Save Me (17 page)

I remember the time that my second-grade class made paper after studying colonial America. I remember the pulpy smell of it, and the soft, puppy-ear feel of it once it dried, and how much it annoyed me that my marker bled all over the bumpy surface when I tried to write my name.

I remember a summer afternoon at the community center pool when I was six, when I stood against the chain-link fence, my feet making wet-brown spots on the concrete, and watched my sixteen-year-old cousin do a flip off the diving board. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen in my life.

The memories are insignificant little nothings, throwaways, meant to be forgotten, which makes it odd that I recall them with such absolute precision compared to the milestone moments in my life—the day that I went away to college, how it felt when Owen and I moved in together, my first day of work as an M.D., losing my virginity, getting the keys to my first place, even our wedding day. These days—these important, formative, defining moments—are murky. It takes work to conjure up the details.

Add to that list: Owen’s birthday, the night when he told me that he’d cheated.

I lie in bed, wracking my brain, trying to recall exactly what happened. Maybe it’s that the shock hasn’t worn off, some sort of PTSD, the cortisol clouding my neurologic well-being, but I feel like I can hardly remember it now. I remember how I felt. I remember being awake all night, the crying. I remember how I felt sick and scared, but I don’t remember what he said or how I replied. I don’t remember him walking out the door, or what I did immediately after. And I never thought I’d say this, but I now wish that every second of it was seared into me, because it might give me a little clarity.

I
make it to work the next morning even though I threw up again just before sunrise, and then again after a misguided attempt at some toast, and one final time just after I arrived at the office, where the smell of the coffee that someone had brewed sent me sprinting for the ladies’ room. Annie says that as far as she knows, none of the other women got sick. I have irrationally decided to blame Anson’s bruschetta, though at this point, I wonder whether the residual nausea this morning is actually my body’s way of telling me that enough is enough: It won’t take the emotional roller coaster anymore.

Owen was already gone when I came downstairs. He left a note on the kitchen counter, on the back of a crumpled receipt.
Hope you feel better
, it said in his familiar handwriting, all sharp angles and arrowheads.
Call if you need me.
I turned the receipt over. It was from a burger place downtown, two months ago. Fourteen dollars. Is lunch for one fourteen dollars? Does it matter anymore?

The only reason I’m at work is Mary Elizabeth’s appointment—and thank God, she’s here, now sitting across from me, in a T-shirt, pink twill shorts, flip-flops, her hair still wet from her shower. She looks like a kid.

“Do you love your job?” she asks out of nowhere as I look over the vitals that Carol took at the beginning of the appointment.

“I do,” I say, glancing up from the notes. “How’s your sugar today?”

“Excellent,” she says.

Our eyes meet.

“Seriously,” she says. “It’s fine.”

I scroll through the numbers. Her blood pressure is up slightly. Maybe she’s nervous, as she should be after our last visit.

“I hate my job,” she says.

“From what I can gather, you’re lucky to still have it,” I say, putting the laptop down and walking to the sink in the corner of the room to wash my hands.

She scowls at me. “Fair enough,” she says. “But still, it sucks. When you’re the youngest one at the law firm, you get the grunt work. I spent twelve hours yesterday in a room full of documents—stacks and stacks of boxes, some as high as the ceiling. Do you know what I had to do?”

“Tell me.”

“Go through the pages one by one and circle the last name of the plaintiff in a case that the firm is handling. Thousands of pages. In twelve hours, I made it through two stacks.”

“Well, like you said, youngest one at the firm, you get the grunt work. It will get better.”

“It must be great, doing what you do, way more interesting to help fuck-ups like me,” she says as I walk toward her.

“Is that how you define yourself, Mary Elizabeth?” I say, pulling my ophthalmoscope out to examine her eyes.

“Pretty much. It’s accurate, no?”

“I guess so.”

“I can’t believe you just said that!” she shrieks.

“What?”

“Called me a fuck-up.”

“You called yourself that.” I probably shouldn’t be so snippy with her but I’m fed up—with everything—including her inability to get herself straight despite the very best medical care from a team of specialists that thousands of families would kill to have watching over their privileged addict daughters. And, okay, maybe I’m displacing some of my own stuff onto her—up all night, Owen sitting next to me in the bathroom, his nonanswer when I asked him whether things might be different between us if Bridget was alive.
I don’t know if the what-ifs will get us anywhere.
Really?
Says who?

“So did you always want to be a doctor?” Mary Elizabeth says.

