Perfect Flaw, page 18
Camille stopped suddenly in mid-sob and, sniffing noisily, ran back into the bathroom and closed the door. Angelo didn’t chase after her. What good would that do?
Somewhere he heard the low buzz of his cell phone. It was still in his back pocket. He fumbled to answer it.
“Dr. Perrotta,” Farrell asked. “Is this a good time?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wanted to follow up with you. Yesterday, I drove out to Mr. Kostas’s home, but he wasn’t in. I even called his lawyer, but she refused to let me question him.”
“Did she tell you where he works?”
“No,” he said.
Angelo experienced a pang of panic so startling, he couldn’t catch his breath, realizing that with every passing hour the likelihood of finding that woman alive dwindled significantly. “So, what’s next?”
“I don’t have an answer for you,” Farrell said. “At least not the answer you’re looking for.”
“Which is?” Angelo asked.
“Which is, I don’t have enough evidence to compel a judge to issue a search warrant of Kostas’s home.”
“I understand,” Angelo said, knowing no good would come from taking out his frustration on Farrell. “Thanks for the update, Detective.”
“Anytime.”
At that exact moment, Camille started wailing. Angelo dropped the phone as she ran screaming out of the bathroom as if she were being chased. “I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!” She threw her arms around Angelo’s neck.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m dying! Help me!”
He gripped her arms, trying to pry her off him, but she wouldn’t budge. She clung to him, crying hysterically.
“I’m dying! I’m dying!”
“Camille, tell me what’s wrong?” She cried hysterically, trembling in his arms. Angelo saw no blood on her face or torso, so he pulled her off him and ran into the bathroom. There in the toilet, blood swirled in the water like crimson smoke. He came out of the bathroom and asked, “Could you be having your period?”
“No,” she cried. “It happened when I peed.”
“Listen to me,” he said calmly. “I’ll call a colleague of mine. He’s a kidney specialist. We’ll see him this morning. Now, I understand how scary peeing blood is, but to be honest, there was not a lot of blood in the toilet. We’ll go as a precaution. Okay?”
Camille nodded. Angelo saw in her eyes, calm had returned.
A short while later, Angelo sat in the waiting room of his nephrology colleague while Camille was being evaluated.
As children, Angelo always thought Camille was so durable, so strong. She was the self-assured one, displaying not an ounce of hesitation in every decision she made. Angelo lived in the shadow of his older sister who was very protective of him. Their father’s desertion consumed Angelo. Camille was wounded by it too, but not to the same degree as Angelo, or so he thought.
It occurred to Angelo, sitting in the waiting room, how very wrong he was. Camille was deeply affected by their father’s abandonment. She just hid it from him. Over the years, she led him to believe that as a daughter, she still had their mother. As a son, it was natural for him to feel deprived of the one thing he deserved—a father figure. Classic Camille, thought Angelo, deflecting her pain so that he was the focus of attention.
The truth, he knew now, was that Camille wasn’t as strong as the image she projected, and fiercely guarding the chairs at McDonalds or dropping out of school to support Angelo were her noble attempts to hold their family together, to maintain order, not just for him but for herself. Their father’s brutality left a scar on her memory that was as indelible as the one on her baby brother’s face, and every time Camille looked at him, it sent a roil of panic through her. As an adult, she bottled up her emotions and exuded strength, but things suppressed had the potential to explode.
“Dr. Perrotta,” the receptionist said. “Dr. Wang will see you now.”
Wang sat behind a large oak desk. “I performed an ultrasound on your sister,” he said. “She has a small hematoma on her right kidney. I was surprised how small it is, considering her other injuries.”
“What other injuries?”
Wang gaped. “Angelo, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
Wang hesitated. “She was badly beaten. There are bruises of varying degrees all along her back. This abuse has been going on for a long time.”
Angelo vigorously rubbed his forehead. “Why didn’t the ER physician catch this?”
