Better Than None
Authors: Olivia Jake
BETTER
THAN
NONE
By
Olivia
Jake
Copyright
©2014 Olivia Jake
All
Rights Reserved
To anyone who’s lost a loved one, a best friend, a parent:
This book was a true labor of love. All of my books hold a
special place in my heart, but this one is very, very different than the others.
It’s still a romance, but to those who’ve read my other books, there aren’t any
whips or floggers in this one.
Everyone deals with and processes loss in their own way.
For me, writing this while caring for my mom helped as much as it could.
Be strong,
Olivia
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To
my Sunshine, thank you for everything. The list is far too long to detail here.
To my friends, thank you for listening to me cry and telling me it was ok to
feel everything I did. Thank you for checking in before, during and after. And
just plain thank you for being there. To Sarah, thank you for a beautiful book
cover. Mostly, to Bev. I wish you were here to read the final draft. This one’s
for you.
On the face of it, checking out my mom’s prick of an oncologist’s
package while he was reviewing her chart wasn’t exactly progress. Then again,
the bar was set pretty low. Practically subterranean. So for someone with such
a messed up approach to men and relationships, not having the urge to do
something inappropriate that would wipe the smug look off his face when he
caught me looking was a step in the right direction. Perhaps it was more of a
stumble. But it had taken me a while to get to where I was, so the likelihood
that I could change overnight was slim. Who knew what steps I would have taken
if I’d met this same man in a bar, but that wasn’t me anymore. In fact, it took
me most of my life to realize that who I was couldn’t have been more different
than who I wanted to be.
Apparently, my mom noticed too. Perhaps not his package per se, but the
whole package, as it were. She actually squeezed my knee. She was so giddy at
how good-looking he was. And a doctor no less. And Jewish. Oy. The trifecta. I
knew this guy’s type, and regardless of what was on the surface, I bristled.
I’d fucked men like him, just to prove to myself that I could. It was
immediately clear that this guy was an arrogant jerk. Though he hadn’t yet said
a word, the way some people could make others feel warm with just a smile, it
was the exact opposite with him. It wasn’t just the door opening and closing, a
cool wind blew in when he made his entrance.
“I’m Dr. Rosenberg.” He introduced himself first to my mom who
was having a hard time wiping the grin off her face as she gave him a dainty
handshake. Even in her seventies, she still tried to flirt. Then I shook his
hand, with a firm grip. I hated weak handshakes. Especially with someone who
already thought they were better than me, I always tried to make a point not to
give them just one more leg up. I was sure it was lost on him, but it made me
feel infinitesimally better.
He made eye contact with both of us as he shook our respective hands,
and then sat down on the rolling stool, legs wide apart, as his focus was now
on reading my mom’s chart. It was hard not to look. The man was practically
flashing us, sitting so freely offering a view. Even though he may have seemed
like a jerk, I couldn’t help but check him out. I’d always looked at guys’
packages. Unfortunately, I let my eyes linger a bit too long as he looked up
from her chart and caught me. I immediately flushed, but instead of smiling or
even smirking, he barely even registered it, like of course I was checking him
out.
“So, Barbara, I’ve reviewed your charts, and right now we’re in
the early stage of fact finding. We’ve got your CT scans back and yes, there’s
a mass, but until we get in there and see it from the inside, we won’t know
what it is.”
He continued talking for a solid ten minutes. I know, because every
time I tried to break in, he didn’t once pause long enough for me to ask a
question. Finally, he stopped to take a breath and I saw this as my chance.
“So even given everything…” was all I managed to get out when the
asshole started talking again. Right over me.
I tried “But…” “Um…” “Excuse me…” “Ah…” Nothing. He just kept talking.
Every time I tried to interject, he’d cut me off and talk over me.
“Can I ask a question or does that not fit into your speech?” I
asked, finally raising my voice.
Apparently, Dr. Rosenberg didn’t like my tone and just stared at me,
waiting. Now that I finally got my chance, I almost forgot what I wanted to
ask. After an awkward moment of silence, my words came back to me. It was
hard not to let this man intimidate me, but what did I care what he thought of
me?
“We’ve both done a fair amount of research and —”
“Research?” He interrupted, with smug amusement. His
eyebrows slowly lifted along with the corners of his mouth. He casually folded
his arms over his chest and leaned back.
