually, and perfectly - a short ways down the street from Mel's building. When he got to her apartment he was briefly stymied; he should have known she'd have had her locks changed. He spent a good five minutes fiddling with his wallet and keys, looking for a key he obviously didn't have, the key that would fit the new lock. That was when he first recognized clearly that he was afraid to go in.
Standing on his tiptoes (not having Mel's advantage of five-inch high heels), he felt along the top of the doorjamb, and there, sure enough, was the spare key. Funny, that she hadn't changed its location. Then again, if she didn't trust the doorman's discretion she'd never have hidden her spare in such an obvious place to begin with. In reality, Niles barely remembered brushing the man off, and he certainly hadn't been pursued. Perhaps the man had simply assumed that Niles and Mel were reconciling. Or perhaps he hadn't cared.
Pointless thoughts. Procrastination. Open the door.
He turned the key in the lock and went in.
The apartment was still, and the air was oddly stale, as if fresh air had been the least of Mel's concerns in these last few days. He walked through the apartment calling her name, hesitantly at first and then more firmly, forcing himself to remember why he was here. He was here to demand answers from her. He needed the truth, needed to know what to expect before he did anything so rash as ordering a blood test. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, in fact (his thoughts and those damn eyes in that damn face that seemed to be hanging before him all the time, regarding him solemnly, as if - *no, he wasn't!*) that he barely registered that there was no answer to his calls. It also never crossed his mind that she might have gone out somewhere. Which is why his shock was even less than his current lack of affect might have rendered it when he entered the bedroom and found her sprawled carelessly across the bed, one arm and part of her head sliding over the edge. The empty prescription bottle standing on the nightstand made the whole situation perfectly clear.
He forced himself to cross the room to her, still moving as if in a dream, and picked up her arm, the one dangling over the side of the bed. He found a pulse. "Good," he said aloud. It sounded strange, as if the voice were not his own. The pulse wasn't particularly strong, and he had no idea how long it had been since she'd taken the pills, so he walked back across the room to the phone, dialed 911, gave them the name and location and pertinent facts. He declined to give them his own name or his relationship to the victim (was that what you called it, a victim? the victim of a suicide attempt? Self-victimization, was that what this was?). He hung up the phone and went back again, to make sure she was still breathing. She was, though he didn't know for how long. He knew he should stay with her until the paramedics came - in fact, as a medical doctor, he was bound to stay until help arrived - but he couldn't make himself do it. They were on their way, after all. "And she's a medical doctor," he murmured to himself, for no reason at all. "She'll be all right." His hand moved to smooth back a lock of her hair; it hovered in the air just above her head indecisively for a moment, and in the end he couldn't make himself do that either. He turned and walked out of the room.
As he walked back down the street to where his car was he saw the ambulance come flying down the street, siren blaring and lights flashing. "Good," he said again, and climbed into his car.
He drove away, but not back to the Montana. He needed to be alone. To think.
He spent the next four hours driving aimlessly through the rainswept streets of Seattle, as gray day faded to twilight faded to black.