Save Me (10 page)

“It’s in Chicago, in an old bank.”

“You walk through the vault to get to the bar,” Jack says.

“That sounds fun,” I say.

“Well, don’t get the impression that they’re, like, theme hotels,” Andrew says. “It’s a bit more sophisticated than that.”

“So you’re not putting chocolate coins on the guests’ pillows in the former bank?” I say.

“Not quite,” he says. “Though that’s not a bad idea.” He smiles at me and I notice the way that the outer corners of his eyes crinkle.

“You should look into some of the old warehouses in Durham,” I say.

“That’s what I keep telling him!” Jack says.

“I don’t know that there are many left up for grabs,” Andrew says to me. I’m starting to feel like he’s
only
speaking to me—he hasn’t looked in Jack’s direction since we sat down. I glimpse at Jack, who raises an eyebrow at me. I give him what I hope is a subtle smirk. “So where do you live in Durham?” Andrew asks.

My heart leaps.
How do I answer this?
“I live a bit south of here, toward Chapel Hill, in an old farmhouse.” I immediately kick myself—
why invite questions about the house?

“A big old farmhouse just for you? That seems like a lot.”

“You should see Daphne’s house,” Jack interjects, saving me. “She’s amazing. If the doctor thing doesn’t work out, she could easily flip houses for a living. She’d be a star on HGTV. Hell, you could hire her to work on your hotels.”

Andrew nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “I used to go running out that way a lot. It’s so pretty.” My mind jumps to Owen, who loved riding his bike through the country roads surrounding our house.

“It’s very peaceful,” I say, laughing to myself over my choice of words.
That’s exactly what it’s been lately, as peaceful as an
E. coli
outbreak on a cruise ship.
“So are you living with your family?”

He shakes his head, making an
eek
sort of face, stretching one corner of his bottom lip toward his chin. “No. Absolutely not. I’m over forty. I couldn’t possibly—not even under the circumstances. As much for my mother’s sake as for my own!” he jokes. I’m impressed by how light he seems, how unaffected despite the awful circumstances that have brought him home.
Over forty.
I wonder why he’s single. I wonder if he’s gay. Not that I’m remotely ready to entertain the idea of another man. I’m not even…
separated
. I wince to myself, turning the word over in my head.

I listen as Andrew and Jack recount a story from high school about a soccer tournament trip to Nashville. What if he wanted to ask me out? What if
I
wanted to ask
him
out? I could, after all.
But it’s not me
, I decide, watching Andrew and Jack banter back and forth about which one of them thought it was a good idea to try to buy beer at the convenience store across from the hotel during the soccer tournament.
I’m not one of those people who jumps headfirst into the next thing. I’m not the type of person who, say, if my dog died, would go right out and replace it with a new one, transferring over the water dish and the leash to the new model.
I drag my last bite of biscuit through a puddle of rich, golden egg yolk on my plate and look up to see Andrew watching me, amused. I was never a delicate eater, not even on my first dates with Owen, who told me soon after we got together that he loved to watch me eat, for the hilarity of it. I smile back at Andrew and then Jack, who’s watched this whole exchange.

“Excuse me,” I say, putting my napkin to my mouth. “I’m hopeless when it comes to these biscuits.”

Andrew laughs. “It’s adorable.”

Adorable?
Is he
flirting
with me? He’s most definitely flirting with me. Grown men don’t just throw out the word “adorable.”

I think of Lucy and her admonition on the phone the other night that I “for the love of God, treat myself to some fun.” So okay then, handsome Andrew, friend of Jack’s. Maybe a drink would be fun. I can feel that my cheeks are flushed.

“Well.” I crumple my napkin between my hands under the table. “Now that I’ve cleaned my plate, I should probably get going and let you two catch up.” They both stand after I do, good Southerners that they are. “Thanks for letting me crash your meal,” I say.

Jack and I do that sideways hug thing that men do with their female friends, and Andrew shakes my hand. Firm handshake, I notice. Another one of Dad’s rules.

Before I reach my car, I have my phone out, ready to call Annie, who will love to hear about my breakfast and frankly deserves a light-hearted story from me after what I’ve put her through over the past few weeks. I slip into the driver’s seat and check my voicemail first—there’s a message from a phone number I don’t recognize.

