Page 53 of Just for a Taste

I locked myself in the abbess’s suite for several days, not reading, not painting, not doing anything at all. Just being suspended in a strange, dissociative state. Zeno gave up trying to talk to me, for he quickly learned I wouldn’t respond. But before bed, every day, he gave me an unanswered, “Good night. I love you.”

He slid letters under my door, but I didn’t read them or even pick them up. I cried. A lot. Despite it all, I missed him furiously, worried about him furiously. Loved him furiously. I allowed Doctor Ntumba alone to see me and bring me food.

Until one day, she didn’t.

I was sitting in bed, cross-legged, doing nothing and everything. Analyzing the pores of my hands, counting the bricks on the wall, watching the rise and fall of my eyelashes as I slowly blinked and did anything else I could think of to slip into a strange meditative trance. A trio of soft knocks jarred me from it, and I nearly fell off of the bed. I walked slowly and shakily to the door, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafted beneath it.

My stomach gurgled so loudly, I was certain whoever was on the other side would be able to hear it. Who that someone was, I knew, was not Doctor Ntumba, for she had the habit of unapologetically bursting into my room with her skeleton key and arms full of prepared meals.

I hadn’t eaten today, I realized. I had skipped two meals entirely, despite the chiming of a bell beckoning me downstairs for breakfast and lunch.

Closing one eye, I pressed my head flush to the ground and peered beyond the tiny gap beneath the door. On the other side, Zeno’s shoes greeted me for an instant, only to be blocked off by the sight and sound of a tray being placed gently in front of my door.

“Cora, please eat something. I’ll leave you for however long you need. Just take care of yourself.”

True to his word, Zeno did not linger for even an instant. Instead, his footsteps retreated into the distance, all the way to the other side of the abbey.

After several minutes of silence, I finally cracked the door. The sole guest awaiting me on the other side was a metal tray topped with a round loaf of sourdough, a bowl of tomato soup, and cucumber water. I opened the entrance to my domain just enough to snatch the meal through, then locked it behind me.

My fingers burned as I tore savagely into the loaf, but I did not care. I drowned a large hunk in the hot soup for several seconds, relying on its creamy moisture to allow me to swallow unchewed bites so quickly it made me feel sick. Once I had engulfed the sourdough, I lapped up what little remained of the soup and finally chased it all down with large gulps of cucumber water.

“Ugh.”

Regret set in just as quickly as the bloat. I considered sneaking out for a few spell, taking advantage of Zeno’s absence and tracking down Doctor Ntumba to ask for a cocktail of antacids and salicylates.

But then I remembered I hadn’t seen her at all today, just as I hadn’t seen Lucia or Signora Carbone. Confident that Zeno was still keeping his distance, I abandoned the tray on the ground and left the suite for the first time in almost a week.

The main door to the abbey was wide open. Light poured into the entrance. Trees gnashed back and forth, spurred by the same ferocious winds that whistled through the halls. The cool blue gradient of moonlight across the tile was broken by the silhouette of Doctor Ntumba, whose massive shadow appeared engorged. The bag in her arms was misshapen, all of her belongings clearly forced inside.

For Noor not to have every shirt folded and every item packed as economically as possible defied all my expectations of her, so in a strange way, the shock on her face made sense. She wore sneakers in lieu of her usual high heels, her shirt was buttoned a row off, and her hair was disheveled.

My heavy footfalls were a staccato above the ever-present hum of a motor just outside. Doctor Ntumba turned to face me.

I stared, slack-jawed, and continued to approach her slowly, as though she were a skittish animal.

“Cora,” she said, gathering her composure poorly.

“What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Noor set down her bag and smoothed her hair, arranged her clothes, and otherwise tried to look put together. Then, just as I was about to prod further, she spoke in an undertone. “He asked me to leave.”

“Who did?”

It was a stupid question, given our household of three, but perhaps if I was lucky, some inhospitable phantom would materialize, and she could blame it on anyone other than Zeno.

She responded with the look the question warranted.

Doctor Ntumba stepped into her shadow, and the door rattled against its hinges, refusing to close. It remained as ajar as my mouth. She placed her hand on my shoulder, and though her touch was light, it felt immensely heavy on me.

With a swell of rage inside me, I couldn’t bear to look at her. I tightened my fists and held my breath. How cruel of her to allow me to have these terrible thoughts. How wicked of her to make me process this truth. For the first time in my life, I wished I could smack her across the face, and the gravity of this thought startled me. Never had I wanted to physically harm another person, no matter how upset I was.

This must be, I realized, an ounce of what wrath had brought all the scars upon Zeno’s back.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Noor nodded. I was thankful that she did not speak, for it would make my wavering voice even more pathetic in comparison.

“I know all of this is because he’s terrified, and he wants to keep me safe. But once he thinks I am truly safe, will he stop?”

