When a Man Loves a Woman

by Alina Adams

PROLOGUE

June 1984
          James Elliot was the best friend Deborah Brody ever had.
          After tomorrow, she fervently hoped she'd never see him again.
          Lying in bed that night, she told herself that was because in five hours, it would be Matching Day. The day when Deb and Elliot, bloated with the self-importance of graduating from the University of California at San Francisco Medical School all of twelve hours earlier, learned which hospitals had accepted them for residencies.
          They'd each applied all over the country -- "Just to be safe," they said -- but, both had their hearts set on getting their first choices; Deb in San Francisco and a specialty in neurosurgery, and Elliot in Los Angeles, for Trauma Care. If both got the selection they wanted, odds were high they'd never see each other again.
          It was almost four a.m., and Deb had been tossing and turning since midnight. She assumed she was worried about not getting the placement she'd requested.
          After all, what else could be filling her with this nameless sense of deficiency, this feeling that she'd forgotten something? The only times she usually felt like this was when Deb left for vacation, and passed the first hour of her trip wondering if she'd turned off the water, and shut off the gas. But, right now, as far as she knew, Deb was not on vacation. When it came to the results of Matching Day, everything that could be done, had to already have been done. Her staying up and worrying was not going to magically rearrange the letters inside of her envelope. Deb knew that. She understood it intellectually, and had thought she'd already let it go. Yet, here Deb was, lying awake and feeling like there was some question still terribly unsettled in her life.
          It was getting ridiculous. With all her tossing and turning, she was getting a better aerobic work-out in bed, then she usually managed at the gym. And she refused to exercise involuntarily.
          Gingerly, Deb slid out from beneath her blanket, reluctant to fully lift it off her body, for fear of waking up Max. She padded, barefoot, out of the bedroom and into their apartment kitchen. She picked up the phone on the wall beside the counter their landlord had oversold them as a "dining area," and, wincing at each click of her nails against the buttons, dialed Elliot's home number.
          He answered on the first ring, as if Elliot had been sleeping with his hand on the receiver. He sounded groggy, yet functional. A doctor for less than a day, and he already had the tone down.
          "Elliot?" Deb couldn't fight her impulse to whisper. As if whispering could make up for waking the man up at four a.m. "I -- I..." Good Deb, now that you've got him up, maybe you should think of something to say. "Elliot, I need to talk. Do you, maybe, you know, have a few minutes?"
          It was only four in the morning, yet, Deb felt confident she'd already sputtered the absurdity of the day. Most people did have a few, spare minutes at four a.m. They used them for sleeping.
          From the other end of the phone, she could hear Elliot stretch and smile lazily. Somehow, no matter what inanity slipped out past her lips, he seemed to have a knack for decoding the meaning under- neath. Elliot took a moment, then drawled, "You bring the cards."
          Deb whole body exhaled. "I'll be right over."
          Luckily, medical school had taught her to dress in a matter of minutes, in the dark, and in absolute quiet. Still, as Deb riffled around in her desk for a scrap of notepaper and a pencil, Max heard her and, stifling a yawn, rolled over on his stomach, propping his still sluggish head up with one hand. Eyes at half-mast, he took in Deb's jeans, her UCSF sweat-shirt, her sneakers, and the Toyota keys pressed in her left hand. Rubbing the bridge of his nose with a knuckle, he asked, not unpleasantly, "Going somewhere, hon?"
          She straightened, giving up the hunt for writing material, and confessed, "Elliot's."
          "Something wrong?"
          "Uhm, no. Of course not."
          "A four a.m. social call, then?"
          Deborah responded automatically, reassuring him, "Everything's fine. Don't worry." The last thing Deb wanted was to put Max out. And she knew that, if he found out just how frazzled Deb really was feeling right then, he would be very put out.
          Not in a bad way, of course. She meant he would be terribly concerned, and he would ask her, over and over, what he could do to help. Problem was, there was nothing Max could to help. But, she was reluctant to let him know that, and leave him feeling helpless. So, in addition to her reassurance, Deb showed him a dazzling, "no problem" smile. The one she always showed him, no matter what.
          This time around, though, it didn't work. Max sat up in bed, blanket puddling his waist. "Try me," he offered, softly. "Just once, try telling me what the matter is, Deb. You never know, if you explain it to me, slowly, I just might understand."