“Did you always want to be a fuck-up?” I reply, my fingers on her neck, checking her pulse.

Her jaw drops. And then she laughs, thank goodness. I smile at her.

“What have you been doing besides drinking? What other drugs?” I ask, crossing my hands over my chest and leaning my hip against the exam table.

She looks down at her knees. “Can’t you talk to Denise about this?”

“What you guys discuss during your therapy sessions is between the two of you. You know that.”

“Denise is kind of a freak, don’t you think?” she jokes, trying to deflect my question.

“Mary Elizabeth, come on.” The thing is, she’s right. While I’m fully aware that the amount of therapy I probably need to deal with my stuff could easily pay for a vacation home, I guess I’m a stereotypical physician in that I think most shrinks are a little bit off, what with all of those hours spent wading through other people’s problems. Denise is a kind woman who seems to be good at what she does, but she’s also one of those adults who never outgrew Disney. Her office is blanketed in little Mickey and Minnie figurines, the plastic kind like what comes in a Happy Meal, and she and her husband, who don’t have children, take several Disney vacations each year. Annie jokes that she’s probably a freak in bed.

“What else besides drinking?” I ask again.

She shrugs. “I smoked some weed in school. Not for years now, though. Sometimes some Xanax, Klonopin.”

“While you’re drinking?”

“As opposed to?”

“And you’re drinking all day?”

“Let me repeat: I spent twelve hours yesterday circling the name
Ferguson
.”

“Nothing else? Not snorting anything? No other pills?”

“Honestly, no.”

“How do you feel about inpatient?”

“
Finally
,” she says. “I was wondering when you’d get to it.”

“And?”

“I guess I should. Do I have a choice?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Tell that to my mother.” She looks up at the ceiling, where the state-of-the-art LED system is subtly shifting the light from blue to green and then blue again. I wonder whether it actually relaxes people the way that it’s supposed to. “When I went to the eating disorders place, I was the sanest one by a mile so I suppose going to rehab would be a good confidence boost. And the stories—I bet that the addicts have better stories than the ED girls. They were big whiners.”

“Not you, though?” I say.

She cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Are you sober right now?”

“I am,” she says.

I believe her, actually. I’m standing close enough to smell her breath and her speech is sharp, her eyes are clear.

“So you never wanted to be anything but a doctor?” she says. “You always knew? That’s so lucky.”

“I guess it is,” I say, thinking how the last way I’d describe my life right now is
lucky
. “So you’ll need to take a leave from work. Do you think that will be a problem?”

“My bosses will probably welcome the excuse to get rid of me.”

“Denise is going to talk to you about the particulars,” I say. “But we’re going to stay in touch so that I can monitor you physically and make sure you’re staying healthy.”

Out of nowhere, she starts to cry.

“Hey, it’s going to be all right,” I say, patting her arm. “This can change everything for you.”

When she looks up, she rolls her eyes at me. “We’ll see,” she says.

“Oh, come on.” I hand her a tissue.

She yawns. A deep, thick had-enough sort of yawn. “I feel like something happened to me after high school.”

“
Did
something happen?” I check my watch. She has an appointment with Denise after ours.

She shrugs. “No, not really. But all of the sudden, I don’t know… I just keep making mistakes. I thought law school, becoming a lawyer—you know, finding a respectable profession—would make everything work out. How are you so together?”

I laugh.

“What? Look at you,” she says. “I feel like I don’t have any control over my life. I could never be like you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you so defensive?” she says. “I keep complimenting you and you act like I’m poking you in the ribs with a pencil.”

“I’m not defensive,” I say, realizing that I am. “I just prefer not to talk about my personal life in the office.”

“Excuse me,” she says, hopping off of the table.

“Denise is going to be waiting for you,” I say. “I’ll talk to her after your appointment.”

She starts toward the door, waving the back of her hand at me like she doesn’t need to hear anything else.

“Hey, Mary Elizabeth, listen: This is going to be good for you.”

Suddenly, she turns and hugs me. “Thanks,” she says, sniffling into the side of my neck. “I really hope you’re right.”

After she leaves, I close the door to the exam room and sit down at the little desk in the corner. I tell myself I’m just wiped out from throwing up all night, but it’s the conversation with Mary Elizabeth that has me rattled. Was it inane of me to think that life was as simple as clicking together a few puzzle pieces?
College, doctor, marriage, kids, done.
I have always been so careful with my decisions, and maybe the error was in trying to plot it out, to predict everything—an equation that, it turns out, doesn’t hold. Now that everything’s fallen apart, what would it be like to chuck the compass? To check out for a bit?
Could I?