“She didn’t tell them,” he explained. “It’s quite common for abuse victims to minimize their injuries. Camille couldn’t hide the laceration on her face. Later, when she saw the blood in the toilet, she panicked. I assured her that the hematoma is small, and the bleeding will resolve on its own. She needs to drink plenty of water and avoid strenuous activity. Of course, I’ll want to see her again on Friday to repeat the ultrasound.”
Angelo breathed a deep sigh. “Can I see her?”
“Of course,” he said, standing up. “She’s still pretty shaken so be gentle. She thinks you’re mad at her.”
“What?”
“Don’t take it personally,” he said, putting his hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “It’s a common reaction. She’s concerned you had to miss work on her account. I told her not to worry, but you know how family members can be.”
“Thank you for squeezing her in today. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he said, walking Angelo down the hall. “She’s a tough woman. Feeling this vulnerable can’t be easy for her.”
Once they left Wang’s office, they walked out to the street, and Angelo hailed a cab. There was traffic heading west on Twenty-Third Street. Neither had spoken a single word since they left Wang’s office, when Camille glanced over and offered Angelo a twisty little smile. That one simple look warmed his heart because it said everything they couldn’t say.
Right before they arrived back at the apartment, Angelo had the idea to order pizza and invite Tammy and Val over for dinner. If anyone could cheer up Camille, thought Angelo, it was Tammy. After letting Camille into the apartment, Angelo ran to the grocery store for snacks. He considered buying wine, but he knew Tammy and Val weren’t drinking and, most likely, Camille wouldn’t either. Although he could have used a stiff drink, Angelo decided against buying any alcohol.
Hours later, Tammy knocked on the door. “Hey, old friend, how the hell are you?” She entered, arms stretched out for a hug. “And look who it is,” she said, moving toward Camille. “There’s my girl.” Tammy leaned in and kissed Camille—not on the cheek, but on the lips.
Camille took a step back, adjusting her hair. “Well, that was some welcome. How long has it been?”
“Too long.” Tammy turned to the door and yelled, “Hey, come on in and meet Angelo’s sister.”
Val stood in the doorway. She had cut off most of her hair. The dramatic change was a surprising shock, and Angelo wondered if he would have recognized her on the street.
“May I come in?” she asked Angelo sheepishly.
“You look different,” he said. “I like the change.”
Val patted her hair. “Sometimes you have to change things up.”
“Val, come in,” Tammy said, her voice booming. Then she aimed her head at Camille and muttered, “This is my old lady. Tell her she’s pretty.” Then Tammy darted to the bathroom still wearing her coat.
Angelo clapped his hands together, wringing them nervously. “Val, can I get you something?”
“Some green tea would be nice,” she said, removing her coat.
“I only have regular tea.”
“That’ll be fine.” Val looked around. “Angelo, your apartment is cute. I love L-shaped studios.”
“I know, right,” Camille said, gesturing toward the couch. “That way your bed isn’t in the middle of the room.”
“My first apartment had a bathtub in the kitchen,” Val said.
“Seriously?” Camille asked. “I don’t know how people live in such tiny apartments. I’d go crazy.”
As Angelo filled the kettle, Tammy came out of the bathroom.
“How’s your sister doing?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“I think she’s holding it together pretty well. All things considered. Care for some tea?”
Tammy rolled her eyes and stuck a wad of gum in her mouth. “I’ll pass.” Then she slapped him on the back and sat down with the girls. She appeared to have gained weight. Her complexion was ruddy, and her cheeks bloated.
Angelo had this ridiculous thought of flopping down in the center of the living room and telling them he suspected Demetre of murder because it was just then he felt the stirring in his chest. It was the obsidian, waking up. No, he said to himself. Tonight, is all about Camille.
He owed her that much.
Tammy monopolized the conversation, which kept Camille blissfully distracted. For the most part, they avoided all medical talk. Much of the chatter revolved around Tammy’s obsession with the television program Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.
“That Mariska Hargitay,” she said, pounding the table. “Damn is she hot.”
“Excuse me, but do you always talk like that in front of your girlfriend?” Camille kidded.
