Samira stares, wide-eyed.
“So yeah, if you really want to know what’s eating at me, it’s what your dad said. It’s stupid. Completely stupid.”
“If it’s so stupid, then why is it eating at you?”
I shake my head and wave my hands.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter! He’s wrong. It’s like there’s some big conspiracy to make me forget Aaron.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You, Brett, your dad, everyone. I feel so much pressure to move on, to just ‘get over it.’ How do you ever just get over it? I can’t un-remember him.”
“No one’s asking you to,” Samira says hesitantly.
I laugh. A bitter, empty laugh. “Sure feels like it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s like no one is comfortable with me even talking about Aaron anymore. I feel like I can’t mention him, or remember him, or look at his picture, or anything.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Brett asked me whom I’d choose.”
“What?”
“Whom I’d choose. Aaron or Brett, Brett or Aaron. It ripped me to pieces.”
“Oh Soph, I’m so sorry…”
“Yeah, well, so am I.”
Tears run down my face and drip onto my T-shirt.
Samira inches closer to me. “Maybe what Brett was asking was whether you’d choose to live in the past with your memories of Aaron, or to live in the present with him.”
“But it’s an unfair question. I could never wish anyone dead.”
“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” she says. “I think he just needs validation that you love him completely, here and now. Aren’t you tired of having a foot in both worlds?”
She lays a hand on my shoulder. “Soph, I know what you must be feeling…”
I jerk away from her.
“You have no idea what this feels like.”
I stand and glare down at her. “You think you’re so perfect, don’t you? You and your perfect little life. A job you love, married to your soul mate. Well, lah-de-fucking-dah. What if Narayan died, and suddenly everyone was pushing you to move on with your life, to stop living in the past. To forget him. To not ever talk about him again. Can you even grasp how hard that would be?”
Samira’s face contorts, looking hurt.
Good. I want to hurt her.
“Would you be so damn chipper if you had to work at a job you hated for the rest of your life? Or if you couldn’t pay your bills and had to consider moving back in with your parents?”
Samira lifts up her head. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re. So. Full. Of. Shit.”
She stands, calmly facing me. “You hate nursing so much? So quit. Go back to school, do what you gotta do. But don’t blame anyone but yourself for getting into the mess you’re in now.”
She steps toward me. “And as for choosing? I don’t blame Brett one bit. It’s no wonder the guy feels so insecure. You’ve had Aaron on such a pedestal for years, no one else can even come close.”
“Stop it.”
“Don’t put this on me, just because I have what you want.”
“Stop it. You don’t know what it’s like,” I cry.
Samira pauses.
“You’re right, I’ll never completely know what you’re going through. But don’t make me feel guilty for enjoying what I have. I know you want to be happy, to find true love. You could have that with Brett. And you’re treating him like garbage.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you couldn’t talk about Aaron anymore. I didn’t realize you felt that way. But you need to accept that he’s not coming back. He’s not waiting in the wings, for whenever Brett or the next guy messes up. Aaron is dead.”
Something in me snaps.
“Get out of my house.”
“Soph…”
“Get out of my house!” I scream.
And I scream and scream until my throat hurts.
Samira regards me for a moment, and finally does what I’ve been begging her to do since she got here.
She leaves.
As soon as the door closes, I let myself fall apart.
Chapter 35
Hand of Fate
Ain’t this pretty.
No job, no best friend, no boyfriend, and no money.
Well, that isn’t completely true. There’s fifty bucks in my checking account.
I stare at my computer screen, going over my bills. Fifty bucks isn’t going to last long. Those unemployment checks can’t come in soon enough.
No one ever intends to hit rock bottom.
And yet, here I am. Friendless, jobless, loveless, and a heartbeat away from having to move back in with my parents.
I can picture it now. Living in my parents’ basement, feeling like a big fat failure who hasn’t “found” herself yet. I’ll stay up late watching the Shopping Channel, live in sweatpants, and eat Nutella straight from the jar.
I look around my house. It’s eerily quiet.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Ugh! I can’t stand staring at my walls another second. I’m going out.
I suit up in my winter boots and thick coat, and head outside. Fresh snow has fallen overnight. I trudge through, my mind and feet wandering with no destination in mind.
I wish Brett and I hadn’t gone to the mall that day. If we hadn’t run into Martine, maybe Brett and I would have never fought.
Sometimes I wish I’d never met Aaron. If everything is for a reason, then what was the reason for me meeting Aaron? It certainly wasn’t so we’d spend the rest of our lives together.
Well, technically, he did spend the rest of his life with me.
Maybe that’s what my purpose was, to be there for him at the end.
Ravi’s voice rings clear in my memory:
“What if, what if, what if. It’ll drive you crazy. Forgive yourself, forgive him, forgive the whole situation. You can’t fix it. You could never fix it. Let it go.”
I walk faster, my feet punching out an angry rhythm. A car horn blasts, jerking my attention upward.
“Ahh!” I yell, and quickly jump back onto the curb.
I can’t believe it.