          She really did wish she could unburden herself to him. She knew how much Max wanted to be the one to help her. She knew how much he wanted to be the one who slayed her dragons. And, most of the time, he was. Except when it came to work. Not because Max didn't understand her work. Granted, he wasn't a doctor, but, he was intelligent, and could promptly understand anything technical. What he didn't understand were the emotions that whipped around and tore at you when you least expected it. But, it wasn't his fault. It was Deb's. She didn't have the adequate words to explain it all properly. That's why, when the difficulty was work-related, she needed help from somebody who knew precisely how she felt, without her having to struggle to articulate it. She needed Elliot.
          Lamely, Deb attempted to answer Max's plea, more for his sake than for her's. She stammered out, "I -- it -- it's Matching Day."
          "I know," Max said. "I also know that my brilliant, talented, A+ pupil of a wife couldn't possibly be worrying about not getting her first choice of residency. Because, that would be absurd."
          He looked so eager to please, it was all Deb could do to keep from reaching out and ruffling his hair. He thought he was telling her what she needed to hear. Unfortunately, such unabashed confid- ence in her, was the last thing Deb needed to hear.
          But, it was also the last thing she would allow Max to know.
          "You're probably right," she said, brightly.
          "If I'm so right, how come you still look so jittery?"
          "Too much coffee?"
          Max guessed, "This is about more than Matching Day, isn't it?"
          She didn't want to lie to him. But, then again, she also did not care to tell him the truth. So she settled for hedging, "It's ... you know, school stuff."
          "Nothing I could help you with?"
          "Max...."
          "I understand," he kidded. "I know when I get all worked up over stocks and bonds, only another commodities trader will do."
          "Don't be upset, Max. It's nothing. I just need to run a couple things past Elliot. Doctor things. I'll be back soon."
          He looked at her, then, like he wanted to say something or to ask something. But, in the end, all Max did was blow Deb a kiss. "Good-luck," he said. "I hope Elliot has the answers for you."

          It wasn't until after a still drowsy Elliot had already opened his door to her, that it occurred to Deborah that he might not have been alone when she called.
          Her first clue was the uncommon cleanliness of his apartment. Granted, the man was a doctor. But, he was also a bachelor. His idea of cleanliness was that there should be nothing growing in the shower that wouldn't be more at home in the lab. Yet, crossing the threshold, Deb noted a discernable lack of dust on the table, under the couch and even along the two paintings he'd bought because they were the perfect size to cover the water stains in his walls. In addition, his books, commonly strewn about the floor, now sat on the shelves. Horizontally, but, it was a start.
          She observed, "Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell a woman, Doc."
          Her observation visibly startled him.
          That is, if one could use the word 'visibly' to describe a man whose greatest expression of shock was the upraised eyebrow.
          In this case, however, Elliot not only raised his eyebrow, he cocked his head to the side, and guessed, "Perfume?"
          Deb shook her head. "Furniture polish."
          And then it was her turn to guess. "Emily Delmore?"
          Elliot nodded. But, he didn't repeat the name, or advance any additional information. Instead, almost as an aside, he scratched the back of his neck and asked, "Do you like her, Brody?"
          "Sure. She's terrific. You two make a terrific couple. She -- Is she, uhm, is she still here?"
          In a square, studio apartment, there really weren't a lot of places Elliot could have hidden her. Nevertheless, he joined Deb in looking curiously around the place, before asserting, "No. She left about a half-hour ago."
          Deb gulped, guiltily. "Not because of me, I hope."
          "No." His tone, or lack thereof, hardly invited a follow-up. Instead, he offered a question of his own. "What's wrong, Brody?"
          "What makes you think anything is wrong?"
          Another man could have thrown any number of facetious, flip, and/or downright rude responses at her. Especially another sleep- deprived -- and God only knew what else -- man. But, Elliot merely smiled, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans and leaning back on his heels, rocking slowly back and forth, as if he had all the time in the world and would be content to wait forever until Deb felt comfortable enough to start talking. He was twenty-seven years old, and yet Deb wondered how, in that instant, Elliot could manage to seem both so patriarchal, so wise -- and so young.
          The young part was easier to understand. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, no shoes, and sporting raven, curly hair that could have used a trim at least several weeks ago, Elliot looked less like a board-certified M.D., and more like the kid who still spent several nights a week playing hockey and broom-ball at the local ice-rink. He stood a touch over six feet. Not skinny, just lean. His arms, thighs, and chest were covered in muscle. In body-type, he might have been more aptly built for track and field. But, Elliot wanted to play hockey. And Elliot tended to get what he wanted.
