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“You have a CT scan machine here?”
“Of course. We are not totally in the boondocks.”
The CT scan comes out normal. But I have already spent two hours in the hospital and I’m afraid Ethan might be waiting for me, even though he has never texted me once.
I say casually to the doctor, who has my scans up on a fluorescent projection screen, “Do you know a man who lives in Kelowna called Ethan Greene?”
“Ethan Greene.” She wrinkles her nose, and then a light bulb goes off. “Ah. That Ethan Greene.”
“Why? What did he do?” I feel the hairs on my neck prickle. I don’t know if there has been a shift in the tectonic plates of my emotions in the past twelve hours – but suddenly, I really, really don’t want to hear anything bad about Ethan Greene. Though hear it I must. After all, this is my job, isn’t it? To ferret out the lifestyles of the rich and almost forgotten.
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of years now. Then again, I’ve only been working here for eight years, which is a lot shorter than most of the staff here. He has been in a couple of incidents.”
“Incidents?”
“There was once, a couple of years back, when he brought in a woman to Emergency.” The doctor’s face grows solemn. “Ethan Greene is the kind of man you’d remember, you know, because he reminds you of someone you’ve seen before. You’d ask him, ‘Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ And he’d say, ‘No’, and brush you off.”
I nod carefully, not revealing anything. Not everyone is a movie buff, especially in small towns where there is usually only one Cineplex, and they don’t have the luxury of shows being onscreen for as long as major cities.
The doctor continues, “He was extremely distraught when he came in. I was the resident on call that night. He brought in this woman, and she had been beaten up. Her lip was cut and swollen, and she had a black eye. She was young. Hispanic. Not from around here, and I could tell from her way of dressing that she was a high-class hooker.”
I wonder if this is the hooker who disappeared. The hairs on my arms prickle.
“I examined the girl and asked her what happened. She remained mum. Wouldn’t tell me a thing, other than she walked into a glass door. I knew that was bullshit, pardon the expression. Meanwhile, Ethan Greene paced out there in the waiting room like an anxious, expectant father. The girl had rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Her ass had new bruises, as if she’s been caned repeatedly. Her private parts had been invaded, no doubt, and roughly. She had even been sodomized.
“But she still wouldn’t say anything. And so I decided to question Ethan Greene.”
I suck in my breath. Ethan? I can tell immediately by the storyline that the doctor suspects Ethan of sexually assaulting the hooker.
“What did he say?” I ask, as if I’m not personally affected by the answer. As if we are talking about a case that happened in a newspaper report.
And I shouldn’t be personally affected. Why should I, right? I’m writing an article on this. I shouldn’t be personally affected by any of my subjects. Curious, yes, but not emotionally involved.
“He very politely told me that he’d picked her up from the street. Someone had hurt her, and he was being a good Samaritan.”
There’s that term again. A good Samaritan.
The doctor continues:
“‘You have to make a police report,’ I tell him.
“‘I will, later,’ he says to appease me. But I know that he won’t.
“I tried to get the girl, whose name was Marla Sanchez, I remember now, to make a police report. But she refused. She was keeping mum for a reason, and I don’t know what that reason is. But I reckon Ethan Greene is wrapped up in this whole thing. Maybe he’s paying her off. Maybe she’s not some random hooker to him. I don’t know.”
“I see,” I say, my mind churning with possibilities. I just cannot reconcile the Ethan Greene I just spent the whole morning with against this image of . . . well, the doctor is making assumptions, so what happened is anybody’s guess.
Still, there’s the troubled diary etching of:
I can’t contain him anymore. I can’t predict what the triggers are. All I know is that he is becoming more powerful.
*
I say goodbye to the doctor, who makes me promise to come back if I experience any dizziness or headaches. She’s a good sort, and if I were her, I’d be making the same assumptions about Ethan Greene.
Those assumptions trouble me.
As do Ethan’s diary entries.
I dial Ethan’s cellphone, and fifteen minutes later, he arrives to pick me up. As soon as I see his calm, beautiful face, my heart soars despite me telling myself over and over to get over my fan-girly crush.
