A Postmodern Love

By Nick Totem

Have you ever fallen in love and then had not just your life but your conception of life altered forever? Come and find out more in A POSTMODERN LOVE, a contemporary adult novel--romance, noire, psychological suspense.

In the end, a man is shot through the heart. Another man is driven to the edge of madness. Caught between them is Lana Fauves, a beautiful, intelligent woman, but one who is haunted by her past and the loss of her true love, a musical genius. In this fast-paced novel--romance, thriller, and noire--Thomas Wilde, a doctor and veteran of the Iraq War, will stop at nothing to win over the woman he has desperately fallen in love with. But amid the machinations of the modern world, will he find true love, or only heartache, deception, and murder?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Totem
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781943564057

Book preview

1

In the end, the bullet goes through the man’s heart. Without oxygen, the brain takes about five minutes to die. As the man lies bleeding on the dirty pavement, his unmoving eyes must still be able to see the killer looking down on him and to feel the killer’s hands on him. Does he recognize the disguised face of the killer? No one on earth can possibly know the answer to this question, and yet it would continue to plague the killer for years to come.

As for the killer, he would be obsessed to the point of almost seeing through the man’s dying eyes. Sometimes he would wander the streets, being blown here and there like an apparition, suffering from its consequences. Unlike the dead man, there would be no certainty for him; even his own intention would later become doubtful—did he really mean to kill the man?

When it all began, Thomas Wilde was merely trying to rid his conscience of the guilt that had followed him home from Iraq. It began when he caught glimpses of a woman around his office, whose beauty was such that it gave him premonitions of a beautiful chaos. And wanting to give her permanency in his idealized world, he called her Lady X.

He had seen this woman several times and always in passing. The first time, he was exiting an elevator as she was entering, and he couldn’t help turning around to look at her. The second time, a couple weeks later, he saw her walking down the hall and disappearing into a stairway.

Once at lunch time, he left his office and saw her near an exit, at the far end of a hallway. White slacks above black high heels, a dark red jacket, and a white scarf around her neck—there could be no mistake that it was she. He ran. He reached the exit, entered the stairway, and raced down. In the lobby, he got to the front door and immediately bolted into the parking lot, looking around. She was walking fast to a car with its engine running. She opened the car’s door, and her hand was lifted high, resting on the rim of the door for just a second before she stepped in. The car drove off. He stood still, looking on, until it turned onto the street and merged into the rushing traffic.

He decided he must know her name.

2

Thomas Wilde was a medical doctor, and his office was on the second floor of an eighty-year old, five-story building constructed of concrete and bricks, and located in Torrance, just south of Los Angeles. He and his childhood friend, Mike, were both otolaryngologists and had been seeing patients for more than ten years.

One day, as he left his office, he saw Lady X sitting on a bench in the lobby. He stumbled forward, unable to take his eyes off her even as he straightened himself up. She was staring blankly, her eyes unmoving and still as a statue. A thick book with a green cover was next to her. After a dozen hurried steps, he was in front of her. Hi. How are you? he said. He sat down a couple of feet from her. Do you mind if I sit?

Her eyes were still, lost somewhere else for a prolonged moment before they flickered with awareness. Another moment passed before they rested on him. He was wearing a gray suit and a light blue dress shirt complemented by a deep blue tie, his usual work clothes. Recent weight loss had made his cheeks hollow, accentuating his straight nose, jaw, and prominent chin. His brown hair was wavy and streaked with the occasional gray that fell just past his ears. Through a pair of rectangular glasses, his brooding eyes, light blue, gave him a serious demeanor, engendering trust and kindness from his patients. For the moment, he couldn’t figure out her expression.

Hello, she said softly. In a maroon leather jacket, jeans, and black high heels, she appeared stylish. A silk scarf with a bright, colorful pattern was wrapped around her neck.

I’ve seen you around here . . . a few times.

The porcelain paleness on her face had turned ashen. Redness and life drained from her lips. There was a pained devastation on her face.

I just saw the doctor, she said, almost whispering. Her voice quavered. Her hands, entwined and resting on her lap, shook slightly.

In front of them was a pharmacy, and inside a man wearing a black jacket and a black baseball cap was watching them intensely. Thomas happened to look at the man, and the man jerked away and took a few steps along the aisle.

Who’s your doctor? I know them all. He adjusted his glasses and turned back to Lady X. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.

Ah, hmm. If you don’t mind . . .

I’m Thomas. Thomas Wilde. Head and neck surgeon. My office is on the second floor. At your service.

