“Ah, yes. Is Starla in?”
I attempt to peek around him, but he steps into my line of sight.
“No. She’s not. Even if she were, I wouldn’t tell you, you piece of shit.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I joke, but the granite-faced man in front of me isn’t having a bit of it. And why should he? Indeed, he crosses his arms over his slim chest.
“How dare you show up here, acting like everything’s fine? Do you have any idea what she’s been through in the past couple of days?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off before I can.
“You really fucking don’t, but I do. She lost or gave up some of the most important things in her life. And where the fuck were you, doc? Where the fuck were you? Because you sure as fuck weren’t here watching her become a shell of herself. You left her. How could you do that? Not just as her partner, but like, as a physician? A human being? ‘Is Starla in?’” Ah, his Lowry impression is notably better than Starla’s. “No, she isn’t. And you can fuck right off if you think I’m going to tell you where she is because you don’t deserve to be the shit on her shoes.”
“That was always true. But the thing is… Well, I don’t actually want to say it to you before I say it to her. I will apologize, profusely, fall on my knees if I must, and I suspect will have to. I don’t have a problem with that at all. If you have a sword, can I borrow it? Because I’ll fall on that too. I left for a reason, but…I don’t know. It seemed right at the time when I was in a panic, but I can’t honestly say if it was right anymore. But here’s the thing: Much as I shouldn’t have made that decision for Starla, do you really think you should have final say over whether I should be able to apologize to her or not?”
That’s a sneaky argument, it is, and perhaps Holden will fall for it, or perhaps he won’t and I’ll have to bide my time and find some other opportunity to talk to Starla. Not at her home because I don’t want to make her feel unsafe, not at Harbinson because…
Harbinson.
That’s where she is. It’s her ECT day. And if I hadn’t been drowning in the bottom of a bottle, I would’ve realized it. Lacey isn’t my biggest fan right now as I claimed an emergency to take an undetermined leave of absence, but I hope she’ll accept my apology as well and not have me escorted off clinic grounds if Holden allows me to go with him. I know he brings Starla to and from her appointments, and I have a surge of jealousy at the intimacy of it. But this is not about me. It’s about the people I’ve hurt and alienated. I owe apologies to basically all the important people in my life. So much for Saint Lowry. Most of all, I owe an explanation and an apology to Starla.
“Please, Holden. I’m begging you. I…I would give my life for her. I would give anything for her. Let me apologize and then, swear on my gran’s grave, I’ll respect her decision. Just, please. For what it’s worth, I think if she can forgive me, I might be able to make her happy.”
He half looks like he wants to throttle me and half as though he wants to believe me. I send every wish I have up to heaven and hope that the God I forsook so long ago will hear me one last time.
Chapter 38
Lowry
Starla’s lashes tremble and flutter, the first signs that she’s coming up out of the anesthesia. Unlike some of my patients, she always had a fairly easy time of it and I have no reason to think anything’s changed since then. I hope she would’ve told me. She’s told me so much else.
And yet, here I am, having betrayed her yet again—because that is how she’ll see it, and how I’m seeing it as well—and it’s a wonder she ever saw fit to share anything with me at all. But if she gives me another chance I will spend every day of my life convincing her I am trustworthy, deserving of the faith she’s always put in me. If she’ll have me, anyway, and there’s no guarantee. But God, I hope she will.
Partly for my own sake, and partly so Starla won’t fire Holden. I’d feel terrible about that, but he knew the risks when he agreed to my scheme. He must agree that I am in fact a good choice. That I love Star more than I love breathing, and that I am worthy of at least a shot. Or perhaps he simply agrees that it’s up to Starla to give me the final “shove off, you fucking fuck.”
My fingers itch to take Starla’s hand in mine, so she knows she’s not alone as she wakes. It’s no different than I’ve ever felt. She told me once that waking up after ECT was like swimming toward the surface of the water with no promise of when you’d break the surface. And to think she’s put herself in that position every six weeks for the past eighteen years or so. Her bravery and fortitude are unfathomable to me.
I’d like to extend a hand, and promise that she’s close, that she can make it. But if she’s too tired to kick and thrash or pull through the water with her arms, that’s fine, I’ll wait for her. As long as it takes.
Her eyes move beneath her lids and her fingers twitch.
I hope I haven’t made a mistake by coming here, but I couldn’t bring myself to wait any longer, to shirk my responsibility to care for her for one more instant. She does look somewhat vulnerable beneath the bleached hospital linens, but she also looks sturdy, as though when she wakes up she’ll be ready to take on the world. This is but a temporary setback. Which I suppose it is; a recharging of her battery, or perhaps more accurately, flipping her switch to off and then back on again. Not anything as serious as a factory reset.
The tips of her fingers grasp at the cotton of the blanket and she rolls her head to the side. It’s selfish, but I hope she’ll be with me soon. The way more of her is engaging in small movements makes me think yes.