At first, it doesn’t register. The voice is small, like a child’s. “I know that this is awkward.” I hear a faint lazy drawl. “But I’d really like to chat with you. I’d love for you to call me back. I understand if you don’t. But I’d really love to. Thanks
so
much.”

That last part—the girly enthusiasm, the
so much
, is what burns most, like too much salt on your tongue. What on earth could she want? Why on earth would she want to talk to me?

I call her back, turning the dial for the air conditioner all the way up as the phone rings. It’s not even sixty-five degrees outside, according to the display on my dashboard, but I’m sweating.

“Hello?” Her voice is light, sweet.

“This is Daphne Mitchell calling you back.”

“Thank you so much for returning my call,” she says. She speaks slowly, taking little baby breaths. I know she’s still in the hospital.
Why would she call me?
“I’m sorry, Daphne. Would you mind holding one minute?”

“Would I mind?” I laugh, I can’t help it. “No, Bridget, I don’t mind one bit.”

Her voice becomes muffled. She’s put her hand over the phone.
It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Maybe ten minutes or so. Okay, hon. Thanks, hon.

Do you call your mother
hon
? A friend? A nurse? A sister? Who could be
hon
besides…? My pulse starts to race.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says.

“Was that Owen?”

There’s a pause, revealing everything.

“Yes.”

“Bridget, what is it, exactly, that you want from me?” I adjust the vents so that the air blows on my neck and chest.

“I wanted to call and speak to you directly. To apologize.”

Apologize? I swear, has there ever in the history of the world been a more conscientious piece of trash?
“You want to
what
?” I gasp.

“As you know, I’ve been in an accident,” she says, speaking over me like she’s trying to calm me down.

I don’t say anything. What does she expect?
Condolences?
Not from me. I know that she’s been though a lot, but she’ll be fine enough to ride off into the sunset with my husband, to steal
my
life. I wipe the sweat that I can feel beading along my hairline.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” she continues. “We both have, and I wanted to let you know that I feel horrible about the way that things—”

Before she has a chance to continue, I hang up and throw the phone into the passenger seat.

I shake the whole way home. Here I was, having my first “up” morning since this happened, my first kind-of-good day—and then this, like a glass of something cold and wet tossed one-handed, deliberate and reckless, to wake me up and startle me back into reality.

When I get home, I slam the front door behind me so hard that Blue jumps, and fling my bag to the floor.

I have my phone in my hand and pull up
my husband’s
number. “Owen,” I say after he picks up. I spit his name out, practically kick it at him. “I need to explain something to you.”

He tries to tell me it’s a bad time. I barrel past. I don’t care. I am screaming and I never scream, and it feels good, so right that I wonder why I haven’t done it every day of my life so far.

“I don’t know what the fuck she was thinking, calling me. Doesn’t she have enough to worry about right now? What was it, exactly, that she thought she would gain from that? Did you tell her to do it? Did you think it would
help
somehow? What the hell is wrong with you, Owen?”

“Daphne, I didn’t—”

I grit my teeth. “You can go to hell, Owen,” I say, my throat burning. “And you can tell that
whore
to never call me again. And I don’t want to hear from you, either, ever again, not after what you’ve done.” Tears roll down my face, hot, expunging. It feels exactly right. I’m not sure that I mean it—
I don’t want to hear from you
—but it feels good so I keep going.

“You do
not
get to call me anymore. Do you understand? You lost the right to be in my life the second you started to deceive me. You made your choice and that choice was her, so you don’t get a single piece of me. Not anymore. We are finished. Do you understand?

“Our marriage is over!” I wail.

“We’re done. It’s finished.”

“Daphne, please listen to me,” he says. “I had no idea she was going to call. She’s in a very fragile emotional state. I know she just really needs you to understand. I really need you to understand—”

“You
what
?” I scream. “You must be kidding me. Listen—” I take a deep breath. “Don’t miss a single syllable of this, Owen. This is
over
. We are
over
.
You
chose this, and you are getting exactly what
you
wanted. So you need to get your things out of this house and we need to call a lawyer and we need to end this, like
you
wanted. I am setting a firm line in the sand, Owen. You are no longer a part of my life. Do you understand?”