“Oh,” Tammy said, putting her arm around Val’s shoulder. “She knows I don’t mean anything by it. Right Val?” Then Tammy planted a loud smooch on Val’s cheek.
“We don’t keep secrets from each other,” Val said. “But I will not be disrespected.”
“But isn’t that kind of talk a little disrespectful?” Camille said quietly.
“Actually, it’s not,” Val corrected, “but I can see why you think so. The truth is, I know where Tammy’s coming from. She’s not being malicious.”
“I’m sorry,” Camille said. “Who am I to judge? Everyone’s relationship is different. It’s just that when my husband said things like that, even when he was referring to someone on TV, I knew he was trying to get at me.” Camille paused for a second, her eyes welling. “You know, if more couples were honest with one another then maybe . . . I don’t know . . . they wouldn’t fight so much.”
Angelo rubbed Camille’s back. “The problem with your marriage wasn’t honesty. Your husband is a violent drunk.”
“I agree,” Val said. “Violence is never the solution. Even when communication breaks down completely there’s always another option.” Then she reached out and held Camille’s hand. “What you did was courageous. Many women choose not to leave an abusive situation even though everyone thinks it’s the obvious choice. Often making the right choice is the most difficult.”
“Why is it difficult?” Tammy said with dramatic frustration. “I don’t understand why the victims blame themselves. Trace hits his wife, and Camille’s the one who feels bad. Same thing for that jagoff Angelo worked with, Demetre. The guy practiced medicine without a license, and Angelo, for some reason, feels responsible. Why is that?”
Angelo bristled at the mention of Demetre’s name. He’d hoped to steer clear from any discussion involving him.
“It’s not that easy to explain,” Val countered. “I worked at a women’s detention center in Texas. There were hundreds of women and children running away from abusive relationships. All of them felt guilty for uprooting their families to leave these horrible men. We blame ourselves because we trust people. Then, when they betray our trust, we automatically think the character flaw lies within us.”
Tammy shook her head, unconvinced. “That still doesn’t answer my question. Logically, the brain interprets the truth. Why do our emotions override this process?”
“We’re ruled by our emotions,” Camille said. “At least, I know I am.”
“I think that’s a load of horseshit,” Tammy said. “Not everyone is led by their emotions.”
“You’re right,” Val said, crossing her arms. “They’re called sociopaths.”
“Ah-ha! Now that’s a smart answer,” Tammy said, grabbing Val’s face and kissing her on the lips. “I love you honey bunny.”
Camille looked directly at Angelo. “Do you really blame yourself for what Demetre did?”
Tammy leaned forward, grinning. It was then, Angelo caught a glimpse of that familiar glassy look in her eyes. It got him wondering if Tammy had been drinking tonight, sneaking to the bathroom for a quick nip. That would explain why she’d been chewing gum the entire evening, hoping to camouflage her liquor breath with peppermint.
“Right before it all went down,” Tammy explained, “Angelo suspected the guy was shifty.”
“Okay,” Camille said, “but that doesn’t make what he did Angelo’s fault.”
Angelo glared at Tammy for bringing up the subject. “I know it’s not my fault.”
“Come on, Camille,” Tammy said, raising a brow. “You know your little brother. He’s not very good when it comes to choosing men.” Then she cocked her head to one side. “Remember that drunk, Miles?”
Camille darted her eyes from Tammy to Angelo. “Were you and Demetre dating?”
“No!” A churning began again in Angelo’s chest. “There were certain things I witnessed, which I should have reported to Dr. Stanzione sooner, but I didn’t because Demetre and I were friends.”
“Oh, you two were more than just friends.” Tammy raised her fist her mouth, pantomiming oral sex.
“See,” Val said. “Angelo entrusted Demetre, and once that trust was broken, Angelo felt culpable.”
“I don’t blame myself,” he insisted. “I just feel . . . .”
