by E. G. Scott
TWENTY-TWO
CHARLOTTE
“Char, thank you so much for fitting me in. I hate calling you so last minute, but I could barely move.” Annelise winces as she pulls herself up on the table and I help her roll onto her stomach. She nestles her face into the open headrest and lets out a groan as her pelvis gives in to gravity.
Her pulse and tongue indicate far more than an inflamed lower back, one of the most common manifestations of major stress in people’s bodies. And hands down one of the most common complaints among new patients. But Annelise is not a new patient. She was a high school friend with whom I was so grateful to reconnect when I first moved back in with Mom, and she’s been coming to me since I started the practice. I’m more than a little hurt about her bailing on last night. But as her acupuncturist, I need to leave my hurt feelings outside the door.
“Of course. I can get you feeling better, honey.” I move her hips gently so that she’s aligned on the table, and start with some calming needles along her periformis point.
“I can’t believe how quickly the pain came on. I sneezed this morning and, bam, I was crippled. I guess this is what forty looks like.”
“Trust me, it isn’t just you. Everyone walking in here is feeling it. The fall-into-winter season in particular brings on back pain and tightness.” I’m aware of how stilted my speech is. I’m having trouble finding my usual warm and cheerful bedside manner.
“I’m sorry I missed last night. Aidan had a terrible cough and the twins were both colicky beyond belief. I couldn’t leave Lucas alone with all three, and we’ve been fighting a lot about equal-effort co-parenting.” Her voice quivers. “Forgive me. I’m very sleep deprived and cranky.”
“Of course. I totally get it.” I don’t like hearing that her kids are sick or that she’s having a hard time with her husband, but I am relieved that her excuse for last night is a reasonable one. But there are three other women who bailed, and I’m sure they don’t all have sick kids or partners they are fighting with.
“How was it? Did you guys howl at the moon by the end of the night?” She winces when she half laughs. The meeting when we were dubbed “the coven,” there was a full moon and many bottles of pinot noir. We ended up howling at the sky. It was an amazing night with wonderful women.
“No howling.” I put another needle in to release her psoas tension and am happy to feel the channel open up more easily than I expected. “Actually, everyone canceled, except for Rachel.” I don’t hide my disappointment. “But I made it an early night. I was exhausted.”
“Oh no. I didn’t realize that everyone bailed—I’m sorry, honey.” She sounds genuine, but I find it hard to believe she wasn’t aware that everyone else flaked. I know they still have the unending mommy text chain, updating one another on every pediatrician trip and poopy diaper.
“It’s okay. I know it’s hard for people to get away. Between babysitters and work.”
I place a gentle hand on her hip as I insert a series of needles throughout her lower-back channels.
I twist the needle in the dai mai meridian line and it releases, and she sighs with relief.
Annelise, like all of the women in my group, knows very little about the period of time after I left our town and went to medical school. My mom bragged about it to anyone who would listen, so everyone from my high school friends who stayed in town to the UPS guy knows all about my going to become a doctor. But she ran out of positive things she could say. I’ve told my women’s group bits and pieces, but nothing about what happened during my residency or my hospitalization. Rachel knows the most out of my real-life friends, and even then, I’ve left things out.
I continue placing needles in silence. I feel tension between us but consider that it’s probably my own. By the time I place the last needles in her, I hear her snoring softly. I shut the lights and the door quietly behind me.
* * *
Trauma Survivors Private Chat Room: 10/5/19
5:00 p.m.
Woundedhealer: Good evening, ladies!
MaxineKD: Woundedhealer! We were just talking about you.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Happy happy hour (uncorks box o’ wine).
Miserylovescompany: And what does the uncorking of a corkless box actually sound like?
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Like heaven.
Harmnoone82: Cheers.
Woundedhealer: Have any of you ever had a situation where your friends don’t like your significant other?
Miserylovescompany: Does it count if I don’t like my significant other?
MaxineKD: For sure. None of my friends ever liked my men.
Harmnoone82: A long time ago. My sister didn’t like my college boyfriend. It sucked.
Woundedhealer: How did/do you handle it?
Makeupyourmindcontrol: How close is the friendship?
Woundedhealer: Very close. She’s my best friend.
MaxineKD: I thought we were your best friends?
Woundedhealer: I meant aside from y’all, of course.
Miserylovescompany: Hmm. Maybe not your best if she’s down on your guy.
MaxineKD: If she can’t support your choices, how much of a friend is she actually?
Miserylovescompany: I recommend Marie Kondo’ing the fuck out of toxic people in your life!
Harmnoone82: I think you have to figure out who is more important to you. Although, personally, if someone doesn’t support my relationship, I’m not sure I want to know them.
Biggirlsdontcry54: I would handle it the same way I do most things. Disengage, retreat, avoid. No drama.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: What exactly is her problem?
Miserylovescompany: It is a really tough position to be in. What doesn’t your friend like about him?
Woundedhealer: She doesn’t think he is who he says he is.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: All fair points. But I guess the real question is: Do you trust him?
Woundedhealer: Yes, I think so.
