Warm Marble

“Make sure you come back and see me in three days.” I tell my last patient of the day. I’ll have to redress the wound and check for signs of infection.

“I will,” she says, gripping her bandaged wrist in appreciation. “Efcharisto poli koritsi mou.”

Thank you so much, my girl.

“Tipota.” I respond.

Anytime.

Mrs. Grivakis and the nasty woodworking error on her wrist walk out of my new office. As I watch her go I catch an opportunity to breathe in the balmy summer air, thick and fresh from the sea as it wafts in through the open front door. My day had been a long one, despite having just opened my practice on the island. I had forgone any advertising or social media—for lack of a better reason, I simply hadn’t the time—and word of mouth seemed to have been enough. One month ago, I buried my father. One month ago, I was alone. Today, I had already seen ten patients, all of whom were exorbitantly thankful for my services. They promised me invitations to family dinners and oil from all of their olive groves. It’s a nice feeling, but I’m under no illusions. I am still alone.

It’s a fate I made my peace with long, long ago.

I turn away from the golden light peeking through the blinds towards the charting I’d need to get done tonight if tomorrow was going to be as busy. I revel in the sound of silence tinted by the dulcet tones of faraway sea waves and seabirds calling.

“Olivia?”

The voice is deep, and rich, the accent characteristically Greek. Something about it grips me, something more than just its unexpectedness. I turn to find a man standing in the doorway, his shadow cast on the floor ahead of him as the light of day begins to fade behind his outline.

“Dr. Maras,” I correct him. “Can I help you?”

The man says nothing—just looks at me through the deep blue pools of his irises. He walks in, looking dumbfounded. No, awestruck. It’s awe that’s in his eyes. He looks as though he has just been hit by a bolt of lightning. His face, architectured and full of right angles, is obstructed by hair—a lot of it—a dark beard, a long mane and bushy brows. He wears a nameless navy T-shirt and black jeans, and is carrying some kind of backpack swung over his left shoulder. It looks heavy, worn, and full, practically bursting at the seams.

“Is that…” I ask, in an effort to snap myself out of the trance-like state we are both transfixed in, scanning one another over and again as though we are both sharing in a dream.

I stand and gesture to the stack of withered-looking papers in his hands.

“Is that your medical file?”

He looks down at them, then back up at me.

“No.” He says. Then he doesn’t say anything more. I can’t help but feel a sense of danger creeping, simply by virtue of being a woman alone with a strange man, the sun threatening to set at any moment. His appearance isn’t void of danger, either, and I am quick to note it. Taut arms, a hard body, the kind laborers have; animalistic, like a lion or a silverback gorilla, and past his thick-rimmed glasses he has a scar running from his left eyebrow across his nose, through his upper lip and into the beginnings of his beard. It looks old at first glance, but vicious in its delivery—no plastic surgeon stitched him up, that much was obvious. The gash seemed to have healed as an open wound, mostly on its own. The only thing saving the man from completely terrifying me is the kindness in his eyes, tender and a little shy. He seems gentle, even sweet. But that doesn’t stop me from being scared. If anything, he looks powerful. Powerful enough to have his way with me, for certain.

I remember my father’s words.

Always be aware of your surroundings, he used to say. Terrible things happen all the time on small islands.

My heart quickens some.

“Look, I was just closing up.” I tell him, instinctively taking a step back behind my desk. I feel like a rabbit trying to shrink and hide behind a blade of grass.

Something changes in his eyes.

“You are frightened.” My visitor observes, picking up on my body language in an instant. “Please, no.”

“I’m not.” I chirp defensively, a knee-jerk reaction to his accusation. I am afraid, but I don’t want him to know it. “I was just closing up, so maybe you can come back tomorrow--”

“Don’t you want to know why I am here?” He asks me.

I stop stuttering. It’s my turn to be silent now.

“I’ve been in prison for many years.” He tells me.

The revelation doesn’t exactly slow my speeding heart.

“Okay.” I manage. “Do… uh, do you need an exam, or—”

“The prisoner in my cell before me,” he continued, looking back down at the papers in his hands. “He wrote letters. Many letters. He left them under the floorboards. I found them while searching for a hiding space one afternoon, many years ago.”

I wait for him to elaborate.

“They’re all addressed… to you.”

I feel immediately dizzy, like I need to sit down. Instead I put a hand on my desktop to steady myself.

“I took them out to be sure, and reread the name on every paper. You are… Olivia Maras, yes?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I just stand there staring at the papers in his hands.

“I think it is you.” He says, sizing me up, his sapphire irises searching me, over and again in wonderment, or awe. He looks nervous, more nervous than I feel. His apprehension calms me some, but I’m still on edge.

Transfixed.

“Well… let me see them.” I say, mostly in disbelief. Maybe they’re not really addressed to me, I think. Maybe this is all just some innocent mistake. One we’ll both laugh about in a minute or two.

“Oh, no, miss. I cannot do that.”

“And why not?” I ask incredulously.

“I cannot betray this man’s confidence. After all, he did not send them.”

“No, he just left them for you to find.” I say bitterly.

The man can sense my bitterness, because he seems to soften some.

“They kept me company many long nights.” He says.

When I don’t respond, he continues with a goofy half-smile.

“After all the years I spent reading this name, imagine my surprise to see it hanging on a door.”

He must have thought I’d get a kick out of it, or laugh, but I didn’t.

“Don’t you want to know who they are from?” He asks me, gesturing towards me with the letters.

“I already know who they’re from.” I tell him.

He looks surprised, and maybe even a little impressed.

“Well, anyway.” He says, lowering the letters. “It is not the only reason I walked in, to be honest. I am a diabetic. Type one. I need some medicine, and someone to administer. Giving myself the shots… I have never been able to do it. In prison they do it for you, and I have never gotten used to it any other way.”

“Okay,” I tell him, mobilizing myself to move past the moment I desperately don’t want to get stuck in. I don’t want to dwell on those letters.

I don’t want to think about them at all.

“I can help you with that.”

“May I come back tomorrow?” He asks me politely in his rich accent. I like how polite he is for such a scary looking man. The dichotomy seems sweet to me—poetic in its irony.

“Yes,” I say. “What’s your name?”

I open my appointment book. When I don’t hear anything, I look up to make sure my mystery visitor is still there.

He is.

“Ioannis.” He says quickly as though to make up for the seconds of my time he’d wasted in silence. “John.”

“Last name?”

“Mavros.”

“Mavros.” I repeat, a little surprised. “Plenty of Mavroses on this island. That’s been quite a popular name in these parts for a long time. You must have had lots of happy family waiting for your homecoming.”

He smiles faintly, though it is obscured by his beard, so much so that I can barely see him doing it.

“Just me.” He says, and shrugs.

I nod. I understand. It seems the prisoner and I have more in common than I thought.

“Come back tomorrow. Same time—six o’clock.”

He smiles thankfully, and then his smile falters as he turns to leave.

“What did you do?” I ask him as he reaches the door, and immediately regret it.

He looks back at me.

“To find myself in prison?”

I nod.

“A story for another day.” He says with a sad smile, and then he’s gone as quickly as he appeared, leaving my running mind inescapably rewound, replaying the past like it was yesterday.