Nice meeting you. She looked away from him.

Then it struck him that she might not be well, that she had been given bad news, perhaps a horrific medical diagnosis, or she was unhinged, possibly some sort of mental problem. Even so, there was now a look of sadness and such angelic gentleness on her face that, more than her beauty, impressed him with her goodness and vulnerability. A realness abounded on her face, a sense of humanity, beyond the glossy photoshopped sleekness of the magazine covers he saw everywhere.

So what do you do? His eyes moved down to a singular, small mole on her left cheek. He stared at it.

What do you mean? she said distantly.

You know. Your profession.

Oh, nothing in particular.

Do you live around here? He bit his lips as he saw how she looked up at the ceiling, at the pharmacy, and all around. Seeing that she was not responding, he added, Are you okay?

As if suddenly awakened to her whereabouts, her eyes focused on him. Sorry, I have to go. Getting up and taking the book in one motion, she moved quickly to the front door.

Thomas jumped up as well, and he found himself running after her. Outside, he saw her taking fast steps, heading toward the street.

Wait a minute! Thomas called after her, but she did not stop.

May I help you? she asked when he caught up with her. In heels, she was nearly as tall as he, a couple of inches short of six feet.

Are you okay? You look a little lost.

I’m perfectly fine. Thank you very much. Her voice fluttered.

I’m a doctor and, you know. I can’t just walk away when I see someone who might need help.

Yes, you said that. A hint of a smirk crept upon her cheeks. Head and neck surgeon? Your name is Thomas Wilde.

She resumed heading toward the street, holding up the book to shield her face from the sun. The Los Angeles sky was clear and sunny on a January day.

He kept up with her. They were now past the parking lot and were on the big street, where a flow of cars steadily passed them.

Why are you following me? she said as she stopped under a tree. The trembling in her voice had completely disappeared; it was now clear and sharp. Her accent harkened back to the Northeast, and the tone was impervious and graceful and gave him the impression of an American aristocracy.

I’m sorry, but I’m concerned for your well-being. I’m not a pervert or anything. I’m a doctor. Scouts’ honor. You can come into my office. It’s on the second floor. Talk to my staff. I’m the nicest guy there is. Seriously, I’m just concerned for your well-being, he spoke rapidly. His forehead wrinkled, and his eyes widened in a facetious way.

She studied him. Slowly the faintest easing of her face became a smile.

He seized the moment. I took the Hippocratic Oath, you know. A doctor has to help all those in need. I’m paraphrasing.

Is that so? She smiled more broadly. Thank you. Really. I’m fine.

Where are you going? Do you have a car? His eyes went from her to the parking lot.

No. I don’t have a car.

Let me give you a ride then. My car is just over there.

No, thank you. I can call my friend to pick me up. She took out a flip phone, one of those old phones that had been popular years ago.

Come on. It’s no trouble at all, he said with a flick of his head. But she wouldn’t budge. So he continued, You know, if something bad were to happen to you, I could get into real trouble. I could lose my license. I can already see it in the newspaper: Doctor did not help a damsel in distress, who got mugged.

Hah, she laughed. You must be kidding. I’m not about to get into a car with a stranger. Her voice resonated with clear command.

The sunlight seemed to have refilled her with life’s vital substance; color came back to her lips, and her pale skin glowed warmly, even in the shade. There was no longer any hint of being lost in her eyes.

Don’t worry. I’m not a pervert. Please come up to my office. My staff and my partner will vouch for me.

No, you’re not very likely a pervert.

Why, thank you.

You look like you have taste, she began. You like finer things but you don’t want to appear showy, thus you wear an IWC watch. International Watch Company started by Florentine Jones in 1868, an American. Maybe it was his quest for adventure that attracted you to his watch. Not too many people would know that, unlike the Rolexes that you see everywhere. She took hold of his hand and brought the watch up close to examine it. Then, she let it drop. And your suit is tailored.

I’ve never known a woman who could spot a tailored suit. I’ve been dying for a compliment all these months.

Haha, she laughed and brought her hand up to cover her white teeth.

In the street cars passed by, and turbulence whipped strands of hair across her face. Her hand held the scarf in place.

No, seriously. I want to know how you can tell.

It’s obvious. Look how it hugs your neck line. And the modified Cifonelli shoulders. I’ve always been partial to Cifonelli shoulders. She brushed the strands of hair from her face. I guess most people don’t know that. But they don’t live in our world.