          That's where the seasoned and wise portion of his looks kicked in. No one ever said no to Elliot. And, not because he threatened or bullied or even intimidated. But, because he never gave up.
          "The trick," Elliot once explained to Deb in the same laconic, tranquil manner that he did all things, "Is to keep smacking your head over and over again against the wall, until the wall breaks."
          And all walls broke for Elliot. They broke when he wanted to go to Yale, but, wasn't given enough financial aid to afford it. They broke when UCSF balked at admitting a candidate who'd taken a year off to earn his tuition by, among other unusual jobs, driving a truck loaded with nitroglycerine across the country.
          "Tell me what's wrong, Brody," he repeated, wall-breaking tone out in full-force. But, then, rather than making Deb ill at ease by continuing to stare at her expectantly, he took a step backward, setting comfortably into the depths of his couch. His palms rested atop his knees. Elliot asked, "Did you bring the cards?"
          Finally, a question she could answer. The relief of having something to say brought a grin to Deb's face. She eagerly pulled up a chair, settling to face Elliot across his somewhat scratched, second-hand coffee-table, and, reaching into her purse, withdrew a brand-new deck of playing cards.
          "Ranch-style, or high-rise?" Deb inquired politely, breaking the plastic seal.
          "Oh, I don't know," Elliot's eyes danced. "I was kind of in the mood for a nice, pre-war Tudor."
          Because regular, uncreative people may have used playing cards for such mundane activities as Poker, Twenty-One, or Go Fish. Drs. Brody and Elliot built houses.
          It started out as a simple bet. Each was trying to prove they had steadier surgeons' hands than the other. Over four years, how- ever, it had developed into a passion. Deb and Elliot played every chance they got. After a day of cramming for finals and boards, it was frequently the only thing that could make them relax.
          Deb put down her opening card without a word. Elliot followed her lead. It wasn't till they'd silently and painstakingly erected the first floor and were diligently working on the second, that she got up ample courage to inch towards the true purpose of her visit.
          Without raising her eyes from their edifice, Deb concentrated on sounding casual as she wondered, "Elliot?"
          "Hm?" He, too, did not raise his eyes.
          "Do you think a person can be precocious at forty?"
          It was one of the stupidest questions ever uttered. Yet, for some reason, Elliot -- God bless him -- elected to respond like it was the most reasonable query in the world. "How do you mean?"
          Deb wished she knew.
          No, that wasn't true. She wished she didn't.
          Deb tucked a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear and bit her lip, focusing on balancing the Six of Diamonds in her hands just so against the Jack of Clubs Elliot had erected earlier. She said, "When I was two, three, four years old, if you'd asked me my name, I probably would have told you I thought it was 'Precocious.' It's the only word anyone ever used around me. I skipped first and third grade. I started high-school at thirteen, graduated in three and a half years, and still had the highest G.P.A. in my class. My entire life, I defined myself as someone precocious. Know how some kids love to whine about the hardships they suffered being brighter than their peers? Well, I loved it. I loved being smart. I loved being smarter even more. And I really loved being the smartest."
          "I've sat in class with you for four years," Elliot reminded, "Somehow, I picked up on that."
          "Precocious doesn't last," Deb sighed. "I used to get such a kick out of doing something really great or saying something really insightful, and having folks ask me how old I was. And they were always so shocked to find out I was only fifteen, or only twenty. Well, you know what, Elliot? I'm twenty-five now."
          "I'll call the old folks' home."
          "You don't get it, do you?" She wanted to growl in futility. Not at him, at the universe. "I'm growing into my brains, Elliot."
          He didn't laugh. To his eternal credit, when Deb admitted her deepest, darkest, most embarrassing secret, Elliot did not laugh.
          He only looked up from the cards, eyes meeting Deb's for what suddenly felt like the first time ever. He said, "I understand."
          She thought she might burst into tears.
          Tears of relief, and tears of joy. Because she believed him.
          With anyone else, she would have felt sure they were humoring her, claiming commiseration while, inside, they were busy trying to recall the phone number for the nearest mental hospital.
          But, when Elliot said he understood, she believed him.
          Her subsequent words spilled out of Deb like a hemorrhage from a severed artery. She barely remembered to breathe in between.
          Deb confessed, "It scares the hell out of me, Elliot. I mean, precocious is who I am. It's how I define myself. It isn't about ego. It's about identity. If I'm not this precocious, little Girl Genius, then who the hell am I? How am I going to impress people? How am I going to get anyone's attention? A six year old who's got the whole periodic table memorized is someone special. But, people kind of expect it of an M.D., right?"