I know how silly it is to look at Mary Elizabeth, who’s so troubled, and covet her recklessness a little bit. There’s obviously nothing I should envy, but in some way, the idea of living without thinking about the consequences—even the bad ones—seems so freeing, I’m sure because it’s something I’ve never done. Her life is like bodysurfing in the ocean as a kid and that unexpected wave knocking you down, pulling you under, that instant when you’re spinning, questioning—just for a second—if you’ll ever come up for air. All chaos, no straight lines.

My mind starts spinning in its typical way—
What about the house and the mortgage? What would leaving the practice mean for my career?
I get up and, just as I’m turning into the hallway, nearly run smack into Dr. Billings.

“Excuse me!” I yelp. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Hello, Dr. Mitchell,” he says in his even drone. “I just saw your patient.”

“Yes,” I say. “I think we’ve finally convinced her to try a treatment program. At long last.”

“Well, that’s great news,” he says, nodding. “Good work.”

“Thanks.” I smile.
Good work.
It’s only two words but it’s the biggest compliment he’s given me in months.

“Keep it up,” he says, walking off.

Buoyed by my interaction with my boss and Mary Elizabeth’s progress, I resolve on my drive home that whether Owen thinks the what-ifs matter or not, it’s time to start making some decisions. I can’t live in limbo anymore.

I walk in the house and his crap is everywhere—newspaper sections strewn across the kitchen table, dirty dishes piled in the sink, lights on that he neglected to turn off before he left for work. His stuff needs to go. I don’t know what’s going to happen with our marriage, and I don’t know whether I can afford the house on my own if it comes to that, but I know for sure that he needs to be out of here. At least for now.

I’m picking up a pair of his shoes off the floor when I hear the door open behind me.

“Hey,” Owen says, dropping his keys on the table. “You feeling better?”

I nod, barely glancing at him as I put the shoes on the bottom of the stairs and start collecting the newspapers. I don’t have to say anything—he knows what I’m thinking because he’s heard it before:
Look at this mess. Can’t you pick up after yourself? You’re a grown man. I’m not your mother.
Our phantom arguments worm their way back to me and I feel the telltale tightening in my chest that is always there now, lying latent.

“So I’ve been thinking that we need to start dealing with some logistics,” I finally say, shoving the pile of newspapers into the recycling bin.

He stops and stares at me for a beat, then rubs his hands over his face like the very thought exhausts him. “Okay.”

“I know it was well past midnight and I was throwing up, but last night I deserved a better answer than the one you gave me.”

“About Bridget?”

I nod.

“I know.”

“I realize that—” I have to stop myself before I can say it. “I realize—” I stop again. “I know that you’re grieving, Owen, but you also need to understand that it’s crazy for us to be living here together as if nothing’s happened.”

He nods. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

“You have?”

He nods again.

“I can’t move forward like this. We’ve barely even spoken about anything. We’re in this house together every night avoiding each other, avoiding everything!” I rub the heels of my hands over my eyes. “I don’t know how much longer I can just go with the flow. It’s not right.”

“I understand,” he says. “So you want me to move out?”

I look at him, leaning across the kitchen counter from me.
Of course I don’t want you to move out. I want you to not have cheated on me. I want our marriage, pure and true, the way that I thought it was.
“I need to move forward,” I say.

He looks at me for a lingering moment and nods.

I turn away. “Maybe we need to start thinking about selling the house,” I say, walking to the pantry for the broom.

“Really?” he says, surprised. It’s irritating that he’s surprised. Does he not realize the magnitude of what’s happened?

“Yes, maybe,” I snap. “It’s not what I want, Owen, but then again, not much is these days.”

He scratches the back of his head. He seems anxious and impatient. “I definitely don’t want to sell the house.”

“Listen, I don’t want to give it up any more than you do, not after all of the work we put into it,” I say, shaking my head. “But I can’t handle the mortgage on my own and you can’t either.” I start sweeping, my eyes following the lines in the hardwood planks.

“No, Daphne, I don’t want us to sell the house because I want us to work this out. I don’t want to split up.”

I stop sweeping.

“I want to come back. I want to move forward. Together.”

“I don’t…” I shake my head. “I don’t know, Owen.” I grip the broom handle.

“Do you think it’s possible?” he asks. “Does any part of you want to try?”

“I think that for the first time in my life, I don’t trust my own thoughts.” Our eyes meet for just an instant before I look away.