by Rena Mason
“It just means that there’s too much in your system, so you pee out the extra.”
Nice, layman terms—I had to ask. I’m amazed he hasn’t said piss, yet. “Oh. And then what happens?”
“You’ll need more tests. I’ll have to refer you to an endocrinologist.”
The phrase “Whatever,” and the attitude that accompanies it, is about to leave my mouth when Dr. Swanson looks up from the folder.
“It’s an endocrine doctor—a hormone specialist.”
“Ah.”
Asshole! Dr’s wife does not mean physician by association. Hormone specialist? How come when women get ill, it’s always because of hormones? I know what he’s thinking. “I’m sure your hormones are just off balance.” If he says it, I’m going to kick him.
“Well, I’ve done all I can. Just waiting on the rest of the lab results. I’ll call Jon and let him know my findings.” He stands up and reaches his hand out again. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Troy, and don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I shake his hand. His grip isn’t as aggressive this time around. “Thanks again for seeing me.”
“Not at all. Take care.”
“Bye.”
He’s already gone and in the adjacent exam room greeting his next patient. I hear the rack behind the door bang around as he takes the folder from it. I get up from the table, grab my purse and head up to the front desk. Betty spots me right away. I take my wallet out and open it up to get my insurance card.
“It’s covered, Mrs. Troy. You can go.”
“Please, thank him again for me.”
“Will do. Have a nice day.”
“You, too.”
No charge. Of course now I feel a little crappy about my impression of him, but he really was an asshole. Or maybe that’s just how he is. I guess all doctors are bizarre in their own ways. He definitely made Dr. Light seem not-so-bad in my eyes. I wonder what Jon’s patients think about him and his bedside manner. God, I hope he doesn’t joke around with them the way he does me. I imagine the worst, but I’m sure he’s nothing like that.
* * *
Ha! It’s miraculous. Everything is running on time today, despite the interruptions. I pull up to the high school a few minutes early and use the time to look through my day planner. It’s been a while since I’ve opened it. My life has become so spontaneous it’s barely necessary anymore. Hard to believe not that long ago I couldn’t function on a daily basis without it.
Apparently, the only big upcoming event I thought worth planning for is the surgery center holiday party, and most of that is done. Now it’s just a matter of making confirmations via phone calls. Jordan is in charge of some of the preparations, too, through her nonprofit organization, which is still based out of Dallas. That’s how she gets tax breaks on her estate. Personally, I don’t care where her business is, I’m just happy to have the help.
With the day planner on my lap, I lean back and look up at the sky. It seems hazy today, even through the tinted gradient of the windshield. I grab a pen from the console and start scribbling lines across the blank pages in tune with the tones. Every low note is a valley, every high, a peak. I never studied music or played an instrument, but now I wish I had. Maybe it’s a type of code they use to spell out secret messages. I write the letters B-A-D, across three of the peaks. That wouldn’t make any sense though, not every letter in the alphabet is a musical note—that much I do know.
I jump at a tap on the glass. My day planner shuts in my lap. It’s Patrick. I unlock the door, and he gets in.
“What were you doing?”
“Going through my lists. How was your day?”
“Good. Tomorrow’s only a half day.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“When do you get out?”
“One.”
“Hmm…”
“When do Grandma and Grandpa get here?”
“Not until three. I’ll be able to get you.”
“’Kay.”
“You excited for the holiday?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why do you guess?”
“It’s just turkey. Then Dad and Grandpa watch sports, and you and Grandma go out.”
“But it’s nice that we can all sit down together as a family, even if it’s only for an hour.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“It’s supposed to be a time for giving thanks.”
“I know…never mind.” He turns his head and looks out the passenger window.
Of course, he is absolutely right about Thanksgiving. From a teenager’s perspective, I guess it would be boring. I was an only child, like Jon, and Patrick is, too, so he’s never had a bunch of cousins to play football with or show around town. Maybe I should have taken Tara up on her offer to join them for Thanksgiving, but it’s too late now.
I’m not sure why Jon and I decided to have only one child, that’s just how it worked out. Jon was busy finishing his residency and then establishing his practice. It seemed any more kids would be too much, but not having any wouldn’t feel right, either. The timing in my career made it the perfect opportunity. It was the easy way. Perhaps, I’ve always taken that route—lived it.
There was never a time I can remember when I felt wanting, sorrow, or pain. My parents were not wealthy, but we were always happy. I loved school, attended college and met Jon there. Everything seemed to follow some sort of formula for a happy life—until the nightmares began.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Patrick and I pull into the parking lot for practice, I see Gail leaning against our tree. Patrick hands me some stuff, then runs out to the field where Coach and a few other boys are standing. Gail waves me over.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says. Then with my chair in hand and Patrick’s crap bunched in my arm, she steps up and gives me a really big hug. Then she lets go and steps back.
“Yeah, it’s been a while. You look great, though. How’s everything going?”
“Fantastic, actually.”
“Excellent.” I drop Patrick’s things on the grass then open up the chair and sit down. “Did you forget your blanket? I keep a beach towel in the car you can use.”