I hang up, not needing to hear his answer, the reasoning, the excuses. I hang up before I change my own mind. I throw the phone across the room, hearing it skid across the hardwood floor, and then I fall to the ground, put my head in my hands, and sob. I know that this is it, finally. This is rock bottom, the end, and not a thing about it feels good.

W
hen I see Mary Elizabeth’s name on the day’s schedule on Monday morning, I’m puzzled. She isn’t due in to see me for another week. I read Carol’s printout three times, making sure that I’m seeing her name correctly, not so much because it’s a massive surprise to have an unexpected patient visit but because despite two cups of coffee this morning, I feel foggy and out of it. My mind keeps hitching back to the phone call with Owen on Saturday, replaying the words I said to him.

“Which room?” I say to Carol as I approach the long hallway where the exam rooms are located.

“Number three,” she says.

“Okay.”

“Hey,” she says, stopping me as I’m heading past her toward the room. “Everything okay with you?”

“I’m fine,” I say, forcing what I’m sure is an unconvincing grin.

She’s nods, one swift dip of her chin. I know she’s noticed my bare ring finger—she’s the type to notice—but she hasn’t asked anything outright and I haven’t offered.

I’ve waffled on whether to tell her. While we have a great relationship, there isn’t much that Carol loves more than good office gossip, and once she’s heard my news, the rest of the practice will, too. I’d like to hold off on that until I know where my marriage has headed.

I continue toward the exam room, telling myself to focus.
Mary Elizabeth.
Maybe something has finally clicked and she’s here to declare that she’s ready to get her life in order. After our last appointment, when she confessed her margarita binge and the near seizure, I talked to Denise, her therapist, in the office, and we agreed that it’s time to talk to her about rehab again. I have my fingers crossed that we’ll be able to chat about it today.

My hopes are dashed the minute I walk into the exam room. She is lying on the exam table, facing the wall, and as I shut the door behind me, I wonder if she’s even awake. “Mary Elizabeth?”

She flinches like I’ve startled her.

I walk across the room, ostensibly to place my laptop on my desk but really to give her a moment to collect herself. It’s Monday morning—she should be dressed in office clothes, here on a break from her workday. Instead, she’s wearing a pair of jeans that look like they haven’t been washed in months and a stretchy black top that exposes most of her back, the sharp bumps of her spine running down the middle like a zipper.

When she finally sits up and brushes the hair from her face, I notice the black smudges under her eyes, what is clearly yesterday’s makeup. She coughs and smiles.

“What up, Doc?” She laughs, a girlish giggle, and that’s when I’m sure she’s drunk. My heart sinks. I’ve seen plenty of addicts over the course of my five years at the practice, but I’ve never had one come to see me while blatantly wasted. I consider calling Carol into the room right away.
Why didn’t she say anything?
Surely she noticed this when she brought her back.

“I’d like to do a blood panel today,” I say, deciding in the moment that the best approach is to be businesslike and firm. “But I don’t know that you’re in any shape for that.”

She rubs her hands over her eyes. “It’s no problem,” she says, a dopey smile on her face. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen. I start to wonder whether only alcohol is to blame.

“What’s going on, Mary Elizabeth?” I ask.

“What’s going on, Mary Elizabeth?” she mimics through clenched teeth.
“What’s your problem, Mary Elizabeth?”

She’s always animated, a hyperkinetic mess, but also charming and smart and agreeable. It suddenly strikes me that this specific combination might also be at the root of what gets her into so much trouble.

“You’re drunk,” I say.

She furrows her brow at me. “Are you kidding?”

I shake my head.

“It’s like eleven o’clock on a Monday,” she says. “No, I’m not drunk.”

I put my stethoscope in my ears, though it isn’t her heart rate I’m interested in, it’s her breath. I place the silver disk on her chest, through her shirt, and lean in, pretending to take a closer listen. Her heart is beating a little fast. Finally, she exhales, and it’s putrid, a humid stink.

“Did you come from work today?” I ask.

“Have the day off,” she says, struggling to enunciate.

“Did you drive yourself here?”

“Because?” she says, drawing out the
zzzzzz
.