I just walked into traffic. Maybe I am driving myself crazy.
Pulse pounding, I scrape my hair back over my head and look around. I hope nobody saw that. Where am I, anyway?
I see a familiar café across the street, looking warm and cozy through the display windows.
Adrian’s.
I glance down at my boots.
Good job, feet. Maybe I should walk on autopilot more often.
You know, except for the whole nearly-dying thing.
Adrian’s is filled with the usual assortment of people you’ll find at a café/coffee house on a weekday morning. College students looking gray and sluggish after pulling all-nighters. Blue-haired retirees catching up on gossip. Yummy mummies drinking skinny lattes.
It’s difficult to describe how much I love it here. It almost feels like coming home. The smells of coffee and freshly baked goods mix deliciously in the air.
Perhaps today will be a turning point for me. Spend a few hours here, go home and paint my toenails red, take a long bubble bath. Be a lady of leisure.
I order a large vanilla latte and chocolate chip scone.
“That will be $9.43, please,” the cashier says.
Crap. I forgot how expensive being a lady of leisure can be. I hesitantly offer my debit card.
I take my expensive latte and scone and look for a seat. Thankfully, one of the much-coveted seats by the fire is free. I park my arse in it, and plan to nurse my coffee for at least two hours so I won’t have to move from it.
The see-through fireplace is great, as there is seating on either side. An older couple sit on the opposite side, sipping their coffees. The lady is calmly flipping through a magazine, but the
man seems a bit jumpy. In fact, he looks a bit sweaty.
Hmm. Well, try not to think about it. I don’t feel like piecing symptoms together right now. That is, if they’re symptoms at all. They could be anything. I bet he’s just bored, and feeling too hot by the fire.
I try to relax a bit and just enjoy the moment.
A woman sits down at a table close by. She’s wearing stylish work clothes, a chunky statement necklace, and dark angular glasses. A large carry case on rollers sits at her feet. Hmm. I wonder what she does for a living.
I take a pen from my purse and start scribbling on a napkin. What are my career options? Actually, before I start thinking of options, I need to know what my criteria are. I scribble a title at the top of the napkin.
New Job Criteria
1) Something I can do right away
2) Decent wage
3) Get to dress up for work (i.e., no scrubs or running shoes)
I tap my pen against my teeth.
Now think, Sophie. What jobs could I apply for today?
Option 1: Nurse
Bleeeeeechhh…
Logically, I know I could try another hospital, or another unit. But, the idea of returning to a hospital makes me want to jump off a building. Besides, it violates criterion number three.
All right, what else can I come up with?
Option 2: Stripper
Definitely a good way to make a lot of money fast. Or is that a stereotype?
Hmm…Will have to research that.
(Note to self: how exactly am I going to research this?)
Also not sure if glitter and sequins constitutes “dressing up” for work. And how does the interview process work? In lieu of the usual questions (ex.: where do you see yourself in five years; what is your biggest weakness), do you just put on some techno and start jiggling around?
What if someone I knew saw me dancing? Like an uncle, or old coworker or something? Or worse, what if Brett saw me? That’d be a tad awkward. And, would leave me in the strange position of asking him why he’d be in a strip club in the first place, and then he’d ask why I was dancing in one, and it would just get ugly from there.
Okay. So no to “stripper.”
Option 3: Phone Sex Operator
Pros: Excellent money (or so I’ve heard), and I could work from home and dress however I please. And, I could use fake accents: pretend I’m French one day and Russian the next. It could be fun!
Cons: Would have to talk to weirdos every day, asking me what I was wearing (“Sweatpants; thanks for asking”), demanding me to smack my ass, or asking if they could listen to me pee.
Umm…no. Hell no.
—
I go to take another drink from my oversized mug, and realize that it’s empty. My scone is gone too, save for a few crumbs.
There’s $40.57 left in my bank account, and I’m no closer to finding a solution. So much for an inspiring morning.
The man sitting on the other side of the fireplace shifts in his chair. Through the flames, I see him push up the sleeves of his heavy sweater. Several beige patches run up and down his arms.
Are those nicotine patches?
There are at least five on each arm.
I feel my stomach do a funny flip. This is not good.
“Excuse me, sir, but may I ask why you have so many patches on?”
A pair of blue eyes with a million laugh lines look at me.
“Oh, it’s to help me quit smoking,” he says. “A pack a day, since I was six.”
“Since you were six?”
“Yeah. Dad was in the army; all of us army brats smoked early. What’s it to you?” he asks, laughing.
“I’m a nurse, and I’m curious about why you’re wearing so many. It’s very dangerous to wear more than one nicotine patch at a time.”
He offers a sweet, condescending smile.
“Don’t worry about me, love,” he says. “I’m perfectly safe. Here, look at these instructions that came with the package. I just picked them up this morning.”
He digs through the white paper pharmacy bag, and stabs a thick finger at the instructions.
“See? It shows patches all over his body. Arms, chest, back. I followed the instructions to a tee.”
I slap a hand over my face.