I’m happy to hear that, Thomas said, though he didn’t quite understand what she meant by the last part. He didn’t want to risk saying anything else stupid.

The awkwardness coming from him seemed to vanish completely as it neared her; in her eyes was a natural focus, a sign of the observing and calculating that must be happening beneath the faint smile. The look in her eyes seemed to want to spare him, so she opened the flip phone and put the phone to her ear. Her right hand clutched the book tightly.

While she turned away from him, his gut shrunk. He could already see her taking steps away from him. Since she was on the phone, it would be beyond rude to interrupt. That was it; she could walk away and be gone forever. Just within a few steps from the building’s front door, a dazed and lost girl had transformed herself into a cultured and seasoned woman.

He looked back to the parking lot and was startled. His body made an automatic jerk, as though he was dodging a bullet. It took him a second to fully recognize that the man with the baseball cap from the pharmacy had come into the parking lot and was standing at a distance, perhaps watching them. From that distance, Thomas couldn’t make out the man’s face. The man must have seen Thomas gazing back at him and ducked behind a tree.

Astrid, darling, Lady X raised her voice against the traffic. Are you in the vicinity? Would it be too much trouble for you to pick me up now? Ahead of schedule.

Hearing her say someone else’s name made him realize that he didn’t even know hers. She listened intently as she took a couple of steps away. Left to himself, he squinted at the tree and jostled to get a better view of the man hiding, feeling himself riled up, puzzled as to why the man was watching him. Or could he be watching her?

Yes, everything is good. Please pick me at the same spot, she said. I’ll explain. Everything is all right. She closed the phone, turned to him, and said sprightly, There. I have a ride.

He was so intent on trying to see the man behind the tree that he didn’t hear her.

Are you looking for something? she asked.

He turned around. Oh, no. Nothing, he said, irked by the man with baseball cap, but he immediately dismissed it. Maybe he was too paranoid; the man was probably watching someone else. Even so, his agitation suddenly kicked up, and standing there under the sunshine and the clear sky, he momentarily relived the ambush in Iraq.

She’ll be here at any moment now. She put away the phone.

Oh. Shaking his head, he now turned his attention squarely on her and suddenly worried that her ride might come before he could get her name and number. He hurriedly added, I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.

But you don’t need to know a damsel’s name to save her from distress. She laughed and extended her hand. Lana Fauves. It’s been a pleasure, in an odd way. She laughed heartily.

Lana? he asked, because he was not sure if he heard her correctly, and a part of him heard ‘Laura,’ the name of his college obsession, who had caused him to nearly flunk out of college.

Yes, Lana.

Lana, the pleasure is all mine. He took her hand, feeling the soft long fingers more than shaking them.

A couple of cars went into the parking lot, and Thomas eyed them warily. Lana, too, looked at them and started to walk back to the front of the building.

I’ll wait for her at the front.

As they turned around, Thomas saw more cars coming in, and that the man with baseball cap was no longer behind the tree. He panicked a little as he tried to see how he would go about getting her phone number. The urgency of doing so intensified as more cars filed in, leaving his head somewhat distracted that he couldn’t quite hear what she was saying.

It’s been a pleasure. He finally heard her say.

He decided that he had to act now. May I call you sometime? I don’t know . . . just to talk?

Hmm. You know what they say about what you wish for. She said with a strange seriousness, her face expressionless. Then she added matter-of-factly, Okay, give me your phone number.

Oh, that was how she played it. Years ago, he had had several girls trick him the same way, and like an imbecile he had given them his phone number, believing that they would call. No one ever did. When a beautiful woman refused, she refused. That was that. He bit his lips, and then, in a voice so soft, barely audible, said, Sure. My number is . . . 310 . . . 376 . . .

She listened to him carefully, and when he was done she took out her phone and dialed the number. The iPhone in his pocket started to ring.

Hah. He took out the phone. Hello.

It’s me, she spoke into the phone.

Looking at each other and smiling, they hung up the phones at the same time.

Then with her eyes crinkling slightly, she studied his face, and after a moment she said, Perhaps it’s just me, but why is it that all doctors appear to have a look of such anxious anticipation on their faces?

Hah, I’ve never been told I have that look. But that’s exactly how I feel. For me at least, I’m always in a kind of suspended anticipation after each surgery. Not knowing if I have done the best for my patient.

Suspended anticipation? That’s a great way to describe it.

Do I really have that look? he said, thinking that seeing the man with the baseball cap had made him have a weird look.

Not just you. It seems to me that it has plagued all the doctors I’ve met.