Harmnoone82: No offense, but that doesn’t sound very convincing.
Woundedhealer: I mean, I guess I have some fears and doubts, but I think that is natural given our situation.
Harmnoone82: So, no.
Woundedhealer: Well, not lately. No.
Harmnoone82: Is the distrust because of something he’s actually done, or is the doubt influenced by your so-called friend?
Woundedhealer: Mostly about his being unavailable, especially when I need him. I’m going through hard things and he isn’t around.
Miserylovescompany: Maybe your friend is jealous? Is she single?
Woundedhealer: Yes, she’s single.
Miserylovescompany: She might be jealous of your happiness? Or maybe she wants to be with you?
Woundedhealer: No. I don’t think that is it at all.
Miserylovescompany: Sorry! I just assume everyone is in love with me all the time.
Woundedhealer: We are. :) Rachel (my friend) is very overprotective of me. She knows as much about me as all of you. She’s had her fair share of trauma too.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Invite her to join the group! We’ll set her straight.
MaxineKD: Well, maybe not if you feel like she’s judging you or your relationship.
Woundedhealer: I’d like this group to just be mine.
Harmnoone82: Yeah. A safe space.
Biggirlsdontcry54: Of course. I feel the same way.
Woundedhealer: And we work together, so we are already entangled enough.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Well, that’ll keep things good and complicated.
MaxineKD: Yeah, what don’t you do together?
Miserylovescompany: Not much, apparently.
MaxineKD: She sounds like a stage-three clinger if you ask me.
Woundedhealer: She doesn’t even know
about the group. No one in my life does. I like having this as my own secret escape hatch.
MaxineKD: I know what you mean. I like that it is a place just for us. No judgment.
Harmnoone82: We can just be.
Miserylovescompany: (And just be in our fat pants.)
MaxineKD: Ahem, eating pants. No fat shaming.
Miserylovescompany: Sorry!
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Hey, Woundedhealer, your friend, she hasn’t met your guy, has she?
Woundedhealer: No, that’s part of the issue. She can only go on what I tell her about him (or don’t tell her). And she’s been trying to get information outside of me about him.
Harmnoone82: Why don’t you tell her more about him? Or us? You can be pretty secretive.
Woundedhealer: Because he’s asked me not to. And I don’t want to betray his trust.
Miserylovescompany: Maybe you should introduce them. See what he thinks about her.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: There’s an idea.
Woundedhealer: I don’t think so. I like the idea of keeping him just mine too.
Miserylovescompany: Well, if you ever decide you want to talk about this mystery man with us . . . we are all ears (and double chins).
Biggirlsdontcry54: Yeah. Promise we won’t hate on him.
Woundedhealer: Thanks.
Harmnoone82: I say tell her how you feel. A real friend will support whatever life decisions you make.
MaxineKD: I say kick her to the curb. You don’t need friends like that.
Makeupyourmindcontrol: Definitely not when you have friends like us!
Woundedhealer: Thank you. What would I do without you ladies?
* * *
The alarm on my phone chimes and I make my way back into my treatment room, where Annelise is still snoring quietly. Once I’ve woken her and removed the needles, I help her roll over and sit upright. “How does that feel?” I can tell by her expression that she’s already experiencing relief. I’m glad.
“Oh my God. Charlotte. It is so much better. You are a godsend. I swear, girl, you have magic in your hands. Thank you so much.”
“I’m so glad. Don’t go dancing quite yet. Be gentle.” She hugs me hard and I stiffen slightly. The hurt from yesterday resurfaces and I realize it’s because I miss her. I miss my friends. I hadn’t realized how cut off from everyone I’ve been feeling.
“Char, what’s the matter?” She puts her hand on my shoulder.
“What do you mean? Nothing is wrong,” I lie.
“Honey, I can see it in your face. Plus, you can’t lie to me. I have toddlers, I can spot that shit a mile away now.” She squeezes my arm.
Before I can do anything to stop it, tears are falling freely. I’m surprised at how much emotion is coming out of me, and a little embarrassed. I’m not usually the one crying in my office. And I’ve been crying more this week than I have in a long time.
“Oh, sweetheart. Let’s get you some Kleenex.” She moves from the table to the nearby box and takes me by the hand to my waiting room, where we can both sit. The door to Rachel’s massage room is shut, which means she came in when my door was closed. She’s likely avoiding me. Muffled voices float into the waiting room. She’s in with a client and I feel self-conscious sitting so close to her office and talking with Annelise.
“Would you have time for a coffee? I don’t have any other patients and would love to get out of here.” I expect that she’ll turn me down. I don’t doubt that she has to get home to relieve her neighbor, who came over on short notice to sit for the kids.
“This requires something stronger than coffee.” She types something into her phone and waits for a minute for a response. “Good. Lucas just got home. Let’s go get something strong and alcoholic.”
