Going Overboard (20 page)

“Um . . . uh . . . I . . .” I was speechless. Had he given me his private office number?

“Hello?” Dr. Ashley said again. “Is someone there?”

“I'm . . . ah . . . looking for Dr. Ashley.”

“Sarah?” he said. “Is this Sarah Smiley?”

I winced. “Yes, it's me. I didn't think you'd be there. I thought I'd get an answering service.”

“I'm on call tonight,” he said. “What's up? It's pretty late—er, early—for you to be up.”

Suddenly I was crying. Maybe it was hearing his voice. Maybe it was the inevitable release of all my adrenaline. But when I tried to speak, my voice cracked and I started sobbing.

“Sarah?” he said. “Sarah? What's wrong?”

“I'm . . . I'm not . . .” I wiped away tears with the back of my hand.

“Sarah?”

“Um, Dr. Ashley,” I said between sniffles. “I . . . ah . . . think I need to come in and see you. I think I need—Oh, I don't know what I need. I just need to come see you.”

He was quiet, and then: “How about first thing in the morning? As soon as the office opens?”

“OK.” My voice was shaking.

“Damn, wait a minute,” he said. “I won't be in tomorrow. Can you come at eight o'clock on Tuesday?”

“Yes.”

“And you're sure you'll be OK until then?” he asked.

“Yes, and thank you,” I said, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “Thank you for always being so kind to me, and for . . . for . . . um . . . taking care of me.”

We both were silent. I felt awkward and wished I hadn't called.

“Well, I guess I'll see you then,” I said.

“Yes, see you then. And, Sarah?”

“Yes?”

He paused. “I'm glad you called.”

11
TAKE A NUMBER AND SIT DOWN

T
he next day I was plagued by two thoughts: What does “I'm glad you called” mean? And why am I more concerned about that than the fact that I haven't talked to my husband in weeks?

Jody and Courtney came over for pizza so we could analyze the situation.

“It can mean so many different things,” Jody said. She was sitting on my living room floor, mindlessly rolling a Matchbox car back and forth in front of her. “It could mean ‘I'm glad you called because I don't want you to suffer alone' or ‘I'm glad you called because hearing your voice reminded me I need to put in a refill for your prescription' or—”

Courtney flopped back into the sofa and put her hands up in disgust. “I'm glad you called because I was just thinking—inappropriately, I might add—about you? I mean, really! It's all in poor taste, if you ask me.”

I picked at a piece of Pop-Tart stuck on the carpet and thought it over for a minute. “But really, guys, what do you think
he meant by it?” I said. “Am I reading more into this than I should? What will I say when I see him again?”

Courtney leaned forward on the couch. “Don't tell me you're actually thinking about going to that appointment.”

“Why wouldn't I?” I said. “He's my doctor.”

“Oh pa-lease!” Courtney snorted. “Are you kidding me? Sarah, his behavior has become untenable! After all, he
knows
your husband is on deployment, for Heaven's sake!”

“Well, we are only hearing Sarah's side of the story,” Jody said. “So we can't condemn the man on hearsay alone.” She paused and twisted up her lips. “Although it does sound like the doctor has crossed some sort of gray line.”

“Do you really think so?” I said. “I mean, do you really think I'm not imagining this?”

My voice must have sounded more excited than concerned because they both looked at me and frowned disapprovingly. And then Courtney said, “Seriously, Sarah, why do you care what another man meant by ‘I'm glad you called'? Why does it matter so much? Are you, like, in love with this man or something?”

“What? Well, that's absurd!” I said. “I don't even know him! And besides, I'm married!”

“Well, you're certainly not talking like a married woman,” Courtney said.

I looked at Jody for support, but she smiled apologetically and said, “I have to agree. This is beginning to seem like more than a flirtation. It just doesn't seem right with Dustin being gone and everything.”

“What are you saying?” I asked. “Are you guys mad at me for this?”

“Not mad,” Jody said. “We're just trying to understand.”

But Courtney shook her head disapprovingly and said, “You're unbelievable—you know that? Our husbands are serving their
country, fighting a
war
, and all you can think about is this torrid infatuation with your gynecologist.”

