Better to Trust

by Frimmer, Heather

“What?” Grant had lost himself for a minute, his mind drifting back to the pills. He didn’t remember leaving them on the kitchen counter. Maybe they were still buried in the bottom of his bag. He’d have to check again before his next appointment.

  “Scott asked if he can go back to the museum,” Patricia said.

  “Museum, right.” If he had left the pills on the kitchen counter, there was a good chance Cynthia would find them. Damn it all. He didn’t want to have to explain to her why he was still taking them all these years later.

  “Is he well enough to go back to work?” Patricia asked again.

  Grant tried to focus on the conversation. He had no idea what Patricia had asked, so he waited for one of them to give him another clue. To buy some time, he walked over to the sink, took a paper towel from the dispenser and used it wipe the sweat from his face.

  “Are you feeling okay, Dr. Kaplan?” Scott asked.

  “Fine,” he said. “Just a busy day.”

  “So, he can go back?”

  “Trish, give him a minute,” Scott said.

  “It’s a simple question,” she said.

  Grant leaned against the counter and took a deep breath. If he could focus on their voices for a few minutes, he could give them the answers they were looking for and get the hell out of this room.

  “Yes,” he managed. “I think you’re ready.”

  Scott smiled. “Thank you so much for everything. It might be an everyday thing for you, but you made a really difficult time a lot easier.”

  “It was nothing,” Grant said. “And how’s your pain?”

  “Essentially nonexistent at this point,” Scott said. “I took a few of the pills you prescribed for the first two days after surgery, but I haven’t needed anything more than Tylenol since then. Who knew that having your skull cracked open would hurt less than a pulled muscle?”

  “Did you bring your pills with you?” Grant always asked his patients to bring their pill bottles in, ostensibly so he could see how many they had used and to make sure they weren’t taking any medications that might have interactions.

  “We did.” Patricia reached into her purse and pulled out two bottles of pills. “Scott would have forgotten, like he does everything else. You couldn’t fix his memory while you were in there?”

  Grant looked at the labels, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. The label on the first bottle said Crestor. Before this event, Scott had been perfectly healthy, so he’d only been taking this medication for mildly elevated cholesterol. The other was Oxycontin, the pain reliever Grant usually prescribed for post-operative pain.

  Grant held up the bottle of Oxycontin. “You don’t need these anymore?”

  “I haven’t taken it in five days.”

  “I’m so pleased with your recovery,” Grant said. “I’ll dispose of them for you. We have a program for that.”

  “Those have some serious street value.” Scott laughed.

  “That’s why we dispose of them safely,” Grant put the pill bottle in the pocket of his white coat. He didn’t need to take Oxy right now, but he could certainly add them to his stash for afterwork use.

  Grant stood in the hallway, talking a moment to lean against the wall and gather himself. He only had one new consult left to see before lunch, but he was having trouble ignoring the incessant pounding in his head, as if one of his surgical drills was twisting through his brain matter, trying to burrow its way out. As his head throbbed, he couldn’t help thinking about the pending lawsuit. With a tumor sitting right next to the auditory nerve, hearing loss was a known complication of that surgery, but Grant couldn’t stop ruminating about it. He wished the case were settled already. The rhythmic pounding had now spread to his temples. After he got through this next appointment, he’d try to get a refill of his meds at the hospital pharmacy during the lunch break. A brief thought of quitting cold turkey crossed his mind, but he pushed it away. With everything going on with Alison, now was not a good time to make major changes.

  “Dr. Kaplan.” Wendy said, walking toward him. “I need to speak with you for a minute.” Her voice sounded strange, the words coming out in slow motion.

  “Later,” he said, waving her away. Whatever she wanted to talk about would have to wait.

  “But Doctor …”

  He grabbed the chart from the slot outside the door. “Hello, I’m Dr. Kaplan,” he said as he entered the room.

  “Grant, I’ve known you for over twenty years. Your name is one thing I do know in this whole mess.” Grant looked up from the chart to see Alison sitting on the exam table, Michael standing by her side.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” He put the chart down on the counter. She looked like the picture of health, her blond hair framing her face and cheeks glowing.