Though I was still unwilling to meet her gaze, Noor continued to bore her eyes into me. I didn’t have to look up to know the look on her face.

She removed her hand to gesture for me to follow and passed me at a slow, ambling pace. Too confused to ask what was going on, I joined her side.

As we walked down the hall, things felt the same as they had long ago: Noor walking with her hands behind her back and her chin up, just like she did during conversations when I first came to the abbey. Like clockwork, she guided me down our usual route, and I could almost smell the chai brewing as we neared the tea room and hear Lucia’s laugh in the distance.

When Noor finally spoke, it was with that conversational tone from bygone times.

“As a child, I had a fascination with many of the street dogs in my neighborhood. Despite having been thrown to the streets and beaten, they desired nothing but companionship. Even if they guarded their treasures ferociously, they were still creatures forged of nothing but utter adoration for their companions. But there was a common disease that plagued them all. Time and time again, I would watch how perfectly reasonable and loving creatures could so quickly deteriorate into irrational shells. What I learned early on, Cora, is that rabid beasts act on nothing but insatiable bloodlust.”

As we continued along the path and into her memories, I let myself slip into my own. I pretended her words were another story on our way to tea, that I still felt strange sleeping in the bed in the abbess’s suite. The room we neared now was one I used to only imagine entering at this time of night. Zeno’s door was tightly closed, locked by a set of keys I had become more and more familiar with.

“What if it’s just Zeno and me here?” I asked as Noor dug through her pockets. “What about once you and everyone else leaves?”

She found it finally: a small, silver key. Even in the dim light, its metal surface radiated as brightly as its significance.

She held it up to her face in a strangely contemplative manner. Then, after a small click and a slight pull, the door gave with ease.

Before we entered, Noor turned to me and spoke, every word dripping with gravity.

“I have seen that when a rabid dog has destroyed everything around it, it begins to bite its own leg. For the last two decades, Zeno has been my only patient, and for the last two decades, I have loved him as furiously as a mother. But I know what he is, Cora. Do you?”

I wish I was silent for longer and been forced to contemplate my answer, but I did not. “Yes. I have for a long time.”

She led me into the room, and we lingered beside his bed. “You know about my . . .” She trailed off for a moment, eyes lowering to the ground. Finally, she looked back up at me. “. . . medical specialty, do you not?”

I held her gaze, studying her eyes for any sort of intention, but could identify nothing but a vague sense of sadness. Regret for her actions, perhaps? Guilt for not having told me about it?

Unable to discern any further information, I replied, “Yes. You specialize in physician-assisted suicide.”

Wordlessly, she led me to Zeno’s bedside drawer, took another key from her pocket, and unlocked it.

For whatever reason, the last things I would have expected the vintage furniture to house were modern medications. Despite my limited scopes of view and knowledge, I recognized a few of the bottles: narcotic-level pain medications, sedatives, and even specially bagged chemotherapy drugs.

Without needing to search for it, Doctor Ntumba pulled out a bottle easily and placed it in my hand. “Then you must know what this is.”

Pentobarbital oral solution , I read on the label. With shaking hands, I opened the bottle and peered in. A thin liquid swirled around the bottle, amber-hued.

How strange it was , I thought, that such an innocuous syrup has the power to end a life . That the drug of choice to allow a man to kill himself was placed in the same kind of bottle with the same type of label as the liquid ibuprofen at my bedside. I returned it to her hand.

“It’s a very bitter syrup, I’ve heard. Unfortunately, an effective dose for euthanasia is one hundred milliliters for this specific concentration.” Doctor Ntumba spoke slowly and deliberately, making sure I was catching each and every word. “Of course, for the sake of euthanasia, it is typically mixed with vodka and sugar to mask the taste. My former patients have stated they couldn’t even tell.”

Ice ran through me.

“What are you implying?” I whispered.

“I am implying nothing, Cora,” she stated plainly. “I am simply providing information.”

I stared at the spot in my hand, still cool where the bottle had been, and sat on her words for several moments.

“Thank you for the information,” I said finally, meeting Noor’s eyes. “But I don’t think I’ll need it. Words have gotten me this far. I won’t need anything more.”

Noor wrinkled up her nose and gave me a disgusted look. For a second, she looked like she’d argue back. I could practically see the bitter words on her tongue: How foolish you are to think a rabid beast can be reasoned with. How conceited.

But then, with little more than a breathy sigh, the anger faded into something entirely different: grief.

“Information cannot hurt you, Cora. Just as I provided you with information, I am providing you with this key.”

She placed it in my hand, and it sickened me to feel it was warm from her touch. How could anything so horrid feel like anything but ice to me?

But just as strangely warm was Doctor Ntumba’s expression before she departed. “Goodbye, Cora, and good luck.”