* * *
Starla
I have woken up in this room—or one of the three identical rooms that serve this purpose—many, many times. There have sometimes been nurses, my father, or Holden. Sometimes, though not often, a doctor. Sometimes even Lowry. When he was my doctor. Not since then has he been here because I didn’t want him to be, and now, though I would desperately want to, I wouldn’t let him be here even if he asked.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure if I’ll see him again ever. Perhaps in another fifteen years because that’s how this works? He waits until I’m good and in love with him, and then he leaves. It’s cruel. And my brain, though it should be on good behavior now, is being an asshole. Like, more than usual.
It’s tricking me into thinking I can smell him. It’s not strong like it is when he’s held me in his arms or when he’s been on top of me, inside me, levering up on his elbows so he can take in the expression on my face or with his nose buried somewhere in my neck or my hair. No, it’s more like when he’s spent the night at my apartment and gotten up before I wake to get to work.
The lingering scent always made me smile because it felt as though he’d left a part of himself behind to stand guard over me even though he couldn’t be there in the flesh. This, though? This is mean. Makes me ache for a thing that’s been dangled in front of me, that I’ve been allowed to embrace and grow comfortable with, feel as though it’s in fact a part of me, and then yanked away.
He’s gone, and that’s how things are. I ought to get used to it. And him being gone, I have some decisions to make about my life. Yes, mine, because apparently it’s not going to be ours. I’d thought maybe… Doesn’t matter what I thought. The reality is that Lowry is too haunted by old ghosts who should seek out someone who actually deserves it, and I am not reason enough to stay. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him that I was unsure. Because I sure as hell can’t raise a child by myself. I’m not sure if I can raise one with help, even all the help I could afford.
But if it were his, if he wanted to be a father—and he’d be an exceptionally wonderful father, I know—then I would do it for him. I believe in him so fully, I think he’d be able to shepherd me through that as well. Rather had believed.
Moot. I’ll need to make decisions about this for myself. And though I’d like to think that this is indeed a choice, is it? Conceivably—if the pregnancy itself d
oesn’t aggravate my depression to a place of danger, at any rate—I could have this child by myself. If anyone has the resources to pull that off, it’s me. But for all the money I have, I’m still me, and I can’t buy mental health. Is single parenthood even an option for me? I’d like to think so, but I can’t imagine that actually being true.
Sometimes I wish I could stay here for a while when I wake up. Not the short window of observation I usually have to make sure nothing’s gone awry, but something longer that might feel like actual rest. Today won’t be that day, though.
I’ve got to get up, get back, and face the prospect of a life devoid of Lowry again. Perhaps I’ll feign sleep a bit longer because if I don’t open my eyes to see he isn’t there and in fact it’s only Holden sitting with an ankle perched on a knee while he swipes through his phone on the far side of the room, if I simply take a deep breath and let my brain trick itself into having a few more minutes of breathing in the subtle scent of him, then I won’t have to face this.
But there is no more time to wallow, no more time to keep my eyelids shut against the world. It’s time to face this day, and indeed, the rest of my life.
My eyelids feel closer to lead than feathers as I blink them open, and it doesn’t seem like a terrible idea after all to rest a bit. Except that…
My brain may very well be an asshole, but it’s not a delusional asshole. It’s not only Lowry’s scent that’s present, but Lowry as well.
I’ve got ninety-nine problems, but hallucinating’s never been one of them. So, nothing in my previous experience would explain why Lowry—face drawn and his facial hair a bit more grown out than usual but still handsome as ever—is in the chair that’s always been to the side of the beds here, but which I’ve never woken to someone sitting in. My father was always pacing by the door, speaking in hushed, hurried tones, and Holden sits politely but distantly in the chair that’s in the far corner.
I sit up like a jackknife and am swamped immediately by nausea. I know better, but I can’t—
“Starla, shh. It’s me. Would you lie back, please? I don’t want you making yourself sick. I’ll go if you want me to, but please.”
His voice is gentle, soft, and coaxing, as though he thinks he might scare me. I’m not scared, but I am confused and not in the “searching my mind for information that’s no longer there” way that I sometimes experience after I’ve had a treatment.
It’s not so much what he’s saying right now that gets me to cooperate as all the things he’s said to me before. He’s built a foundation which is, yes, cracked down to the core in some places, but I still find that in some things, I’m content to listen to his judgment.
I close my eyes, let his warm hands and firm grasp on my shoulders steer me back until my head hits the pillow again and I take long, deep breaths that help clear the feeling that I’m about to puke.
It’s perhaps not wise, but I reach out anyhow, and it’s not even a second before Lowry is slipping his hand into mine—warm and dry in distinct contrast to my cold and clammy palm. And then there are blunt fingers brushing away the fine strands at my hairline, now matted there with sweat. That didn’t take much.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I guess you still— I didn’t realize— I should’ve known— I’m sorry.”
I can’t reassure him at the moment, and I don’t think that’s actually on me to do. I’ll take the comfort of his hands, though.