“No, but thanks. I’m not staying long.”
“Why? If you have to go, I can bring Justin home.” I shade my eyes and look out to the field. Justin is nowhere in sight. “Where is he?”
“That’s why I came early. I wanted to talk to you.”
“What is it?”
“Justin doesn’t want to play soccer anymore. He thinks he might just stick with baseball in the spring.”
“Burned out?”
“I guess.”
“I’m afraid that might eventually happen with Pat, too, but it won’t break my heart.”
“No doubt, but anyway—there’s more.” She sighs. “I think Justin’s a little embarrassed about being suspended at school for punching lockers. He’s been talking a lot lately about transferring to Bishop Almeida.”
“Oh no, Gail, you can’t. The boys have all practically grown up together. People will get over what happened. It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“I know, but he wants a fresh start.”
“I understand…I guess.” Poor kid—I know he’s been struggling with the whole divorce drama, but I had no idea it was this bad. Switching schools? “Patrick would freak out, but if it’ll make Justin feel better, then you’ve got to do what brings him happiness. I’ll miss seeing you guys around, though. Next year won’t be the same if you’re not there.”
“He wants to start after Thanksgiving. We’ve already taken care of the paperwork.”
“What? Oh my God, and you never said a thing? You should’ve called, or we could’ve met for coffee.”
“I’m telling you now. Justin didn’t want me to make a big scene or tell anyone. I tried to talk him out of it, but like you said…if it brings him happiness…”
“Wow. I wasn’t expecting any of this.”
“Shit happens, Stacy, you know that. I just wanted to tell you, because you’ve always been a good friend to me. Not like the rest of them.”
“What? But they love you, too, Gail.”
“No. Not really.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, though.”
“I wish you would’ve talked to me about it then.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything. This is how it’s got to be.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. I’m sure it’ll all come out eventually. It always does. I just kind of wanted to say goodbye, sort of. Explain to you what I could and let you know I’ve always appreciated your friendship.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing you can. What’s done is done, but I want you to know I’m happy. I’m happy about everything.”
She stoops down and gives me another big hug, kisses the side of my head, whispers. “Thank you.” Then she walks to her car, gets in, and drives away.
I’m dumbfounded, sitting in my soccer mom chair, staring out at the parking lot with a gaping mouth. What the hell just happened? Was that my craziness, or was that real? Right now, I honestly don’t know.
Patrick runs up and grabs a water bottle from his pile of stuff. He tilts his head back and gulps until the plastic caves in.
“Pat, you saw Mrs. Katz here, right?”
“Yeah,” he pants. “Where’s Justin?”
“Uh, he’s skipping today. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“’Kay. Is Kyle skipping too?”
“I don’t think so…Cally didn’t say anything. They’re probably just late again.”
“Crap. I hate running extra laps. I’m gonna kill him.”
“No killing of friends, today. I’ve got dinner plans.”
“Whatever.” He tosses the empty bottle down then runs back out to the field.
It was all real then, everything Gail told me. Normally, I’m quick to pick up on these things, but I don’t think so clearly anymore. My thoughts are in a constant jumble, dancing around to the music that never leaves my mind. She’s probably better off not telling me about her problems. I’m the worst friend to have right now, most likely incapable of giving any sane advice.
God, I feel guilty about letting her down, though. What she must be going through. When she stopped coming to yoga and then book club the other night, I should have known something was wrong. A phone call at the right time might have meant something. Then again, no one has really said anything to me since I stopped yoga. None of us want to talk about what is really happening in our lives. Not even me.
* * *
Sitting at my vanity, staring into empty eyes, “Cally and Kyle never showed up for practice today,” I say.
“Hmm,” Jon mumbles from the open closet. “Did you call? We’re still on for dinner, right?” He leans his head out for a response.
“No. Yeah. She would’ve called. I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“If you say so. We should leave soon.” He steps out buttoning his cuffs. Leans down and kisses the side of my head. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
“I’m just about ready.”
“Ready? You’re not going out like that.”
“What?”
“You’re half-naked.”
Then I realize I’m wearing just my bra and panties. “Oh, yeah. It won’t take long.”
“Your eyes look a little puffy, too. You should try and cover up the dark circles. Are you sure you’re okay to go out?”
I smile a closed smile, holding back a show of gnashing teeth and nod my head. He turns around then leaves the bathroom.
I dab more makeup under my eyes with a wedged sponge. How is it that he points out the bags and dark circles around my eyes, but fails to notice the pot of coffee I drink every morning or my lack of appetite? Maybe it’s more normal for a doctor to recognize physical changes and natural for a husband to ignore the obvious ones.
“You See,” I tell the tones. “You’re making me look old and ugly.”
I stop and listen for a moment, but there’s no response. Only the same loop of tones playing the identical song in different pitches. I bet there are twenty-six in all. One singular message, yet spoken individually.
Twenty minutes or so later, I make my way downstairs. Jon is still in the office. “Are you coming?” I shout up.
