Mercy Train by Rae Meadows Page A

wore his uniform pants and tasseled loafers.
    â€œI’m so sorry to bother you,” he said breathlessly. “This is super embarrassing. I’m locked out? I went to say goodbye to a friend. The door was propped open. Oh, it doesn’t even matter, does it? The point is I’m going to be late for work and I can’t be late for work. The convention has descended. The wacky orchid people.”
    What is he talking about? Iris wondered.
    â€œIs there some way I can help you?” she finally asked.
    â€œI need to climb over your balcony to mine. If you wouldn’t mind.”
    â€œOf course not,” she said pulling open the door. “Come on in.”
    â€œI love your place,” he said, looking around. “So…”
    â€œOld Lady Florida-ish?”
    Stephen spun around.
    â€œHardly. It’s kind of mid-century chic. White lacquer is very in these days.”
    Iris chuckled, indulging his flattery. He had kind eyes underneath the showy affectations, river green and clear.
    Stephen bent down to pick up her book, which had fallen to the floor when she’d risen.
    â€œBook club?” he asked, examining the cover.
    â€œOf one,” she said, pointing to herself.
    â€œDo they get there?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTo the lighthouse?”
    â€œI don’t know. The young boy wants to go, but the father always has a reason not to take him.”
    â€œI know the feeling,” Stephen said, handing her back the book.
    All at once she wished she had made more of an effort with him over the years. Invited him for tea. Or dropped by with scones after the man of the night had left in the morning. And why had she ignored that pea-sized knot she had felt in her breast the night Henry had told her he could not leave his wife? She had felt it, and then pretended that she hadn’t. Was it fear or denial or resignation? Or was it that she wanted to opt out? Even now, she couldn’t really say. It wasn’t until many months later, when her breast had become hot and painful, that she could no longer pretend. Now it seemed loony that she had let it go, giving the disease an irrevocable head start.
    â€œI will owe you forever, Irene,” Stephen said. “You’re a doll face. That new haircut really suits you, by the way. A pixie Anna Wintour.”
    His compliment was preposterous, but still it brightened her. It would be her last haircut, and she was pleased that he had noticed.
    As he passed the kitchen, Stephen registered the pill bottles on the counter with the subtlest of eye flicks. Iris was about to explain, but he moved quickly past, not wanting her to reveal the details. Life was hard enough, she imagined him thinking, without someone else’s suffering ladled on top.
    He wavered a little as he climbed over her balcony railing, his legs wobbly like a colt’s.
    â€œIf you ever need anything,” he said. His offer trailed off as he slid open his glass balcony door.
    Iris started to wave, but Stephen was already gone.
    The encounter had worn her out. Iris went into the kitchen and stared down her pills. She took them grudgingly, each one leaving a hard, chalky path down her throat. She stared into the refrigerator, then pulled out a bowl of raspberries and set it on the table next to her book, before easing into the chair.
    Why did Mrs. Ramsay want everyone to get married when her own marriage wasn’t so great? Iris gingerly chewed a berry, not biting too hard for fear of the seeds. Was marriage ever that great? Iris did miss Glenn sometimes; those years together had bred a comforting shared history, an ease of communication, not about their feelings for each other maybe, but a shorthand of words and body cues with which to navigate the world. After the divorce she was sorry she had lost the one person she could really talk to about Samantha and Theo, the one person who could understand without setup or explanation. “Theo is being