After a few minutes of breathing, when my roiling stomach has settled and I’m no longer actively sweating, I open my eyes again and don’t snatch my hand back. I should. I know I should, but I can’t quite figure out how to make my hand obey.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to apologize. I’m sorry. You deserve more than that, and I’ll give you whatever you’d like, whatever you need from me. I shouldn’t have left the way I did. I just didn’t feel as though I had any other choice. I couldn’t…”
He makes a disgusted noise and I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it’s directed toward himself. Many people I would not because instead of filling the well of goodwill, they’ve drained it instead, never bothering to top it off. But Lowry? I’m angrier at him than I’ve been at anyone else in my existence, but I also can’t let go and dismiss all of the good things he’s done, all the ways he’s loved me. I look at our hands, fingers entwined, and follow them in time to see Lowry dip his head to my knuckles and lay a kiss there. It’s achingly sweet even as I want to visit violence upon his body.
It’s difficult to wrap my head around all of my feelings, but I manage to choose the one that is the most sensitive. “I wish you would’ve talked to me. Nothing is set in stone. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m really angry at you for leaving, but I also understand how hard this must be for you.”
The crease between his ginger brows deepens, and he cocks his head. “Hard for me? I mean, yes, leaving was like ripping my heart out of my chest. But I wasn’t going to be any good to you. I would’ve hurt you, lost you something that was so close to your heart and I couldn’t stand the idea of hurting you so deeply. It may have been bloody stupid but I swear I was doing it for your own good. I left so I could protect you.”
Protect me? How on earth would abandoning me when he found out I was pregnant be protecting me? So I could make the decision about whether to keep it without him? How can he not know that I value his opinion above all others and that this is nearly as much his decision as it is mine? How could he not realize that whether he stays or not would have a profound impact on whether I would even consider keeping this baby? He’s not making any sense.
“I don’t…”
The hand he’s not holding drifts to my belly, and though it’s far too early to feel anything, I swear I do. Perhaps not anything physical, exactly, but a…connection of some sort. That’s a little woo-woo for me, but I can’t explain it any other way.
“Didn’t you leave because I’m pregnant?” Pregnant seems a little less final, a bit less personal and intimate than having a baby. “I thought you saw the test in the trash and freaked, and I get it, I do, because of your uncle, and I get how it could be overwhelming and scary and poke at those icky spots we all have, but I was really hoping…I was really hoping we could figure this out together because I know it’s hard for you, but it’s—”
Goddammit. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be a reasonable, logical person who could enter—if not leave—this conversation like an adult, like a grown-ass woman, and here I am blubbering like an overly sensitive baby walrus. Goddammit. My voice cracks into a sob and Lowry’s face is blurry beyond the tears crowding my eyes. They’re going to spill any second but perhaps I can finish my sentence first.
“It’s nearly impossible for me. I’m so scared and I don’t know what to do because I can barely take care of myself and manage my business and throwing a baby in there—I don’t know. And my mom—what if I turn out to be like her? What if I leave my baby alone? What if my depression lies so very hard it convinces me she’s better off without me? What if she would be because I’ve got this pretty well under control and have for quite some time, but I wasn’t planning on adding a baby. Probably not ever, and— How? How could you leave me like that?”
So, I’m oh-for-two in the not-having-a-breakdown score. Great.
Lowry presses tissues into my hands, and I blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I told myself I wasn’t going to yell at him, that I wasn’t going to panic, but here we are. When I’ve tidied myself up as best I can, I look at him, tissues still crumpled in my hands. The nausea is back, but this time it’s panic-induced, I’m pretty sure.
“Starla, love.” He pets my hair, strokes my cheek with the back of his knuckles. Looks at me with those kind blue eyes. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes?”
He doesn’t look afraid. Or haunted. If anything, I’d describe his expression as hopeful.
“I thought you knew. I thought that’s why you lef
t. I thought—”
He hushes me, wraps a hand around mine, and leans in to kiss my forehead. He murmurs against my skin, his lips brushing where he just planted a kiss. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry you thought that’s why I’d left. I’d never leave because you were pregnant. Jesus, Star, not ever.”
“Then why’d you leave? It hurt so much.”
Like being stabbed in the precise place where I’d been stabbed before. Like a bruise being layered on top of a bruise that was already there, and not by a careful top who knew what they were doing and wanted to hurt but not harm. No, this bruise went so deep, it hit bone.
Lowry shakes his head and then lays his forehead on our joined hands before kissing my knuckles and looking up at me, a supplicant.
“Tad Harding came to me.”
My breath leaves my body all in a rush. Not as though I’ve forced it out myself, but as if it’s been sucked by a vacuum. “Tad?”
“Aye. He said…he said my showing up when I did was rather suspicious and made the board doubt your capabilities. Our being in a relationship made people wonder if I was taking advantage of you. I’m not proud of it, but I let that get under my skin because it’s something I’d scratched at myself. Not because you’re weak, but because that’s been a fear I’ve had. He poked at my worst parts, and I hate the fact that you can probably identify with that, but he seems like the kind of arsehole who uses that tactic as much as possible, so I’d be surprised if he never turned it on you.
“And I…I’d always known how much your father meant to you, but I hadn’t known you felt that overseeing his company was somehow a way to redeem yourself in his eyes, which is just… Fucking hell, Star, if he couldn’t see how incredible you are and didn’t make you feel loved and like he was proud of you every day then I can’t say I have a high opinion of the man. That’s not the point, though. I couldn’t stomach contributing to you feeling like any less than the marvel you are.”
For Her Own Good Page 40