          Elliot actually considered her question. Unlike most people, who barely waited for the ask-er to complete their thought before jumping in with some useless platitude or a lame personal anecdote that had nothing to do with the issue at hand, Elliot actually took a moment to think about what Deb asked.
          Finally, putting down the card he'd been holding and linking his fingers in front of him, staring contemplatively first down at them, then up at Deb's panic-seized eyes, he cleared his throat and calmly, rationally, soothingly, offered, "Listen to me, Brody. You don't need a periodic table to get people's attention. You are an amazing human being, and your spectacular mind is only a small part of it. Precocious may be a temporary condition, like a flu. But, kindness, compassion, decency -- they're chronic. You're a good person, Brody, and that's going to be an attention-getter no matter how old, or how young you are." He moved to pick up a new card. Then, so nonchalant that an outsider watching might have thought the answer was of no consequence to him whatsoever, Elliot asked, "Is that why you've been so uptight about Matching Day?"
          Leave it to Elliot to ask the $25,000 dollar question.
          Deb hedged, "Sort of."
          "You're afraid if you don't get your first choice residency, there goes your precocious status?"
          She said, "I've got a major reputation to protect, you know. People expect great things from me."
          He tapped a King of Hearts against his lips, cocking his head to one side. He dared, "You know, everybody who really loves you will, quite likely, continue to do so whether you get a top-notch residency or not."
          "Can I have that in writing?" Deb joked.
          He dropped his card in place, allowing himself a scanty smile which first wavered for a moment, then settled firmly. He raised his chin defiantly, looking Deb in the eye. He said, "Yes."
          Deborah Brody had never, in actuality, been swallowed whole by another creature. She'd only read about the experience, with high- lights coming from the Biblical Jonah, and Pinocchio. Yet, in that moment with Elliot, she felt... swallowed.
          No. More than that. She felt... consumed.
          In the past, Deb had, once or twice or a half-dozen times -- no more than a dozen, certainly -- looked up from her books in the library, or turned around in her seat in class, or shoved aside a cadaver they were dissecting, and, by accident -- it had to be by accident -- caught a glimpse of Elliot looking at her. Looking at her with enough force to effectively suck all the air out of her lungs, and leave Deb feeling gutted and bloodless and drained.
          But, not in a bad way.
          She only wished it had been in a bad way. Because then, two years ago, she wouldn't have made the faux pas, when she realized Elliot had spied her looking at him looking at her and he responded by ducking his head, of blurting out, "No. Don't stop."
          Deb didn't know who came out of that exchange feeling more embarrassed, her or Elliot. And she certainly never got the chance to find out, because neither of them ever mentioned it again.
          But, from time to time, Elliot still looked at her.
          These days, though, Deb was a lot more careful about letting him catch her looking back.
          Except for right now. Right now, she was enjoying herself too much to even pretend she wasn't. With one word, Elliot had calmed her, and reassured her, and made Deb more joyful than she'd been in weeks, maybe months. She wasn't about to let that feeling go.
          Then, Elliot asked, "What about Max?"
          Deb blinked. "Max?"
          "Don't tell me you believe your husband will stop loving you, if you don't get the residency you applied for."
          "Of course not." The notion was absurd. But. On the other hand.... Deb said, "Max has sacrificed so much for me. He was a Senior at University of Chicago when we met. I was a sophomore. He always planned to return home to the Bay Area when he graduated. He ended up staying an extra three years in the Midwest because of me. I really wanted to make it up to him. That's why, even though I got into Yale Med School, and they're number one -- "
          "Stop showing off, Brody," Elliot teased.
          "I decided to go to UCSF, anyway."
          "We're number two, we try harder."
          "I did it for Max. Same with this residency. If I get it, we can stay in town. I don't want to have to ask Max to move, again. I've already asked enough of him. I've asked him to put up with an awful lot these past four years."
          "So, that is what's been worrying you? Max?"
          "Yes," Deb said. Then, "No." Then, for no particular reason, she said, "I love my husband, Elliot."
          Elliot said, "Hm."
          "It's because I love him that I can't tell him how I feel. It would only upset him. He would reassure me, and tell me it didn't matter. He'd tell me he believed in me, and he would go along with anything I wanted -- about the residency, I mean. But, I'd keep on feeling guilty. Like I let him down. Like I betrayed him. You -- you do understand that, don't you?"
