Chapter II
(Maura)
It has been two weeks since my encounter with Jane, and I only think of her sporadically. Work has kept me quite busy, and I haven't had much time to dwell on the strange feeling that persists whenever I think about her.
I sit in my car, watching the streets of New York pass by. The city lights flicker like stars against the dark sky, and the hum of distant conversations and car horns create a restless symphony. The air is thick with the scent of exhaust fumes mixed with the tantalizing aroma of street food. Somehow, tonight I feel just as restless as the city seems to be. I've been living here for three years, but I still don't feel at home. The city is loud and vibrant, never sleeps, and despite – or perhaps because of – the incredible crowds, it offers a pleasant anonymity.
It's March, and spring has already started to stretch its tendrils. I can almost taste the freshness in the air, tinged with a hint of blooming flowers and damp earth. I feel the light throbbing in my head that has been accompanying me for a few days, occasionally tugging at my concentration. I massage my temples and groan softly, the tension under my fingertips a constant reminder. Headaches impair my cognitive abilities, and I notice that my thoughts are somehow slower than they should be. Is it the change in weather or just the seemingly endless workdays? Maybe I should resume my morning jogs, clear my head a bit, and keep my body in shape. Mens sana in corpore sano, as the Romans used to say.
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I am an absolute morning person and enjoy the first rays of sun on my skin as I jog lightly through the city towards Central Park. The early morning light casts a golden hue over the buildings, making them glow warmly. My thoughts wander loosely through the little Maura-world in my head, and I enjoy not having to really concentrate. I'm a bit out of shape and not running too fast; for the first few weeks, I'll probably just do a light morning jog to get my circulation going and recondition my body. The cool breeze brushes against my face, carrying the scent of fresh coffee and bakery goods from nearby shops. As I arrive at Central Park, I take a short stretching break and incorporate a few yoga exercises. The park is quiet, almost empty. I enjoy the chirping of the birds and the sound of the river nearby, the wind gently blowing through the springtime treetops. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp, clean air. Exhale. Inhale. I feel the tension of the last few weeks slowly easing and I let my head fall back, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face.
"Hello, Maura." That unmistakable voice. I open my eyes and smile.
"Hello, Jane. It's nice to see you." Her face looks healthier today, not as pale as a few days ago. The dark circles under her eyes are not as prominent. She smiles back and nods slightly.
"How's your hand?" Her expression darkens for a brief moment, and I wonder again what this strange feeling is that she gives me at this moment. Wordlessly, she extends her hand to me, and I see that the wound has healed well. The skin looks slightly pink and tender, a stark contrast to the calloused areas surrounding it. "Looks good. Another two or three weeks, and it'll be almost as good as new." I smile and drop the topic, which visibly relieves Jane.
"Do you jog here regularly? I've never seen you before." I think these are the longest sentences Jane has spoken to me since our first meeting.
I've avoided looking into her eyes for too long but can't quite resist. Maybe it's also my insecurity in social situations that drives me to look for signs of dishonesty or mockery in her eyes. Although I've made a few friends now that I'm an adult, be it at work or in my weekly yoga class, the mocking comments and questions from my classmates still haunt me. Often, I realized too late that the questions were not sincere and were mostly meant to embarrass me, to make fun of me. I've started scrutinizing every question and statement for its true purpose, for an ulterior motive. But when I look into Jane's eyes, I can't see any mockery or scorn. Today, her eyes are a light chocolate brown, sparkling in the sunlight, perhaps even a bit playful. I see honesty in them, interest, and so much more that I simply cannot name.
So I answer honestly, "Yes and no. I twisted my ankle last October and skipped jogging during the winter months. Today is actually my first run this year."
She smiles playfully, winks at me, and says, "Well then, Dr. Isles, we should work on your fitness."
I laugh heartily and nod in agreement. I was already quite out of breath after a short time, and if I want to participate in the New York Marathon again this year, I probably need to practice a bit more.
"Do you want to jog a lap around the park with me, Jane, or are you already done?"