I felt myself growing angry. It was an uncomfortable feeling because I was usually more hurt than mad around Jody and Courtney. I didn't know how to react to these new emotions. Who was I to argue with the always-right Courtney or the insightful Jody?

So I surprised myself when suddenly I said, “Oh, so just because my husband is serving our country I'm supposed to excuse him for any bad behavior? Does the wife of a man with prostate cancer suddenly allow him to disrespect her because he's sick? Do you tell someone with a terminally ill child they can never again complain about something as petty as a broken toe or a grocery store who sells them expired milk?”

“Of course not,” Jody said, looking at me in amazement.

“So why does everyone expect me to suddenly deem everything else in my life null and void just because my husband is in a war? Do I not still have feelings? Can't I be angry? Don't I still bleed from a paper cut?”

Courtney chuckled. “Well, it would be a bit trivial to cry about a paper cut with all that's going on in the world right now.” She looked at Jody with a here-Sarah-goes-again smirk.

But Jody tilted her head thoughtfully and said, “Would it be, Courtney? What if your house burned down tomorrow? That wouldn't be trivial, no matter what else is going on. There are people starving and dying of disease every single day. Someone always has it worse. Yet our own pain still hurts.”

“Hell, Courtney, I guess you think serving the country is a man's ticket to eternal pardon!” I said. “How lucky for Derek! He can never do any wrong now.”

Courtney blushed and put a hand to her chest. “Well, Sarah!” she said. “I see your point—really I do—I just cannot condone your feelings for another man. And I think the two are exclusive
of one another. It's one thing to be real and acknowledge that sometimes we feel sorry for ourselves, but it's quite another to lust after another man.”

I was beginning to feel tired and frustrated. My voice grew softer. “Well, all I mean is that Dustin serving overseas in a war doesn't erase the problems in our marriage.”

Courtney and Jody exchanged glances, and then Jody said, “I understand what you're saying, Sarah. We're just worried about you. That's all.”

And then Courtney said, “Tell me, Sarah, when was the last time you thought about Dustin?”

Feeling defensive again, I rolled my eyes at them. “Oh, well! I happen to think about him all the time,” I said. “Why, just yesterday I thought about how he doesn't send me e-mail nearly as much as your husbands. And a few days before that, I thought about his mom sending him a dozen cookies right after she heard I had already sent him some, and—”

“No, Sarah,” Jody interrupted. “When was the last time you thought about Dustin . . . when you weren't angry at him?”

I was speechless.

I arrived at the hospital at seven forty-five on Tuesday morning. The lobby was nearly empty except for a child in the corner huddled next to his mother and coughing into wadded-up tissue. Each time he wheezed, I held my breath and was glad the boys were staying at Courtney's (even if she did say it made her feel like she was “aiding and abetting the enemy”). But I smiled at the child's mother and pretended not to notice the red splotches on his face when she caught me looking over my magazine at them. I wondered how tacky it might be to wear a surgical mask to the hospital next time . . . just in case.

I tried believing I wasn't nervous, and I excused my trembling knees by telling myself I was cold. So why did I find myself
chewing on the side of my mouth when Dustin suddenly crossed my mind?

I looked up from my magazine and saw Dr. Ashley coming around the corner in his light blue scrubs and gold-rimmed glasses. He smiled and waved. I wanted to wave back, but it was as if my hand had forgotten how, and I ended up smiling awkwardly instead, with my lips closed. He was coming closer. Then, as if in slow motion, he walked to my chair and put a hand on my shoulder. I could almost feel each of his fingers individually as they brushed across my shirt.

“I'll be with you in just a minute,” he said in a hushed voice. “I've got something to take care of real quick, but it won't be long.”

“Thanks” and “OK” were the only words I could get out. “This is so wrong,” I thought, and I considered running for the door and not coming back. But then I watched Dr. Ashley walk away, and he was so darn cute with his boyish build and baggy scrubs. I smiled to myself and quickly looked around to make sure no one else had seen.