The heat of a flush spread over my cheeks and I nodded, but I
straightened my spine and said as calmly as I could, “Yes, research.” Now, it
felt like a conversation rather than just a monologue. Unfortunately, it also
felt like a pissing match.
“Really? What medical school did you go to?” he asked, his
arrogance growing, as if it could get any bigger.
That was it. We were the God-damned patients.
“Dr. Rosenberg, with all due respect, which is a hell of a lot
more than you’re giving to me and my mother right now, we have some questions.
Now, whatever medical school it is that
you
went to, it’s clear that
while I’m sure they taught you all kinds of things about diagnosing disease and
all of medical aspects of the job, it appears that no one ever taught you about
bedside manner. Or perhaps, if they did, you chose not to take that course,
because if you had . . . ”
The amusement on his face increased, like he was enjoying this,
enjoying the challenge. I didn’t care. The more I talked, the more emboldened I
got, even as my mother’s hand touched my knee.
“Steph, honey…” she whispered.
Even that didn’t deter me from telling this jerk what I thought.
“If you had any bedside manner, or were ever sitting on this side of
the exam table,” I continued, “then perhaps you’d have a shred of compassion as
to what the patient and their families might be going through and you might
actually let them ask their questions, no matter how simple or obvious they
might be.”
My heart was pounding so hard, by now I really had lost my train of
thought. So I just continued with my diatribe, taking my anger at the situation
out on Dr. Rosenberg. “I understand that you’re not interested in our
questions, and this is all rote to you, but it’s new to us. We’ve never had
cancer before, so if you’ll just humor us and let us ask our pedestrian
questions, I would appreciate it.”
His smugness seemed to wane.
“And perhaps you could try to consider what it’s like hearing the words
‘you have a mass on your pancreas and it may or may not be cancer’ as a patient
rather than just dispensing that like you’re telling someone the weather
forecast.”
Now his expression changed. Apparently, something I said hit home. Or
maybe he was just tired of listening. Either way, the cocky grin disappeared
and he took a deep breath as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Okay, Stephanie, what would you like to know that I haven’t already
explained?” His tone was now one of resignation, like somewhere he lost
interest in the fight.
Which unfortunately, took it out of me too.
“Forget it, I’ve lost my train of thought.” What was the point of
arguing with this man? “So our next steps are to go to the surgeon and the
gastroenterologist?” I asked rhetorically, just repeating what he had told us.
I had to say something.
He nodded. I turned to my mom, mad at myself that I had lost it.
“So, right now, Doctor, it might not be cancer?” She asked softly.
He nodded again. “You don’t look like a pancreatic cancer patient.
You’re not jaundiced, your blood work looks good, so all we know right now is
that there’s a mass there, but we don’t know what it is.” He paused, like a
normal person, letting my mom ask the next question, but when he spoke, he made
eye contact that he held for a long while, alternating between the two of us.
His hazel eyes were piercing.
“And even though my sister died of it…” my mom trailed off.
“Barbara, before we jump to conclusions, we need more information,”
he said and then turned to me. “And I would strongly encourage you to stay off
the internet. Whatever you’re reading there will only fan the flames of worry.
Trust me, I’m the doctor and what we know, whatever we find will be specific to
your case.” Apparently, he’d had enough and got up. “Once you see the other
doctors and we have the results of the endoscopic CT, then we’ll know more.
I’ll see you in a week.” He shook both of our hands, making sure to make that
damn eye contact with both of us as he did.
After he left, my mom turned to me, “Stephanie! Why were you so rude to
the doctor?”
I exhaled loudly. “Jesus, Mom! I wanted to ask some questions and every
time I tried, he just bowled right over me. The guy is a condescending
asshole.”
“Oh, honey, you’re overreacting! And did you see how handsome he
is? And no wedding ring,” she said with a lilt. Like no wedding ring equaled
her hearing wedding bells in my future.
I shook my head and said with disgust, “Mother, Ted Bundy was handsome
too. Seriously, Ma, it doesn’t matter what he looks like.”
My mom might have cancer and all she thought about was that he was a
good-looking doctor. I took one more deep breath and stood up, holding out my
hand for her. All the piss and vinegar was gone and I was mad at myself for
losing it. I was supposed to be the strong one.