Really?

She observed the cars entering the parking lot. She then said, Well, it was really nice to have met you.

I don’t mind waiting with you until your friend comes. He feared that the man with the baseball cap would come and harass her.

Please, Thomas, she said. You don’t have to.

All right, then. I’ll be seeing you. He took a couple of steps backward and waved.

As he went away, her image was imprinted firmly in his mind. She was more beautiful than he had gathered from afar. As if her face had not been born and grown and accumulated age and wrinkles, it seemed to have been measured with exactitude and carved out of marble. The dimensions were perfect. Her large eyes had an odd mixture of green and gray. Seen from the front, the full lips reposed with a slight puckering and gleamed red, full of blood and flesh and life. Yet a singular imperfection, a flat mole in an oval shape, was on her left cheek, about two inches below her iris, suspended in mid-face, like a piece of dust that had landed there. The mole was indeed minuscule, but amid the porcelain paleness of her skin it loomed in his vision. It was located at the most prominent point on her cheekbone, just above where the downward curvature began, above a subtle hollowness where a hint of shadow resided. And there was an overall starkness in her face, a stark beauty, but one which was held up on a foundation of gentleness, for the beauty of a woman must exceed mere proportions and measurements and contain within her features something indescribably intangible, nobleness and gentility. Lana’s beauty was such that it at once could make any man realize she was beyond his reach and at the same time be obsessed with her, even after the very first encounter. And there was something else in her beauty that suddenly meant so much to him, as if it alone could help him live again and dispel the cancerous slime of guilt from his conscience.

3

Guilt had infected him in Iraq. It had been his third tour. Until that point, he had stayed in the Green Zone, safe from harm, fixing eardrum perforations all day long. This time, however, he had volunteered to go out with the patrol as a medic—a simple mission to search a house for hidden weapons. The soldiers were cheering him on. The commander said it would give the soldiers a boost of morale, as long as he understood the danger. He even carried an assault rifle and was excited to do so. Though with a pregnant wife at home, he knew he was taking an enormous risk, and yet something pushed him to go, to experience real danger at least once.

After twenty minutes of a bumpy drive, three Humvees stopped, and the soldiers, nine in total, disembarked into an alley surrounded by houses on both sides. It was dry and hot, a typical Baghdad day. A few clouds hung up high in the sky, from which an invisible drone must be watching them. Everything had the brownish tinge of dust, even the air. Everything smelled exhausted and burnt, like combusted tires, wood, diesel. Windows were slammed shut, suppressed voices speaking Arabic could be heard drifting away, and the sound of feet retreating echoed from around corners. Thomas got out with the soldiers and stayed closed to the squad leader, Alberto Santiago, as he had been instructed. With an easy and practiced confidence, Alberto motioned to the men and got everyone into position. He whispered to Thomas and pointed things out, things to watch out for, as though Thomas were his superior. Thomas’s breathing that had been fast since he got into the Humvee now became wild and erratic, and his fingers felt icky with sweat, but he couldn’t get a nervous grin off his face. Sweat collected on his forehead and ran down his face, smearing his glasses. Suddenly, something was wrong and he felt it. He stepped forward and in the same instant heard a whistling snap. Then the chaos began—voices screaming, guns firing, and bodies jostling and taking cover behind the Humvees. He crouched down and, as he did so, a door across the alley opened and a shape appeared at the threshold. Reflexively, Thomas squeezed the trigger, and a blast of bullets moved along the wall like a paint stroke. A person staggered across the door and fell into the light. It was a boy. He was unarmed and blood was squirting from his chest. Thomas got up and was about to run to the boy to see if he could be saved, but something was holding him back. Doc, doc, someone screamed loudly in his buzzing ears, over the deafening salvos of gunfire now exploding all around him. He turned around and saw Santiago on the ground with a hand to his neck, blood everywhere. He ran to Santiago and carried him, with another soldier’s help, inside a Humvee that took off almost immediately. Santiago growled, his right hand pressed over the wound, and his legs kicked furiously, instinctively trying to run away. Thomas worked quickly, putting a pressure dressing on the wound, injecting Santiago with morphine and Versed, and starting an IV. The fact that Santiago was thrashing before being put out was a good sign that the bullet hadn’t entered his spine. Once back inside the Green Zone, Thomas followed Santiago into the operating room, got into a surgical gown, and helped the on-call surgeon explore the neck. The bullet had merely nicked the jugular vein; Santiago would live, almost unscathed.