  “We thought we’d do this the right way,” Michael said.

  “Do what the right way?”

  “A consultation,” Michael said. “An official opinion.”

  “From me? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “We went to Cleveland to see that Dr. Richman,” Michael said. “Not so rich in personality. What an asshole, and a godforsaken city to boot. We couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

  “It was a nightmare,” Alison said. “He’s supposed to be this world class expert and he just came across as a jerk.”

  “I’ve never met him in person,” Grant said, “but I’ve seen him speak at conferences. He’s very well respected.”

  “He gave us that treatment plan I sent you, but he also said we could just watch it.” Alison’s eyes started to well up. “He said the risks of surgery are very high because of the size and location of the tumor. He didn’t seem to be in favor of surgery.”

  “It’s not exactly a tumor,” Grant said. “It’s more like—”

  “What kind of expert says there’s nothing they can do?” Michael said.

  “He also said I need to take it easy,” Alison said. “No caffeine, no exercise, no sex.”

  “It’s bullshit,” Michael said. “There has to be something to do other than sit here and wait for it to bleed.”

  “I can’t do that,” Alison said. “I can’t just sit and wait. The anxiety will drive me crazy.”

  “I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” Grant said. “This is not an easy case. But there are some possible treatments.”

  “Like what?” Alison asked.

  “Do you want me to go into the details?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know this is awkward, but we need to hear what the options are, other than sitting and waiting for doomsday.”

  Grant couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with his sister-in-law. He thought back to medical school ethics course, Professor Farr saying if you couldn’t be impartial, then let someone else treat the patient. He had also said things like, “The physician’s personal feelings may unduly affect his medical judgment” and “when family members are the patient, the physician may fail to perform the more intimate parts of the physical examination.”

  “What do you think?” Michael asked.

  Grant’s thoughts continued to swirl. When he’d first started practicing, he’d seen his neighbor, Hallie Vitek, who’d had a pituitary adenoma pressing on her optic chiasm. Though Grant knew he could perform a flawless surgery, Professor Farr’s words echoed in his head while he evaluated her visual acuity and tracked her eye movements. On the off chance she had a complication, that would have caused a neighborhood scandal. It pained him to do it, but he’d decided to pass her off to Cal.

  “Grant, we need your opinion,” Alison said. “Dr. Richman may think we should do nothing, but he doesn’t know me. You do.”

  “Well, I would recommend a combination of treatments, similar to what Dr. Richman outlined,” he said, pulling himself together. He had to at least pretend to be a professional. “Debulking surgery followed by stereotactic radiotherapy.”

  “What does that mean?” Michael asked.

  “Your AVM
is too large to be treated with one modality,” Grant said. “We’d have to get a little bit creative.”

  “Do you think it will work?” Alison asked.

  “I’m not sure. But, since watch and wait isn’t something you’re willing to live with, it’s worth a shot.”

  “It’s going to have to work,” Michael said. “There aren’t any other options. Plus, being closer to home would be better.” Grant understood the subtext. Staying in Boston would allow Michael to sneak over to the office and continue preparing tax returns.

  “I didn’t mean the treatment,” Alison said, looking at Grant. “I meant you as my doctor.”

  Grant wasn’t sure how to answer. He shook his head once and watched Alison’s face fall. “I have to look into it. With you being family, there may be a conflict of interest.”

  “I understand the recommendations, but that doesn’t apply here, right?” Alison said, her forehead lined with worry. “Better to trust someone I’ve known half my life than some random stranger. You’re my best hope. I need you to do this for me.”

  He wasn’t one to shy away from a challenge, especially one this critical, and it was clear Alison and Michael wanted him to agree. He remembered receiving some sort of statement about treating family members in the envelope with his license renewal last month. He’d have to find that in the pile on his desk and look it over later.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Alison

  August 28, 2019

  SITTING ON THE BACK DECK the day after Becca’s call, the late summer sun warmed Alison’s skin. Even in late August she already noticed the days getting shorter, the humidity less intense. The hydrangea plants along the edge of the deck were still in bloom, their silky purple petals splayed open to the sky. She adjusted her sunglasses and looked up at the passing clouds. After being trapped inside for so long, she’d forgotten how nice it felt to breathe fresh air.

