fluid. They walked toward the push-button stop-lights where even inveterate jaywalkers waited. Trying to cross the six lanes of the street without lights was a quick route to eternity.
They began to walk on the green light, but halfway across the light changed and Rebecca dashed forward. Iris trailed behind, gingerly stepping between the streetcar tracks in her elegant heels, until she reached the other side.
A truck driver stuck his head out the window. “Hey, lady, want me to get behind and push?”
She struck a pose at the edge of the road, hand on her hip, and yelled out, “That depends on what you’re going to push with!”
In the Spadina Garden restaurant Rebecca picked at her meal of spicy cashew chicken in a restless silence. In restaurants lately, the food on the menu always seemed so appetizing, until it arrived. She would take a few bites then realize she was going to gag if she ate anything. She spent the rest of the time pushing food around on her plate, hoping no one would notice she wasn’t eating. But she couldn’t fool Iris.
“No wonder I’m getting fatter,” Iris said. “I keep finishing your meals.” Once it was established that Rebecca was not going to eat what had arrived on her plate, Iris speared her fork into the chicken pieces across the table.
Rebecca tried to smile. “Maybe you need to walk around the block with me.”
“Maybe you need to eat more.” She observed her friend across the table. “You seem distracted.”
Rebecca glanced from Iris’ upswept blonde hair to an old Chinese woman walking past the window. “I’m wondering what happened to Mrs. Kochinsky.”
Iris jabbed her fork into the air. “If we worried every time a patient missed an appointment.... You need to take care of yourself. You’ve been looking pale lately. And you’re not eating....”
“I’m alright,” she cut her off.
Iris’ grey eyes turned away quickly.
Rebecca leaned forward and softened her voice. “I appreciate your concern, Iris, but I’m alright. Really. It’s just going to take time.”
She lifted her finger in the air to attract the attention of the waitress. “Cheque, please.”
Rebecca threaded her sports car in and out of rush hour traffic like an agitated teenager. She usually avoided Bathurst Street if she could but it was the fastest way to Mrs. Kochinsky’s house. A truck honked as she cut in front. The little red Jaguar XJS had belonged to David; he had been the one with a sense of panache. She never cared one way or another which car she drove as long as it got her there. Hers had been one of those beige Oldsmobiles that faded into the traffic, but when he died she had surprised herself by selling hers and keeping his.
Her father liked GM cars. He had driven a long line of Chevys till he could finally afford to buy himself an Olds. His pharmacy had thrived because he never lost his sense of humour and customers enjoyed dealing with him. Rebecca’s mother took care of the buying and kept the books. All in the family. Now that they had sold the business and retired, Mitch and Flo Temple had become snowbirds, migrating to California for the winter. They were finally wending their way home next week, thank God. Rebecca missed her father’s bad jokes, her mother’s strength and common sense. None of them felt in any condition to cook for Passover this year. David’s death had sapped everyone’s spirit and energy. So Rebecca had ordered a kosher dinner from a reliable caterer, mostly in deference to Susan and her Orthodox husband who were driving in from Montreal with the kids. Rebecca wished she were closer to her sister. She could’ve used a friend these past months. Not that Susan didn’t try. She had offered herself as a shoulder to lean on, a phone number at night if Rebecca wanted to talk. But Susan had plenty on her plate already — three kids weren’t enough to take care of? At least her husband wasn’t too traditional to help out. Just traditional enough to require paper plates for the Seder since Rebecca’s kitchen wasn’t kosher. That was all right, they all liked him. But Rebecca knew she wasn’t going to call Susan when she needed to cry at night.
Rebecca pulled into the driveway beside Mrs. Kochinsky’s duplex. Daylight clung to the street in that long moment before dusk turns it blue. The building, like all the others along that stretch of Bathurst Street, looked quite respectable for forty or fifty years old, the exterior in good repair. She sat in the car a moment, restrained by the thought of the surprised Greta Garbo face when she opened the door.
“Is it really Wednesday already?” Mrs. Kochinsky might say. “I lost track of time.”
Maybe she was out on the town with her cousin from the States. Had he been the one who’d sent the photo Mrs. Kochinsky had flashed before Rebecca’s face? Apparently she’d only met him once, when he was a boy in Poland. They had exchanged some letters when she lived in Argentina but they had lost touch. Then the sudden phone call. Maybe he’d arrived, and in all the excitement of catching up, she’d forgotten what day it was. It happened. If that was the case Rebecca would admonish her gently and go away relieved. But she had to check and make sure her patient was all right.
Carrying her black medical bag, she climbed the steps to the wooden front door. She lifted the brass lion’s head knocker and clanged it twice. There was no sound of stirring from inside, no one preparing to open the door. She turned the knob and was surprised to find it moved easily. As soon as she opened the door, her heart reeled. Inside the small vestibule, the door to Mrs. Kochinsky’s apartment stood ajar. The glass panel, still covered by a sheer curtain, had been smashed, leaving a jagged hole. She pushed the door open and called out, “Mrs. Kochinsky?”
The place had been ransacked. She ought to leave to call the police rather than risk meeting the intruder face to face. She stood very still on the threshold, listening. The silence hung in the air. Only the desultory hum of tires on Bathurst Street and her own ragged breath interrupted the quiet. How could she leave without checking her patient?
“Mrs. Kochinsky? It’s Dr. Temple.” Nothing.
From the dimness of the entrance hall she could see coffee tables on their sides, ornamental cushions, vases, framed photos scattered on the floor. The kitchen lay straight ahead at the end of the hall; to the left, the living- and dining-room. Stepping over the shards on the floor, she moved forward, then stopped.
The muscles in her neck suddenly tightened. Adrenaline leaped through her chest. Mrs. Kochinsky lay crumpled, near the fireplace, like a pile of cast-off clothes.
Rebecca ran around an upturned chair to reach her, called out her name for a response. There was none. She kneeled down, her heart pounded against her ribcage. The woman’s face had turned a dark congested purple. Her eyes bulged. A line had been burned across her neck, tell-tale contusions and abrasions left by a ligature. A rope, a cord, something solid wielded by someone strong. Rebecca placed her fingers flat against the woman’s carotid artery. The neck and jaw were slack, the skin clammy. She shuddered at the unnatural angle of the lifeless head. The bastard had pulled so tight he had broken her neck. Crushed her like a bird. Rebecca closed her eyes and suddenly there was Mrs. Kochinsky, terrified in her office yesterday. Yesterday. A quiet panic took hold of Rebecca. The woman had run to her for help. Mrs. Kochinsky had trusted her. Rebecca could almost hear her: I know you care, that’s why I keep coming, I put myself in your hands. She looked down at her hands. She was responsible. And what had she done? Soothed her with words. Bathed her with platitudes while blinded by her own diagnosis of paranoia. No. Mrs. Kochinsky was paranoid. Wasn’t she? All those times men had chased her across her nightmares, all those times Rebecca thought her patient was viewing things through her own distorted lens, perhaps it had been Rebecca misinterpreting,