* * *
Annelise came by Uber to my office, so I drive us to the nearest restaurant—La Vid. It is a big date-night place, but luckily we are sliding in before the dinner rush and get two seats at the corner of the bar. Annelise has already turned more than a few of the waitstaff’s heads walking in, and I’m used to it. Her former-ballerina, six-foot-one, gazelle-esque body, coupled with her flawless caramel skin, huge brown eyes, and close-cropped hair, makes her stand out in any room. She is always graciously dismissive of how otherworldly her beauty is and the effect it has on mortal men.
The bartender brings our martinis and lingers at our end of the bar polishing a glass a little longer than necessary. Annelise turns toward me and away from him, and he gets the hint and moves to the other end of the bar. We laugh quietly as she pushes her glass over to mine in a grounded “cheers” since our drinks are so full. I follow her lead and lean down to the rim to skim some of the vodka and olive juice from my glass until we can safely lift our drinks without spilling the precious alcohol.
“Okay, that’s better. Now, tell me.” She holds her drink expertly and pulls her shoulders back to correct her posture on the barstool. “What is bringing you down, honey?”
I take another thirsty sip of the cool, briny liquid and let it hang in my mouth for a moment before swallowing. I love the way the cold quickly becomes warm throughout my body. I hardly ever drink anything stronger than wine these days, but a very cold and dirty vodka martini used to be my go-to.
I consider what I can tell Annelise without betraying Peter. I don’t want to open up the can of worms that is Silvestri and the dead woman. I start with what is bothering me as it pertains to her. “Well, my feelings are hurt.” As soon as I say this out loud, the tears begin to well in my eyes. “I feel like everyone bailing last night was too coincidental not to be taken personally.” I take another sip of my drink. “Did I do something wrong?” A swell of emotion rises in me. I realize how quickly the vodka is kicking in and preemptively decide that I won’t be driving home.
Annelise sighs and places her drink on the bar. She is frowning and I can see she’s being deliberate about how to gently deliver whatever is causing her pained expression.
“Charlotte, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She sighs again, pauses, and locks her eyes with mine. I see her amazing maternal side shining through. I search her face for what is coming next.
“Then what is it, Lise? It isn’t just last night. I feel like everyone in our circle has gotten really busy and unresponsive all of a sudden.” I reach for the sweating glass of water sitting untouched next to my martini. “And not to be immature, but it feels like everyone just flaked on my birthday. It was my fortieth and, I don’t know, I guess I thought you guys would all do something for it.” I feel embarrassed for bringing it up, but in real time, I’m realizing how much the absence of anything really hurt me. “Rachel was the only one who acted like she cared.”
“Oh, honey. I don’t know what to say.” A few people have begun to filter in and claim seats nearby and she turns toward them.
I put my hand on hers to retrieve her attention. “Tell me. I can take it.”
“It’s complicated. I don’t think people know how to talk to you about this.” I can tell that she would rather be having any other conversation than this one. Annelise has never been one for big emotional talks; she prides herself on her unemotional, type A, practical problem-solving personality. It makes her an amazing CEO and mother of small children.
The bartender glances over and barely registers my outpouring before turning to a recently arrived group of men in suits. I’m finding that with each inhale meant to contain my feelings, more emotion escapes.
“It isn’t you, okay?” She’s still grasping for whatever she needs to say, and shifting uncomfortably.
“Then what?” I’m impatient.
“It isn’t what, Charlotte. It’s who,” she says.
I don’t need her to say; I already know. “Rachel.”
She nods seriously. “Rachel.”
* * *
In the Uber on th
e way home, I’m glad I had the foresight to leave my car in the restaurant parking lot. I’ll get it tomorrow, when the world isn’t spinning so quickly. Annelise has revealed so much that I didn’t know, and I’m searching myself for an explanation of how I could have missed all of it. The thoughts and feelings are so dizzying, I worry I might have to ask the driver to pull over. I have nothing in my stomach to expel, but my heart rate and increased saliva tell me that it doesn’t matter. My body wants to purge something. I shouldn’t have drunk as much as I did, but the bartender brought us another round of martinis without prompting, and I drank mine down fast while Annelise told me multiple gripes that the group has with Rachel, many of those things having to do with me.
Luckily, the traffic lights are in our favor and there is little traffic. It is going on eight o’clock and the autumn night is crisp. The moon is nearly full when I step out of the car and take in a refreshing gulp of fresh air.
I see her sitting on my front stoop with a medium-size box wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine sitting on her lap. I can see that she’s been crying. The impulse to comfort my friend is now replaced by coldness.
Annelise said so many troubling things once I’d stopped being defensive on Rachel’s behalf and just let her talk. She described months’ worth of weird behavior on Rachel’s part that, when assembled, added up so perfectly, I couldn’t believe I’d been so clueless. Things she’d said and done, seemingly “on my behalf,” but had never told me about were many. Small gestures and correspondences with the group of friends I’d invited her into that had slowly begun to erode their trust and inclusion of me, because of her. And most worrying, her erratic behavior sounded like she could be using again.
“She’s weirdly possessive of you, Char,” Annelise had said. “She acts like she knows you better than all of us, and in reality she’s known you the shortest amount of time. And more than that, she acts like she knows what is ‘best’ for you. Like she’s your mother and your wife, and you are a child bride in the nineteenth century or something.”