  “It’s nice out,” Nate said. “How come we don’t always sit out here?”

  “It’s hard for Mrs. Jacobs to sit in these chairs,” Rhea said, pulling a pair of jeans from the laundry basket on the patio table. “But a short time is fine, right?”

  “Alright,” Alison said, wiping a trickle of drool from the corner of her mouth. The breeze lifted her hair and cooled the back of her neck, a reminder that small things could still bring her pleasure. She’d been able to walk to the chair with only the cane for support, a victory she longed to share with Becca. Alison’s mind kept turning back to what Becca had said on the phone yesterday, that she would visit today, no matter what. Alison wasn’t sure what Becca expected from the visit, whether the future Becca envisioned was based in reality or purely fantasy.

  “Nate, why don’t you tell Mrs. Jacobs about your part,” Rhea said, placing the folded jeans in the pile. “She’s been waiting to hear.”

  Nate looked up from his homework. “Oh my gosh, it’s amazing. Mrs. Logan said she was going to post the cast list on Friday afternoon, but she put it up early and everyone was crowding around the board and I couldn’t see the list and then finally I got to the front and oh my gosh.” Nate bounced in his chair.

  “He’s a bit excited,” Rhea said.

  “Cooper got Simba which is great because he can really sing even though he only sang Happy Birthday for the auditions, and Elise Cohen got Pumba which makes sense cause she’s a lot taller than me and—”

  “Nate, you’re keeping Mrs. Jacobs in suspense.”

  Alison couldn’t tell Rhea that she couldn’t focus on Nate’s monologue, that whatever suspense she thought he was creating was lost on her. Her mind was tuned to the Becca channel. She couldn’t stop thinking about whether Becca would show up, and if it would be awkward and what they would say to each other.

  “Drumroll, please … I got Timon!” Nate stood up, puts his arms out and did his best jazz hands. “Which is totally amazing and I’ll have to work on my comic timing to get it right. They say comedy is the hardest to master.” While Nate went on about how he was ready to rise to the challenge, Alison prayed that Becca wouldn’t visit during dinnertime. Having Becca watch her eat would be mortifying.

  “I’m not sure Mrs. Jacobs knows who your character is. Maybe you should explain a bit.”

  He grinned. There was nothing Nate liked more than explaining.

  “Okay. M … M … More,” she managed.

  “So, he’s the meerkat. The cute funny one. Mrs. Logan says we should get ready to ham it up.” He rolled his eyes and did another set of jazz hands. “She said we might get to improv a little bit. That means make stuff up.”

  He pulled a skirt from the pile of folded laundry and held it in front of him, swinging his hips from side to side. “What do you want me to do, dress in drag and do the hula?” he said in a funny voice.

  “Is that one of your lines?” Rhea asked.

  “Yeah, I have to start memorizing. I’ve never had to remember so many before.”

  The latch on the fence door clinked and Alison’s heart jumped.

  Becca walked across the backyard, her hair bouncing as she climbed the stairs up to the deck. Makeup free and wearing her workout clothes—leggings and a form-fitting t-shirt—she’d never looked more beautiful.

  “Look who’s here,” Rhea said. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Ms. Corrie, what are you doing here?” Nate asked. “It’s like that time when I saw Mr. Harrison in Market Basket. He had tons of junk food in his cart. Cheetos, Chips Ahoy, Ben and Jerry’s. It was so weird.”

  Becca laughed and tousled Nate’s hair.

  “Teachers are people too, Nate,” Rhea said.

  “No worries,” Becca said. “I remember feeling the same way when I was a kid. There was nothing more humiliating than seeing a teacher in public. Hello, my dear,” Becca bent down to kiss Alison’s cheek. Alison felt an embarrassing rush between her legs, something she hadn’t felt in a long while. It felt good to know she could still get turned on, but it was also a depressing reminder that the chemistry between them was as strong as ever.