“Have you eaten anything?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Do we need to go over this again?” I say, perhaps a bit too sharply. I told myself on my way into the office this morning that I would leave my personal concerns at home—I cannot bring it into the office, not only because it’s what my patients deserve but because I need a mental break from it, too. I take a breath and start again. “You know that being Type 1 means that you have specific guidelines you need to follow. You need to eat at regular intervals every day, no exception.” I’ve said this to her so many times now that I ought to just record it and play it for her when she comes into the office.
This is how parents must feel when their kids don’t listen to them
, I think. Everything I say to her seems to just bounce off and disappear into the ether.

She smirks. “I was diagnosed when I was in preschool,” she slurs, the preschool coming out like
priss-coo
. “I’m a grown woman, I can feed myself.”

“You sure about that?” I say, taking a different tack. Maybe if I get a rise out of her, she’ll start talking.

“I’m under a lot of stress, Dr. Mitchell.”

Try having your marriage implode
, I think.

“I actually wondered if you might be able to give me an anti-anxiety prescription, like a Xanax or something.”

“You’re kidding.” I want to shake her for even considering that there’s a chance I’d prescribe something.

“I’m working on this really tough case. I just need enough of a prescription to get me through the next month or so.”

It’s obvious that she’s rehearsed it, and I’m alarmed. If she’s added pills to the mix, I can only imagine what else she’s doing. I stand in front of her, our faces barely a foot apart. “Mary Elizabeth, listen,” I say. “I think it’s time you start thinking about a program.”

Her mouth drops and then her eyes narrow. In a split second I’ve gone from friend (or potential drug supplier) to foe.

“Mary Elizabeth, we’ve been over this so many times. You are killing yourself. You need more help than what we can offer you here.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just wobbles on the table, staring vacantly, and then the next thing I know, her head starts to dip. She braces herself on one arm and I sprint across the room to press the call button and bring Carol into the room.

Pro that she is, Carol doesn’t react at all when she walks in seconds later and sees Mary Elizabeth.

“Could you get a breathalyzer kit please?” I ask.

“
What?
” Mary Elizabeth screams. “A
breathalyzer
?”

“It’s for your own good,” I say to her.
And for the practice’s, too. God forbid your mother brings a lawsuit.

“But I’m not drunk!” she screeches. She pushes herself down off of the table and stumbles. I leap forward to catch her before she falls.

She pushes me away and starts to collect her things. I can’t let her leave, not like this. I reach out and grab her arm. I’ve never touched a patient like this before but I’m desperate. I just can’t let her leave and get herself killed.

“Jesus, get off me!” she screams. “I’m fine!”

I take my hands away. “Mary Elizabeth, please,” I plead. “Let me at least get someone to give you a ride somewhere. We can call a taxi.” Carol comes back into the room and raises her eyebrows at me. I could kill her for not warning me about this.

Mary Elizabeth turns and scowls. “I have a friend with me, in the waiting room. I’ll be fine.” She bumps past Carol and starts down the hall. I follow after her.

“Listen,” I say, my voice low as I walk alongside her. “This could be a turning point for you. Let’s just go back to the exam room, do the test, and we can talk. We can change everything for you right now.”

She shakes her head, stumbling faster, trying to lose me.

“If you’ll just work with me,” I beg. I’ve never pleaded with a patient before.

She swerves into the waiting room and while I’m relieved to see that there is, in fact, someone waiting for her, it alarms me that he doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by the way she’s acting. He looks unremarkable, like any standard young former frat guy—polo shirt, Carolina baseball cap. He stands, tossing aside the magazine he was reading.

“Let’s go,” Mary Elizabeth says.

There isn’t much I can do. She’s my patient and I can’t reveal information about her to some stranger in a waiting room. “Will you get her home okay?” I say.

He smiles. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he says, his hand waving back at me as he’s halfway out the door.

I rush back into the office, ignoring the woman in the waiting room who’s been pretending this whole time that she was engrossed in the
Southern Living
she was holding in front of her face.

“What the hell was that?” I say to Carol when I find her putting the breathalyzer kit back in the storage area near the nurses’ station.

She flinches. I’ve never lost my temper at work before.