"Of course, whoever gets to the Boathouse first, wins." With that, she takes off, and I already know I have no chance against those endlessly long and well-trained legs.
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Jogging – well, actually it was more of a sprint session – with Jane was refreshing, and we chatted over a quick coffee afterwards. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of pastries. Jane has been living in New York for about seven months; before that, she spent five years in Afghanistan with her husband, whose unit was stationed there. Originally, she's from Boston, where she was a police officer, which eased my nerves regarding my own job a bit. Often, people practically run away screaming when I tell them about my line of work.
We talked about everything and nothing, and for the first time in a very long time, it wasn't exhausting at all to have an animated conversation with someone. I completely lost track of time and ended up being a full 30 minutes late for work. Well, I'm New York's chief medical examiner and can basically come and go as I please, but still, I should set a good example.
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It's April 5th, and I'm waiting, as I have every morning for the past three weeks, at the entrance of Central Park for Jane. We're already a well-coordinated team, meeting exactly at 6:30 AM at the same park bench, jogging through the park for about 45 minutes, and chatting for the last 15 minutes on the way back. Sometimes we chat a bit longer, but I always manage to be at the office by 9 AM sharp. I enjoy the routine that has developed, and I enjoy Jane's company. Even if we talk less on some days, the silence is no longer awkward as it was at the beginning, but rather pleasant. Sometimes we talk about my job, Jane's plans for the day, her job prospects – she wants "to do something completely different" – our weekend plans, and sometimes, but very rarely, Jane tells me a story about her family in Boston. When she talks about those times, her eyes are always soft, slightly sparkling, yet somehow sad. I haven't dared to ask her about it yet; our friendship still seems very fresh and somehow – although Jane has never made me feel insecure – fragile.
I glance at the clock. 6:40 AM. Jane has never been more than a minute or two late, and I'm starting to get a bit worried. I want to reach for my phone and realize I don't even have her number. I don't even know her last name, so I can't call or text her. I start pacing and playing with my necklace. The cold metal of the pendant feels oddly comforting against my skin.
6:45 AM. I'm getting anxious. Did something happen to her? Or did I maybe upset her? I mentally go over our conversations from the previous day, trying to remember if I said something wrong. Has my judgment of people led me astray once again, and Jane is one of those many people who endure me out of politeness for a few days, maybe weeks, always smiling and making me feel like everything is fine, only to disappear without a word? It's called "ghosting," I read in one of the few gossip magazines I occasionally glance at – usually in a doctor's waiting room a few times a year.
I feel the tears welling up and start to flow. My thoughts are spinning. Insecurity, pain, sadness. The feeling of not being truly accepted by anyone. More tolerated than wanted. My biological parents gave me up, and my adoptive parents never really accepted me either. Yes, I was "different" even as a child. Smarter, more curious, maybe even more boring. I loved books. I could read for hours, loved facts and figures, logical conclusions. I was often teased and excluded for it. Frequently, I felt that not even my parents knew what to do with me. Many people wanted to be friends with me because I came from a good family, maybe also because – without wanting to praise myself – I look quite presentable. But once they realized how odd I was, how incapable of behaving correctly in social situations, they fled. Most of the time, people vanished from my life without explanation, never to be heard from again. I can no longer count the times I was left with a broken heart.
I'm completely out of breath, tears streaming down, and I've started to hyperventilate. No, I will not have a panic attack in the middle of New York's Central Park because of someone who stood me up and disappointed me once again. Pull yourself together, Maura. Years ago, I swore I would never give anyone that much power over me again. Breathe, Maura, breathe. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale.
While concentrating on my breathing, my legs seem to have carried me home. My sanctuary. It's 7:30 AM, and I have a little time to calm down, collect myself, and organize my thoughts before I leave the house, as professional as ever, as Dr. Maura Isles, chief medical examiner, top of my class, multiple times nominated and awarded. The cool, familiar scent of my apartment, a mix of lavender and vanilla, welcomes me as I step inside. I take a deep breath, feeling the comfort of my surroundings. I let the silence envelop me, offering a stark contrast to the chaos of my mind.
