Face Of The Monster

***16***

Phoebe Kim should be ashamed and she knows it.

There's a bald man in her waiting room, watching the floor with sad eyes. He has skin like varnished wood and eyes the color of bourbon. He twists a silver wedding band in his fingers, his nails appealingly rectangular and pink. He wears a button-down shirt and khakis, a stocking cap draped over his thigh. When he sees Phoebe, he pulls it on.

Phoebe Kim should be ashamed, but she feels a sharp stab of anger instead. She knows exactly who he is. But what in the world is he doing here? This is Emma's safe space, somewhere she goes to get away from him and his awful disease.

"Thank you, Doll," says Stella Villar, one of Phoebe's oldest clients. Lars stands with a smile, offering his arm to the hobbling old lady.

"See you next week, Mrs. V," she says.

She wraps her liver-spotted hand around Lars' arm, saying, "Ooh, did I tell you my granddaughter is coming into town? She is, and what a right delightful girl she is! You would like her, dear. We should really have you over for dinner."

Phoebe usually laughs at Stella's attempts to find Lars the love of his life, but right now she doesn't feel like returning Lars' grin. She has already moved on.

The man stands up, wiping his hands on his pants. "Hi," he says, swallowing hard. "I'm really sorry to just show up like this without an appointment. I'm not, uh, I don't need help or anything. But I think you know my wife?"

Another needle of anger injects her. Phoebe feels her face going cold, stoic. "I believe I do," she says. "You're Enrique Ramos, I presume?"

"Yeah, that's me." He gives her a little smile, extending a hand. Phoebe shakes it and lets go. "I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute or two? If you're free, of course. I should have called ahead, I just --"

"No, no. Don't worry about it." Phoebe gestures toward her office. "Go on in. I'll be there in a second."

"Okay. Thanks so much."

"Don't mention it."

He goes into the office. Phoebe stands in the foyer for a second, her hand twitching toward her phone. She could call Emma now, ask her to come in, or she could just find out what this man has to say and tell Emma later. She decides on the latter, figuring Enrique will hear her talking from the other room. Out the window, Stella is giving Lars her customary rambling goodbye speech. Lars nods and nods and laughs a little and nods some more. He gives her a kiss goodbye. What a sweet boy that one is, Phoebe thinks to herself. If she had had a son, she wonders if he would have turned out as wonderfully as Lars did.

When she enters the office, Enrique is looking at the pictures and paintings on her walls, his face creased with anxiety. Phoebe reminds herself to tone down the hostility. It's horribly unprofessional. She sits down at the desk. He glances down at the back of a picture Chloe framed for her, one of them on the beach. Chloe has her arms wrapped around her, face half-hidden in Phoebe's hair. This was three years ago, when Phoebe still wore bikinis. Their bare, summer-tan legs are interwoven, Chloe's neon pink toenails perched right above Phoebe's unpainted ones. Enrique turns it around, looks it over. Phoebe finds this incredibly rude but says nothing.

"Who's this?" he asks.

Phoebe tries not to glare at him. "A friend of mine," she says. "So, what are you doing here, Mr. Ramos?"

"You can call me Ricky," he tells her, returning the picture to its rightful place on her desk.

"Alright, then. What are you doing here, Ricky?"

He tilts his head to the side, furrowing the skin where his eyebrows used to be. "Did Emma tell you something bad about me?" he asks. "You don't seem too happy to see me."

"It isn't a matter of what she did or did not tell me. I'd simply like to know why you're here."

Ricky sighs, kneading his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Look, I just wanted to know if you could help me," he says. "Emma, I love her to death, but she's just so strange sometimes . . . especially now. And she won't tell me anything. Won't say what's wrong. And I have no idea how to help her if she won't talk to me."

Phoebe straightens her glasses, fixing Enrique with the most intense look she can muster up right now. "Emma is in good hands here," she says. "You have nothing to be worried about."

"But I do!" he exclaims. "Something is seriously wrong, and she won't say what. I think she's pregnant, actually -- I don't know if she told you that -- but I don't know why she's so upset about it. Emma's usually pretty calm, you know? She keeps herself together. Doesn't crack under pressure. But all of a sudden, she's acting super psychotic and I just . . . I need her to get better."

Phoebe doesn't like the words he's using. I need her to get better. As if Emma owes him her health, as though there's something she ought to be doing for him that she isn't. "Your wife isn't psychotic," Phoebe says. "Trust me, if I thought she was in any danger of hurting herself or someone else, I would tell you. But as it is, it's Emma's choice to talk to you or not to. What I hear in this room doesn't leave this room."

"So something did happen?"

"If you're going to keep pressing me, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Ricky looks like he might cry. "She's my wife," he says. "You have to tell me what's wrong with her, I'm begging you. I love her more than anybody. I want to help."

"I think you should go, Mr. Ramos," she says, hearing a touch of venom. More than anybody? She isn't sure about that.

Letting out a long sigh, Ricky says, "Fine. I get it. You don't want to talk to me."

"Correct."

"Can you at least ask Emma to tell me? She'll listen to you, I think. More than me, anyway."

Phoebe furrows her brow. Perhaps she will mention something to Emma next time she comes, something subtle. She imagines the taste of Emma's skin and thinks, maybe she won't. "How did you find out she's been coming here, anyway?" Phoebe asks. Surely Emma doesn't talk about her at home.

"I found your business card in her purse," Ricky admits.

"You shouldn't be going through her things." She wonders what awful consequences there could be if Ricky stumbled upon Emma's story, reading through all of her suffering and pleasure, all things before hidden from him. "It's a sign of an unhealthy relationship. Means you don't trust her."

Ricky runs his hand over his scalp like he's forgotten he doesn't have hair anymore. "Of course I trust her," he says. "I would trust Emma with my life. I don't even know what I was looking for, Phoebe. And when I saw your card, I just thought, it's a start."

"It's Dr. Kim," she says.

"Sorry."

"It's quite alright," she tells him. "I'm sorry, Ricky. I know you're only trying to help Emma, but I'm afraid I have to ask you not to return here. I have nothing more to say to you."