“Be right down,” he yells back.
I walk into the kitchen and Patrick is standing at the counter eating pizza straight out of the cardboard box.
“Why don’t you sit down and get a plate?” I say.
“Nah, I’ll be done in a minute, and I don’t want to dirty a dish.”
“You don’t want to wash one, you mean.”
“That’s what the dishwasher’s for. Besides, I’m done. See.” He lifts the lid to show me his handiwork.
The pizza was a large, too. I don’t know where he puts it. He emptied the entire thing, even scraped away the melted cheese. There’s nothing left but a big grease stain. Geez, I’ve got to stop with the junk food, but it’s just so easy. “At least throw out the box,” I say.
“But you’re headed that way. Would you, Mom? Please.”
“Fine.” I close the lid and carry it away with one hand, my clutch in the other. If your father comes down, tell him I’m waiting in the garage.”
“’Kay. Thanks. You kids have fun,” he shouts from halfway up the stairs.
“That’s not funny,” I yell back.
* * *
Cally and Bill are in the lobby of the restaurant sipping cocktails when we finally arrive.
“There you are,” Cally says. “I was just about to text.” She steps up and kisses the air at both sides of my head.
Bill and Jon shake hands. “You’re not on call are you?” Bill says.
“No,” Jon says. “It was all her this time.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say.
“Let’s get our table,” Cally says.
An attractive young woman approaches. “Is this the rest of your party?”
“Yes,” Cally says.
The hostess grabs four menus from the counter behind the maître d podium. “This way, please.” Then she leads us to a glass elevator in the middle of the restaurant that goes up to a large platform. There’s a thick pole in the center that appears to be holding it up. It reminds me of the acrobats who spin dishes on sticks while standing on their heads.
“The table doesn’t spin around, does it?” I say, unsure I could handle it.
“No,” says the hostess. “But I do get that question a lot.”
“Thank God,” Cally says. “Spinning, and cocktails, and dinner, Oh my.”
The elevator doors open to an elegantly decorated dining table with velvet high-back chairs. Down below is a perfect view of the entire restaurant.
“Good thing we’re not afraid of heights,” I mumble. It’s not that high up but enough to make me feel slightly off balance. A glass wall surrounds the edge of the platform, but it doesn’t offer any increased sense of safety. I suppose that’s the appeal, giving it a VIP status. I’m truly amazed people put their names on a long waiting list for this table. Within a year or so it will lose its appeal, and people will move on to the next big thing.
The hostess leaves, closing a glass gate behind her. Then a few minutes later, a waiter comes up to take our drink order.
“Just water for me, please,” I say. I wouldn’t want to get woozy and trip over the only thing keeping us from falling—a three-foot-high, clear glass enclosure.
“The selections are on the back of the wine list, ma’am.” He turns over the ridiculously large, leather bound drink menu and points them out to me.
There must be twenty different things listed for water. “Whatever you recommend,” I tell him.
“Do you prefer flat or sparkling?”
“Flat, please.”
“For the whole table t
hen?”
“Yes.”
After he takes our orders, he goes back down the elevator. Then a bunch of different people come up and down with our drinks, bread, and a tasting from the chef. It is completely distracting, and at one point, three people from the serving staff were on the platform with us. I thought I felt the floor give a little underneath my feet, and it made me horribly nervous.
Once our food orders are out of the way, it quiets down. Bill and Jon strike up a conversation. I lean across the table toward Cally. “Did you forget about practice?” I say.
“No. Things just got busy.” She won’t look me in the eyes. Instead, she stares down at her silverware. “I was running late with errands then realized we wouldn’t make it on time. Kyle didn’t want to be blamed for the team having to run extra laps, so we decided to skip.”
“Oh.”
“Were Gail and Justin there?” Her eyes move up to mine.
“What’re you two talking about?” Bill interrupts.
“Nothing,” Cally says. She makes a slight smile.
Something isn’t right. She almost looks afraid. “Just soccer,” I reply.
“How’s that big party of yours coming along?” Bill says. “Cally tell you we got the invitation?”
“They’re absolutely fab,” Cally says.
“Wow, I can’t believe Jordan sent them out already,” I say.
“I was surprised, too. A little early, don’t you think?” Cally says with an inquisitive tone. Her changing expressions from fear to curiosity, makes it all the more hard for me to try and decipher what exactly is going on.
Jon clears his throat. “She called me at the center not too long ago and asked about it. She didn’t want to bother you, I guess. I told her to do whatever she thought would raise the most money.”
“Oh,” is all I can say. Between the VIP table, Cally’s strange behavior, and just the overall feeling that nothing is right—I’m in a daze.
I look at Jon, and he smiles quaintly then turns to face Bill. The men get into a new discussion about golf. Cally starts talking about Tara and news regarding the interviews for the Housewives show. I look at her occasionally and nod. Take a sip of water then say, yes. The conversation continues but without me. She lost me after the first sentence. Then I wonder if Jon and Bill are actually listening to one another or just wanting to hear the sound of their own voices.