The Sculptress V.S. Alexander (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📖

all working for the same outcome—like the situation or not. The world has never seen a war like this.”

The hospital nurse rose and climbed a staircase at the back of the room. An uncomfortable silence fell over Emma, Virginie, and John until she reappeared at the landing and motioned for them to come up.

Emma’s pulse quickened.

Virginie was first up the stairs. At the top, Emma followed her down a narrow hall. From the adjacent rooms, injured men coughed or moaned. A row of overhead lights cast their dull shadows on a floor scuffed and muddy from the rain. The nurse led them past surgical quarters containing white beds and silver tables laden with bottles, stainless steel cutters, and clamps. In one room, a man lay covered to his neck with a white sheet, blood spreading like a crimson flower across his shoulders. At the end of the hall, the nurse turned right.

When Emma rounded the corner, she saw her husband, his white coat streaked and spattered with blood, talking to another doctor.

Tom spotted the group and a faint smile formed on his lips. He looked thinner, eyes sunken and dark, complexion sallow, his demeanor as fragile as a wounded butterfly, utterly lacking strength, as if a puff of wind might blow him away.

Emma resisted the temptation to rush to him and envelop him in her arms. From her hospital experiences in Boston she knew better—he would worry about the risk of contamination, of infection. Apparently, embracing his long-held apprehension, he walked toward her, passing Virginie and John. Tom bent down and kissed her forehead lightly.

Emma pursed her lips, but no kiss on the lips came.

The hospital nurse and the other doctor departed, leaving the four of them in the hall.

“You look tired,” Emma said after Tom had greeted John and Virginie.

“Exhausted.”

“Now that we’re here, we’ll leave you,” Virginie said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Tom said.

“Of course not,” John said enthusiastically. “We must discuss the business of Mrs. Swan’s eventual control of the studio.”

“Arrêtez,” Virginie demanded. “Later. You can talk business—ce soir.”

“Vous pouvez vous tuer à discuter, elle ne s’avouera pas vaincue pour autant,” Tom said.

“Oui,” Virginie replied. “There is no arguing with me.” She grabbed her boss by the sleeve and pulled him down the hall. “We will make our own rounds. Tout de suite.”

“But we have no rounds to make,” John protested as Virginie led him away.

Tom smiled as the two disappeared, and then looked at Emma. The momentary happiness faded, the smile dropped away, and a melancholy look Emma had seldom seen her husband display blossomed on his face. In fact, the depth of his solemnity shocked her.

Tom pointed to a room across the hall. “My office. I share it with another surgeon, but he’s off duty now.”

She followed him into a sparsely furnished room where a small window offered a view of a stark building across the street.

Tom pulled the beaded chain on the desk lamp; the bulb crackled and threw out a bleak, dim light. “Toul is not Boston,” he said as he closed the door. “Even the electric is suspect.” He sat on the edge of his desk and looked at her.

Emma felt as if she were looking back at a stranger, but suppressed her unease and moved toward him.

Tom pointed to his blood-spattered coat and pushed back on the desk.

“Your French seems perfect,” Emma said.

“When you use it every day for five months, you learn quite a bit.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “And I have nothing to do off duty but sleep and study the language.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You don’t seem yourself.”

“I don’t want to get blood on you. Nasty stuff is going round.”

“Are you well? I’ve never seen you so thin.”

He sighed. “As well as can be expected. And yourself?”

Emma sank into a chair, stared at her hands, and considered how to reply to his question. Finally, after a time, during which her face reddened and her muscles tensed, she blurted out, “Our troop ship avoided attack by German submarines, I landed in France with only American dollars, managed a train ride to Paris, and now reside with a pedantic English physician who’s offered me the companionship of his French nurse and housekeeper, neither of whom can stand him. And all you can ask is ‘And yourself?’”

Tom groaned and shifted on the desk.

“No, really, Tom, I’m sorry to make you uncomfortable, but I left Boston, traveled three thousand miles for a new life—after you uprooted ours with your generous spirit. Please understand me—your decision was noble. But I’ve come to France to begin what seems absolutely insane work—and you barely seem pleased I’m here.”

He took off his coat and hung it on the back of the door. “I’m sorry, Emma.” He pulled a chair in front of hers and grasped her hands. “I’m tired. It’s the war. I fight death every day.”

“Not even a real kiss,” she said.

“All right, a kiss.” He leaned toward her, brushed his hands against her neck and shoulders, and then guided her face close to his. His lips felt forced and reserved against hers; an affectation of love devoid of passion.

Could he ever desire me again, or I him? His touch seemed as off-putting and clinical as the hospital office where they sat. Did she want to resurrect the time shortly after their marriage, when he at least attempted to make love? She remembered his fingers, with their perfunctory rush of desire, lingering on her skin. The sexual exchange was barely satisfactory then, their lovemaking as methodical and dull as their home life. As she considered the past, Linton Bower’s naked body burst into her head.

Tom broke from her embrace.

“We’ve both changed,” Emma said.

He pushed his chair back and bounced his clenched fist on the desk. “I told you—I’m tired. I live, eat, sleep, and dream death.” He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes and then covered his face with his hands, before slowly taking them away. “If only I could stop my mind