“You mean to say that you have more patches on than what you’ve got on your arms?”
He puffs out his chest. “Sure do. I always follow instructions.”
His wife nods along. “Oh yes, he always does exactly what his doctor tells him.”
Mr. Nicotine Patch lifts his shirt, revealing a hairy chest and belly dappled with flesh-colored patches. I thump my fist against my forehead a few times.
“Who is your family doctor?” I ask calmly.
“Dr. St. Luke, over at the new medical center. Do you know of him?”
“Umm…you could say that.”
“He’s our new doctor. We tried one of the lady doctors…what was her name?”
“Dr. Treehorne,” his wife says.
“Right. Tree doctor. Silly little woman. Was glad to be rid of her. Always asking questions, like if we understood why we were taking certain medications. Rubbish. If a doctor says you need it, then you take it. They know best.”
His foot is tapping rapidly on the floor.
Mrs. Nicotine Patch leans forward. “Oh yes, Dr. St. Luke is much better. Those female doctors don’t seem to know as much.”
I feel like laughing hysterically.
“Are you feeling dizzy?” I ask.
“Yeah, a bit. How’d you know?”
I ignore him, and feel for his radial pulse. He’s tachy.
“Do you feel nauseous?” I ask.
“Well, a bit. But it’s just low blood sugar, I’m sure. I’m diabetic, you know…”
Oh great.
“You just leave it to me, love,” he says. “I’ve been diabetic a long time. A glass of orange juice is what I need. It’ll perk me right up.”
“I don’t think your sugar is low,” I say, noting remnant crumbs from a stack of chocolate chip cookies.
“You have way too many nicotine patches on. You’re only supposed to wear one at a time, see?” I say, motioning to a sentence at the top of his instruction page.
Mrs. Nicotine Patch puts her glasses on and looks down her nose.
“Goodness, Charlie, she’s right,” she says.
“She is? Gimme that.”
He snatches the paper away from her. A moment later, he looks up at me, brow furrowed.
“Well, then why do they show this picture?”
“It shows all of the places you can put a patch,” I say, “Not that you should wear them all at the same time.”
He leans backs into his chair, wincing and rubbing his stomach.
“Does your stomach hurt?”
“A little, but you know, at my age, everything hurts.” He laughs.
I wish I had my scrubs and stethoscope on now; he’d take me a bit more seriously. Right now, I’m just a strange woman accosting him over his morning coffee.
“I think you might have nicotine poisoning. You’re only supposed to wear one patch at a time, and you’ve got on…”
I look into the pharmacy bag, and see an empty NicoDerm box.
My stomach turns to ice.
“You put all of them on?”
He shrugs. “I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.”
He glances up at his wife. He’s looking paler and sweatier by the second. I retrieve my cell phone from my coat pocket.
“Hang tight, I’m calling an ambulance. You need an emergency room.”
He nods, looking a bit scared. “Hmm. Guess you are pretty smart. For a nurse, anyway.”
I help take the patches off one by one, and stay with him until the ambulance arrives.
—
When the hubbub eventually dies down, I slump back down into my chair, my scribbled- on napkin looking more pathetic by the second. I crumple it, then push it deep into
my coffee mug. I rub my forehead and think about Mr. Nicotine Patch. I can’t believe what just happened there. I hope he’ll be okay.
The smartly dressed lady a few tables over catches my eye, and nods at me.
“Nice save,” she says, smiling.
I smile back. “Oh, thanks. It was nothing.”
I look at my cozy seat by the fire. “Why don’t you join me? The fire is nice.”
“Okay,” she says, and walks over, her black carry case wheeling behind her.
“I’m Marcy,” she says, offering to shake my hand.
“Sophie.”
“So, Sophie, what do you do?” she asks, sipping her coffee.
I shift side to side in my seat.
“I’m in between jobs right now.”
Which is code for I’m a frigging idiot who quit her job without having a backup plan.
“I’m a nurse,” I add. “What do you do?”
“I’m a drug rep. In fact,” she says, looking at her watch, “I was supposed to meet a doctor here for a quick coffee, but it looks like he’s standing me up.”
She laughs, and waves it off. “Not that it hurts me any. I love Adrian’s.”
“Me too,” I say. “So, drug rep. Does that mean you take drug samples to doctors’ offices every day?”
“That’s part of my job,” she confirms, “but a lot of it is cultivating relationships with the local docs. Discussing medications with them, meeting them for golf, coffee, lunch, whatever, letting them know about new medicines on the market and how they compare with old meds.”
She leans back in her chair. “I love my job. I’m never stuck behind a desk all day, I get to dress up for work, and I talk for a living.”
“I could live with that,” I say.
It sounds like a perfect job, actually.
“Did you see nicotine poisoning a lot at the hospital?”
I shrug. “No, I just knew he shouldn’t be wearing more than one patch.”
“But how did you remember the symptoms of nicotine poisoning? How did you know what to ask him?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s just the way my mind works, I guess. I can remember obscure medication facts quite easily. My own personal quirk, I guess.”
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