“I called that one,” Tammy cut in, pointing her finger in Angelo’s face. “I knew it the minute I laid eyes on him. Fucking bastard. How dare he impersonate a doctor! What if he hurt someone?”
Angelo shot up and ran into the bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror, his skin wan, he washed his face. All he could think about was Demetre’s voice on the phone, that suitcase in his garage, and the crippling fear that he had killed someone. Tears swirled with the water in the sink. At first, he was unaware that he was crying, but then he heard sobbing. He looked up at his reflection, staring with a curious detachment—like he was observing a patient, not himself.
When he returned to the table several minutes later, the women were laughing, which for some reason made him feel worse.
“There you are,” Tammy said, reaching for his hand. “Thought you fell in, old friend. You’re not sore that I brought up that jagoff, are you?”
“No.” The truth, he knew, was that Tammy would never talk to him like that unless she was drunk, that her usual warm and friendly demeanor had vanished, and inebriation had unleashed Tammy’s merciless candor.
“Besides,” she continued. “You got hot cop now who is way hotter than that old jagoff.”
“Who’s hot cop?” Camille asked.
Tammy’s mouth gaped open. “You haven’t told your sister?”
Angelo squeezed his eyes shut. The conversation was a pinball, bumping from topic to topic Angelo desperately hoped to avoid. “There is no hot cop.”
“No hot cop?!” Tammy slammed her palms down on the table. “Don’t tell me you fucked up that one too.”
“Tammy you’re on a roll tonight,” Angelo said with a humorless laugh. “It’s good to know you’re as much fun even when you’re not drinking.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Val said. “If you were a good friend, you would respect Tammy’s sobriety instead of mocking it.”
“That’s why I stuck with you,” Tammy said, kissing Val’s cheek. “You always have my back.” She glanced at Angelo, scratched the back of her neck, and then looked quickly away.
Angelo had no intention of confronting Tammy in front of his sister and Val, but for Val to turn a blind eye to Tammy’s obvious intoxication made him believe she had become her enabler. Further proof of Val’s theory that people in abusive relationships blame themselves and remain quiet instead of leaving.
Camille stood up and began clearing the table. “Would anyone care for more tea?” she asked, but no one responded. Val whispered in Tammy’s ear before excusing herself to use the restroom. Camille washed the dishes as Angelo and Tammy stared at each other in silence. He wanted to confront her. His mouth worked with hesitation, but he said nothing.
Tammy stretched out her arms, yawning. “I’m on call tomorrow,” she reminded Val once she returned to the table. “We should get going.”
Angelo stood up to stare out the window. His back to them, watching the scene in the glass as Val and Tammy kissed Camille good-bye.
“Thank you for having us,” Val said out loud to Angelo.
Angelo did not respond. He had nothing left to say. How long he stood there, eyes fixed on his reflection, he didn’t know. Shocked, silent, and disappointed—nearly catatonic—before he noticed Camille stood beside him and reached for his hand.
That night, Angelo dreamed about her.
From the couch he looked over, expecting to see Camille sleeping, but instead, there was a suitcase, lying flat like some felled animal. He heard muffled cries coming from within it, along with the scratching of fingernails against the canvas lining. She begged him to let her out, but Angelo was frozen. A hand burst suddenly through, stiff fingers reaching out to escape.
When he woke up with a start, Angelo knew the police would find her body. It was inevitable. Still, he dreaded it.
Chapter Fourteen
Angelo spent the weekend with Camille. Being with her drew them closer and distracted him from thinking about Demetre and Jason. On Friday, Camille followed up with Wang. As predicted, Camille’s kidney hematoma had nearly resolved.
Monday at work, tension lingered in the air like a mist. Stanzione and Angelo worked as if they were husband and wife during a divorce but still living in the same house. They exchanged terse greetings as they passed each other in the hall, but most of the time Stanzione stayed in his office with the door closed when he wasn’t seeing patients. Even Steven seemed distant. They had ceased to operate like the well-oiled machine Angelo had joined in July, but more like a sputtering, stalling, steaming jalopy.