****
“Marty?” The next morning I tentatively knocked on my new boss’s
doorframe, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Steph,” Marty looked up, smiled and waved me in. “Come on in.
Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Uh, I hate to ask since I’ve only been here a
few weeks, but I need to take my mom to another doctor’s appointment this
Thursday. It’ll just be a couple hours, and I’ll make it up, I just…”
“Do you really think I’d say no?” he asked as he cut me off. It was as
if he were hurt that I asked.
I smiled sheepishly and shook my head even though I wouldn’t have
blamed him if he did. This was the third appointment already. “No, I just hate
asking, that’s all. And I wouldn’t if it weren’t…”
Before I could finish again, Marty’s smile turned into a flat line as
he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Everyone has a personal life. Taking your mother to the doctor isn’t
asking for a favor. You do what you need to do, okay?”
“Thanks, Marty.” I turned to go before he could ask any more questions.
It wasn’t just that I hated asking, it was also that I really didn’t
want to share. There was something about Marty though that felt like he could
see right through me, and if I’d lingered in that doorway any longer, I worried
he’d see something I was desperately trying to keep hidden.
Marty was the owner and lead creative director in the office, but he
seemed more like the surrogate uncle to everyone. In the three short weeks I’d
been at Blank Slate, I’d seen most of the forty or so employees at one point or
another go into Marty’s office to chat, complain, brainstorm, and sometimes,
close the door. Invariably, whoever came out after one of those closed-door
sessions looked like a different person than when they’d walked in. My office
was right next door to his, and with the way the vents worked, I could often
hear, if not the conversation, at least the tone and tenor. I didn’t really
want to listen, but sometimes it was impossible not to. Plus, being new, I
figured it wasn’t the worst way to get my bearings and a sense of who was who.
Towards the end of that third week, I started to get Marty’s pattern.
He’d always listen first to whoever had walked in. I don’t think I ever once
heard him interrupt. Then, he’d ask some leading questions, in which,
invariably the visitor would have their oh-my- God-you’re-right- I-never-thought-of–it-that-way
moment. Some battled until eventually Marty pointed out all the holes in
their argument, and in the end, even some of the cockier employees ended up
acquiescing, agreeing, understanding, and thanking him for whatever advice he
doled out.
I already loved working there for myriad reasons, the first of which
was, it was my chance to remake myself, to work with people who had no idea who
I was, what I’d done or where I’d been. The second, it seemed like the perfect
size creative shop. Not so small that it wasn’t legitimate, but not so big that
it was a factory. Having hopped around from agency to agency, I’d seen my fair share
of every size and while I would have thought that at this stage in my life, I’d
want to be anonymous in a 200+ person shop, after interviewing with Marty, I
felt like I had found my home.
My third reason was Marty. It wasn’t just that he was a good-looking
man with a dimple that melted me when he smiled. Though that didn’t hurt. I
realized that he was the first person who seemed to genuinely listen to me when
I talked. One of the many things I learned from my relationship with my mom was
that most people loved to talk about themselves. Which, given my goal of remaking
myself, of not revealing my past, the fact that other people were typically all
too happy to share eased my burden. Rather than deflect, I could simply change
the course of a conversation and ask questions of whomever I was talking with
and, voilà, question avoided.
With Marty, I actually felt like he was engaged in the conversation. The
questions he asked weren’t to pry, but to get a sense of who I was or where my
ideas came from. Yet as nice as his sincerity was, it also scared me. It was a
lot harder to deflect and turn the conversation around when talking with him.
So as much as I appreciated his interest, I kept my head down and
worked. I tried to be friendly with him and my co-workers, but had already
wiggled out of invitations for after-work drinks. When I first started, my
excuse was needing to get home to my dogs. “I have to get home to let my dogs
out / let my dogs in / feed my dogs…” or some variation on that. But all too
soon after starting, Barb got sick and now I had a ‘real’ excuse. I knew I
couldn’t dodge people forever, but it was too soon to see if I could act like a
normal person, as in have a drink or two, make idle chit chat, and then go home
alone and be able to face everyone at the office the next day.
It was more important that I became the new Steph than bond with them.
Still, I could see them thinking, ‘Wow, the new girl is hella boring. Probably
doesn’t drink, won’t come out with us…’ And I thought,
If you only knew
.