My hands shook the pages of the magazine. Was I only imagining Dr. Ashley raised his eyebrows when he touched my shoulder? Maybe he's just a friendly doctor. It probably means nothing, I thought. After all, this is the man who has seen all my stretch marks and the dimple underneath my breast. How could he possibly think I'm attractive?

Was Jody right about the doctor having crossed a line?

Several minutes later, Dr. Ashley returned and personally escorted me to one of the exam rooms. I sat down in a plastic chair against the wall and wrapped my arms around my purse in my lap. I wasn't sure where to look—at him; at the wall; at the diagram of an infected ear—so I kind of looked up at the ceiling and pretended to be in deep thought while he gathered up his clipboard and sat down on the spinning stool.

“So,” he said, and smiled in my direction.

“So,” I said back, looking at him and then quickly away.

He chuckled and wheeled the spinning stool closer. “I'm worried about you,” he said finally, putting a hand on my knee. “I was scared when you called that night. What was going on?”

I shook my head. “Oh, nothing, really. It was stupid. My burglar alarm went off and I was feeling really scared. I'm sorry I called so late.”

“You should have told me,” he said. “About the burglar alarm, I mean. I might have been able to help. Was there someone in your house?”

He was staring into my eyes with a look of concern. Had Dustin ever looked at me with such compassion? Then I realized I hadn't even told Dustin about the burglar alarm yet. In fact, I hadn't told Dustin much of anything that had been going on. It was like I had separated myself from him. But did he even notice?

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It was just the back door. It warped in the night when the temperature dropped or something.”

“Do you need it fixed?” he asked.

Oh God, what was he implying?

Suddenly there was a nauseous twisting in my stomach. I thought I might throw up.

“Already taken care of,” I said, but it was a lie. Brent was supposed to come over later that week to fix the door. But I was afraid to tell Dr. Ashley the truth, and I wasn't sure why. Was I afraid he might offer to help? Or that he wouldn't?

Then Dr. Ashley reached up, gently pulled my purse from my grasp, and set it on the floor, brushing my hand in the process. Until then, I wasn't aware how tense I had been. I released the muscles in my shoulders and arms, looking for a new place to stow my hands now that the protection of the purse was gone, and I
could feel the relaxation spread across my back. Funny how you never realize you're tense until you're not anymore.

“How's your friend Melanie doing?” he asked.

I was relieved by the distraction. “She's doing much better,” I said. “In fact, she's back to doing step aerobics and jogging and putting all the rest of us to shame. You should see that woman in a bathing suit! You wouldn't guess it by the way she dresses, but I certainly don't want to be the one standing next to her at a pool.”

I was rambling, so I blushed.

Dr. Ashley laughed. He was looking at me with such intensity, I had to look away.

“Sarah,” he said finally, “I can't help you unless I know what's going on in there.” He touched the side of my head. “Do you think you're having some postpartum depression? Do you find yourself crying often?”

“It would seem that way, wouldn't it?” I said, laughing. “I think I've cried the last few times I've seen you, at least. You seem to have that effect on me lately.”

I smiled, but Dr. Ashley didn't smile back.

“That's my concern,” he said. “You used to be able to talk to me. We'd laugh and joke around. But something feels different now. Something feels different from you.”

Oh, no! I was so obvious! Was it the red shoes in the ER?

I stood abruptly, knocking his hands off my knee, and paced across the floor. I was so confused. Did I have feelings for this man? Was it just textbook transference? Was something wrong with my marriage? Had I finally gone crazy? Was it all in my mind?

I started to cry and buried my face in my hands. “Why are you so nice to me?” I cried. “Why? Why?”

“Sarah, tell me what's going on,” Dr. Ashley said and got up from the stool.

Of course, I couldn't tell him exactly what was going on,
because that would mean admitting that I had dreams about him instead of my husband; that I wished he was the one who had come into my house in the middle of the night when the alarm went off; that I looked forward to my visits with him; and that I wasn't sure what all of it meant for my marriage, or why he represented everything my husband was not. So I went for the safe confession.