A lot of back slapping later greeted Thomas, but he would have none of it, only responding with a customary nod. Good job, Doc, someone said. One hell of a job, Doc, someone else said. No one mentioned the Iraqi boy, but the image of the boy, maybe fifteen years old, falling down and dying in front of him, kept intruding. The wild fury of automatic rifles, the stinging fumes of gun smoke, the sweat dripping down his neck, moved around him still. The sniper had meant to shoot him; he was lucky enough to have stepped out of the way, that was all. In the calm after the battle he came to realize this, and that he had killed an innocent boy. Now he felt the sudden urge to get far away, very far away from all this. In the Green Zone, there was, however, only one place to go to, if not to get away then at least to know that faraway places existed. He made his way to the communication room, to the cubicle with the phone to his ear, and finally he heard his wife on the phone, her voice sounding so sweet among the voices of other soldiers nearby talking to their loved ones. I’m sorry but I didn’t want it now, she said matter-as-factly. I’m in the middle of my business. I can’t be put out for so many months. I’m still young enough, we can try again in a few years. I had to do it. I had to do it.

What did you do? he screamed and slammed down the phone.

He rushed to his bunker, got on his knees, and prayed:

Oh God, I killed a boy.

And my child, my unborn child.

Take me away from here, take me away.

That was the moment; he had had enough of death in all its forms—the gunshots that shredded the body, the explosions that blew apart limbs, but also the forceps ripping out the barely formed life on the operating table. Was it a life for a life? He had killed an innocent boy, therefore his unborn child must also be extinguished. It choked him inside, the calculus of ordinary death, the cancerous goo of guilt. It was then that he yearned for a life, but not his current life, for the very reason that he could see every detail of it, to the last despicable gasp. What he was desperate for was life and beauty, one and the same, something that would set his heart ticking fast, his soul burning with a fever, sending out glittering sparks into an otherwise gray existence. Let it be red but never black. It was then that he decided to divorce his wife and to resign from the Army Reserve in which he had served since his first year in medical school.

4

Two days later after meeting her, he had a date with Lana on a Saturday night. The anticipation was achingly palpable after a few years of Internet dating failures, of the mundane questions and fake interest and bourgeois pretension that came with modern courtship. During his bleakest moments, when the dead Iraqi boy resurrected vividly in his dreams, Thomas had tried to break his nightmares by visiting Crystal, an escort in Santa Monica, who euphamistically called herself a private companion and was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Now with Lana, he hoped to put all that behind him and have a new start.

The sky had turned dark when he parked in her street in a working class neighborhood in Torrance. The sprawling apartment complex appeared decrepit under the street light; the wooden shingles covering the outside of the building looked brown and cracked. Two floors of units, numbering at least thirty, faced a central pool. Through the metal gate at the front, Thomas could look into the pool area where it was quiet. A row of tall palm trees lined up in front. He rolled down the window, and a cold breeze blew through.

The anticipation of dating the most beautiful woman that he had ever known in his life had given her an aura that the sight of the apartment complex quickly dashed. Real life with jobs, money, car, suddenly came to the fore. From all the things she had said so far and the manner of her speaking, he gathered that she possessed much sophistication, but why was she living here?

Light from another car behind him reflected off the rearview mirror; it came from a black truck parked a dozen feet away. A man got out and stood by the car, stretching. In the rearview mirror, Thomas couldn’t make out the man’s face, but saw that he was wearing a baseball cap and a black jacket and was of a burly build.

His phone rang. He saw Lana’s number on the display and wondered if she’d had a change of heart.

Thomas, is that you? Sitting in the car? Lana said.

Yeah, I just got here. A bit early. He squinted at the apartment. Where are you?

Look up. Standing by a window on the second floor, Lana waved.

Oh, yeah. I see you.

I’m coming right down.

Thomas got out of the BMW with a dozen roses he had bought along the way. He felt the eyes of

Reviews for A Postmodern Love

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I found myself really struggling to find any type of emotional bond towards Thomas and Lana. This in turn made reading this book a bit of a chore. You take two broken people and try to fit them together only for them to encounter many obstacles along the way; could work for a good story if the right human connection is there with the characters. It was not for a lack of trying as I kept reading. Thomas was supposed to be a intelligent doctor but he gets conned by Lana. With the disappearance of her in his life, his career and personal life take a down spiral. Lana felt off standish to me. This is due to the fact that money was the most important thing to her than any type of relationship. She had the black widow type vibe going on. I could see where this story was going. Again, it is not bad but it just did not for me.