“Why didn’t you tell me what to expect before I went into the exam room?”

“Dr. Mitchell,” she says, looking at me in the gently scolding way that my grandmother once did when she caught me with my finger in the cake she’d just frosted. “Of course I would have alerted you. Diana, that new young nurse, took her back because I was finishing up the blood panel for Mr. Dawson.”

I feel my cheeks instantly flush.
Of course.
I knew she was busy with Mr. Dawson, the patient before Mary Elizabeth, because I asked her to do the panel. What the hell is wrong with me? “Carol, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says, squeezing my arm. She looks into my eyes, letting her arm stay put for an extra few seconds. “You’ve done everything you could do for that girl,” she says.

I nod.

“It’s sad to see that happen to a girl like her. So much potential.”

“Awful,” I say. “She’s determined to self-destruct.”

“She’s been damn lucky so far.”

“Sure has,” I say, pulling out the printout with the schedule. “We have until one, yes? I’m going to grab a quick bite to eat.”

“Okay,” she says. “Go take a break.”

“Again, Carol, I’m sorry. I’ll see you in a bit.”

I walk down the hall to Annie’s office. “You will not believe what just happened,” I say, standing in the threshold of her open door.

“What?” she says, through a mouthful of the noodles that she’s eating out of the container in her other hand.

I close the door behind me and sit down and take a deep breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and then another.

“Did Orlando teach you that?” Annie jokes, watching me.

I roll my eyes at her. Orlando is the patchouli-drenched stress management expert who works in our office. “Actually, I have Mary Elizabeth to thank.”

“What?”

“She just walked out on our appointment. She was drunk.”

“Are you sure?” She puts down her food.

“You can’t smell the liquor from here? Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t hear anything. I asked to do a breathalyzer and she flipped out.”

“Wow. Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“Nope.” I look up at the ceiling and groan.

“I’m sorry,” Annie says.

I rub my hands over my face. “You know what I need right now? Some good, basic, boring cases. Spring allergies, that kind of BS.”

“I did three of those this morning,” Annie says. “And I suspect my next patient will be the same. If it makes you feel any better, I had to leave early yesterday because Samantha’s school called to tell me that she has head lice.”

I make a face. “And you’re sure you don’t have it?”

“I’m sure,” she says. “Though every time I think about it, I start itching.” She picks up a pencil off of her desk that obviously found its way to her through her daughters—instead of the standard orangey yellow, it’s pink and ladybug patterned. She uses the eraser end to scratch the back of her head. I make a face at her.

“I’m really fine,” she says.

I nod. “I hope so.”

“Difficult patients aside, how are you holding up?”

I shrug one shoulder. “Haven’t talked to him. I’m not really sure what the next move is. I can’t bring myself to think about anything logistical—his stuff, the house.” I take a deep breath. “I’m running a lot. Six miles last night. And the yard’s never looked better.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t stand being in that house.” I lean forward and pluck a piece of butterscotch hard candy out of the jar she keeps on her desk. “The girl…Bridget…she’s doing better,” I say. “I’ve checked the records a few more times. She’s stable. Will be hospitalized for a while still.”

Annie nods. “Feels weird, I bet.”

“What?”

She points over the desk at my left hand, where I’m caressing the inside of my ring finger with my thumb. “Oh,” I say, shaking my head when I realize what she’s talking about. “Yes, I keep touching the place where it was. Some sort of phantom limb phenomenon.”

“I hate this for you.”

I shrug. “Yeah, well.”

“You know what I’m thinking?” she says. “We need to do something fun, something to look forward to. Do you want to go away for the weekend? I can get Jack to watch the kids.”

“Nah.” I think of Lucy and the awful sports bar in Virginia. A change of scenery won’t do any good.

“How about a party?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Really?” I say, chuckling. “I know you’re only trying to help but no thank you.” I take another butterscotch from the jar and start unwrapping it. “To be honest, I prefer binge drinking by myself and singing along to Linda Ronstadt.”

“That’s really pathetic,” she says, cracking a smile. “I hope you’re kidding.”

I shrug. “The dog doesn’t mind.”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking so much about a ‘get-over-Owen’ party, I was thinking about a birthday party.”