Free Permanence by Vincent Zandri Page B

not brushed my teeth or changed my clothing. My hair is in tangles. I’m hungry.
    I sit atop my luggage and, for the very first time since we left America, begin to doubt my decision about coming to Venice with doctor. The questions that flash through my mind are crucial and will remain unanswered: did I come to Venice because I love doctor or simply because I need him? Is there a difference between love and need? Did I come to Venice with doctor because I am carrying his baby? One thing is for certain: I am not doubting my decision simply because of a plane that blew an engine or because we have become hopelessly lost. I do not blame doctor for something that is beyond his control.
    I blame myself for being so dependent.
    But right now, I am angry.
    I am angry because I need doctor. The thought of being without him for even one week makes me shudder. Doctor has been my lover and my confidant for seven months now. I do not need to see him every day. I just need to know he is there for me. I depend on the power of resolve and healing that he sends though my body whenever I am with him. Doctor is helping me get over the guilt that comes naturally with the death of baby. Doctor is my only hope. Perhaps that is the real reason why I have accompanied him to Venice.
    But Venice is not the city of hope. Venice is the city of romance and mystery.
    I wonder sometimes about what I am capable of if ever I lost doctor. Lately, I cannot control the voices that speak inside my head—the demons—that threaten to take doctor away from me. I tell myself, I am never going to lose doctor. I am carrying his baby, but in a way, doctor carries me.
    Is this love or is this obsession?
    I’ll never know the answer.
    There is no chance of losing doctor so long as he loves me, which I am sure of now. But listen to this: I do not want to hear that he loves me. Not now, not ever. Not after Jamie and baby. How can I ever allow myself to fall in love again? Maybe I am already in love, but do not want to admit it.
    Do something
    I stop my tears as quickly as I can.
    Doctor does not need to see me crying. I think he would rather see me smile. Maybe I should take him into my arms and tell him I need him.
    With the loss of baby and Jamie I need doctor more than anything else.
    For now, doctor is desperately trying to reacquire some familiarity with Venice. This is, he insists, not his first time in the city.
    Doctor is dressed in his usual baggy gray trousers, gray woolen vest, and crumpled jacket. His beard is gray-black and very closely cropped and his horn-rimmed glasses are always sliding down the length of his nose. He is wearing a bow tie and (perhaps this is a result of my exhaustion) he seems to fade into the walls and cobblestones of this city like so much vapor.
    And this: doctor seems to be losing weight, although he can ill afford to. His suit seems baggier than I remember, looser around the hips. Doctor coughs heavy lung coughs and smokes far too much. But I say nothing about his habits or their affect upon his body. I may sleep with doctor, but I refuse to pry.
    Doctor stands in the middle of this Venetian way. He is checking and rechecking the folded map he holds in his hands. I watch the people shuffle around him as if he is just another sculpture that dots the Italian landscape. What I want to say to doctor is this: do something. But I don’t. Because doctor is doing something, in a way. He is, I think, confirming the fact that we are hopelessly lost.
    Here is what doctor does: he walks inside the open bar. He walks away from me without looking or speaking. I sense he knows I have been crying. I am beginning to feel like excess baggage.
    I turn away from the steady stream of nameless, faceless tourists. I see doctor lifting the itinerary into his hands like a prayer book. He is showing the itinerary to the barman—a heavyset, balding man with a white apron wrapped about his waist. Doctor stands at the middle of the long wooden bar,