          He shrugged. He asked, "Why are you telling me this? Don't get me wrong, I don't mind the dawn's-early-light assembly; hey, I had nothing penciled in on my social calendar for six a.m., anyway, but, I am curious, why you chose me to unburden yourself to. You do have other friends."
          "Yes." Now that she understood his question, the answer could not have been easier. "But, you're my best friend, Elliot."
          "Oh. Right."
          With those words, Deb sensed herself evaporating, dissipating, almost. It felt like being forgotten. It felt like dying. She didn't know what to say, and yet she was certain it was imperative she say something.
          "Elliot," she all but called out.
          When he glanced up in response, Deb got the sensation of being looked at from a distance. All scientific, spatial evidence to the contrary, she frankly thought that, if she reached out for him now, her hand wouldn't prove long enough.
          "You do believe me, don't you, Elliot?" She was pleading, and Deb hadn't the faintest notion why, or for what. "You believe that you're my best friend. I wouldn't lie about something like that."
          "I'm sure you wouldn't."
          She stammered, "You -- you matter to me. A lot."
          "You matter to me, too."
          She was losing him. He hadn't moved an inch, and yet Deb felt Elliot pulling further and further asunder.
          The only way she could think of to make up the distance was to lean forward in her chair, to shorten the physical gap between them in the hope of somehow bridging this other thing -- she didn't even know what to call it, -- as well. It was a difficult trick to pull off, with the precarious dwelling of cards growing squarely between them. Moving too fast, or even breathing incorrectly, would cause everything they'd worked so hard on for so long, to crumble.
          "Elliot," Deb said, inching her chin and neck hardly a smidgen forward. "Listen to me."
          Her voice grew softer. She had to squeak another inch forward to insure being heard. At such close proximity, the house of cards seemed to shimmer between them like a heat-mirage.
          "You're the best friend I ever had. You are very important to me. I realize now that I never said it before, so maybe you didn't realize I felt this way. Maybe you thought I was just using you as a sounding board, or as the only kind soul willing to talk to me in the middle of the night when I got into one of my little panics."
          She had his attention. Neither one of them was moving, but, Deb felt the distance shrinking between them like a kite returning home. Elliot's eyes were, once again, unabashedly meeting hers.
          Only this time, the steam they radiated seemed to be flowing both ways. She wasn't just being passively consumed, she was also the one doing the consuming.
          A part of Deb wanted to stay this way forever. Another part of her knew that it was impossible, and yet a third reminded her that there was no way she could stay this way forever, unless she kept talking. It was her talking that was keeping Elliot tethered. One wrong word, one wrong move, and he would be gone. For good this time. She was certain of it.
          Deb said, "I guess I never noticed. These entire four years. Jesus Christ, here I was supposed to be the precocious one, and I never noticed I was mistreating you. I behaved like you were this instrument created solely to make my medical school experience more bearable. I leaned on you, hell, I pretty much exploited you. And I never said so much as a casual thanks. I never told you how much I appreciated it. I never told you how much you've meant to me."
          Elliot's breathing quickened. Or maybe it was just Deb's that did so. She couldn't tell where one of them started and the other one ended anymore.
          "I never told you how much you've meant to me. As a friend."
          Elliot smiled. The demonstration started with his eyes. They crinkled in the corners. Then his cheeks twitched. First one then the other, for that adorable, lopsided effect. Finally, his mouth got into the act. His lips parted, a dimple on the right appearing and disappearing before burrowing in permanently. The cleft in his chin deepened. Even his teeth seemed to glow.
          He shook his head ruefully from side to side. "You don't owe me anything, Brody. I'm the one who should be thanking you."
          "For being a pain in the neck?"
          "Yes." Elliot chuckled. "That's it. Precisely."
          He sounded like he was kidding. Except that he also sounded dead-serious. Deb didn't know what to do. The only thing she knew for sure was that she couldn't let it -- this -- him... go.
          Face to face, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. It ruffled her hair just hard enough to tickle. His eyes appeared bottomless, and possessing the secrets of the ages.
          He opened his mouth, tongue gently pressed against its roof in preparation for speech. Deb couldn't even begin to guess what he might say. She only knew that, whatever it was, she was destined to agree with it. Elliot shifted his weight forward. He ran his tongue against his teeth. He took a deep breath. He said a single word. That word, was, "Max."
          He whistled too hard on the final "sss." It created a breeze.
          Their house of cards crumbled.