  Becca sat down. “You look great.” People felt the need to tell Alison how great she looked when she knew she looked like crap. She used to look great. She used to be fit and toned, turning heads when she walked down Beacon Street, even though forty wasn’t far off. Now, she looked old and haggard, twenty pounds lighter despite the Ensure shakes Rhea tried to force on her, and most of that weight was muscle. Her face was emaciated, her cheeks concave, and dark circles rimmed her eyes.

  “She does, doesn’t she?” Rhea said. “My prayers are being answered.”

  “How’s the physical therapy going? Still working hard?”

  “Yeah…” She lifted the cane in the air.

  “You two haven’t visited in a while,” Rhea said. “We’ll give you some time to yourselves. Nate, let’s go get a snack inside.”

  “But Mom, I was just getting to the part when Timon meets Simba. My star moment. Ms. Corrie would want to hear about it, too.”

  “There’ll be plenty of time to share more later. And you should save some surprises for the actual show.” Rhea opened the sliding door and motioned for Nate to follow her.

  Nate picked up his backpack and followed his mother inside.

  “I’ll tell Mr. Harrison you send your regards,” Becca said as they left.

  “So, how are you?” Becca said.

  “Alright.” In truth, she was lonely. Her life seemed meaningless without work, and the kids, and most of all, without Becca. Alison wished she could tell Becca that with words, not only with her eyes.

  Becca leaned forward so they were almost touching. “I’ve missed you more than I can say. When you stopped taking my calls, I told myself you needed your space, that you were still grieving and I needed to let you go through the process, but I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her eyes glassy.

  “Okay. I … I …” Alison was trying to say that not an hour went by when she didn’t think of her, picturing her muscular calves, her gap-too
thed smile, the look of tranquility on her face after sex. Alison loved when Becca got aroused, the way she would clench her muscles and hold her breath as she neared climax, but she relished that peaceful moment afterwards even more.

  “I miss your body next to mine,” Becca said. “But really, I miss talking to you and sharing everything. I didn’t fully realize what we had until it was gone. I took you for granted. It was torture for me when I couldn’t see you in the hospital. You can’t cut me off again.”

  “I … sorry,” Alison’s heart beat harder at Becca’s confession. She missed their closeness, too, but she could barely speak simple words so sharing seemed impossible. One of these days, Becca would wake up from her fantasy and realize that hitching herself to this broken-down wagon was a horrible mistake. She was young and beautiful and could find someone else in a split second.

  Becca wiped her eyes and took her phone out of her bag. “Look,” she said, holding up a photo of one of the Irish castles they’d talked about visiting. “It’s still there, waiting for us.”

  Alison shook her head, picked up her phone and scrolled to the Tinder app they’d downloaded together one afternoon as a joke. She showed Becca the screen and raised her eyebrows in question. Find someone else, she wanted to tell her. Someone who isn’t broken.

  “I’ve looked,” she said. “Anything to get you out of my head, but everything comes back to you, Alison. Other women can’t compare.”

  “Miss,” she managed. She did miss her, desperately, even though she was sitting right here on her deck. Moments in the past few months she’d longed to share with Becca—a small victory at physical therapy, a silly joke from Nate, a news brief on CNN—come crashing to her mind.

  “I know you do,” she said. “I understand why you’ve been trying to push me away, but I won’t let you do it. Your condition doesn’t erase our connection.”

  “I …”

  “Remember how scared you were before your surgery? When we were together that afternoon at my place after you got your diagnosis? I swore to you that day that I would be there for you no matter what. We knew it would be hard and we’d have to figure it out. Michael … your family, school. It’s been harder than I thought, but I’m still by your side. Remember you were worried you might never wake up? Well, you did. You did wake up and you’re still here. It’s time to make the most of the life you’ve been given.” Becca sat back in her chair, a look of exhaustion on her face.