Suicide Med

by Freida McFadden

  “Rach, this dinner is supposed to help you forget about the exam,” Matt says. “The important thing isn’t your grade. It’s that you learned the information.”

  I just stare at him.

  He sighs, “You got Honors”

  I’m so happy, I might cry. I throw my arms around him, which sends him slightly off balance since he’s not holding his cane, but he manages to grab onto the wall and right himself. And then we kiss in the hallway. For like five straight minutes.

  “I told you that you’d do well,” he says, when we come up for air. “Now how about dinner, huh?”

  I follow him to the living room, where he’s got an elaborate meal of pasta with fresh vegetables cooked into it. There’s an open bottle of pinot noir (my favorite) and two wine glasses next to it. And of course, there’s a single candle lighting the table.

  “Did you seriously cook this yourself?” I ask him.

  The plate looks like something a professional chef would have put together. And Matt’s only got one working hand.

  Matt nods. “I looked up vegan recipes.”

  Christ, he’s thoughtful. “That’s… incredible.”

  “Now,” he says thoughtfully, “it’s okay to use pork in vegan meals, right?”

  “Shut-up,” I say, and smack him in the arm as he grins at me.

  Before we sit down to eat, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. To be honest, I just need a few moments to collect myself.

  I’m very familiar with Matt’s bathroom now. It’s much larger than the one I share with Heather, and I love the way it smells faintly of his aftershave. He’s got a grab-bar set up by the toilet and the sink, but other than that, it’s a pretty ordinary bathroom. I’ve been in here dozens of times and there’s only one difference today:

  The medicine cabinet is open.

  Well, not open exactly. More like slightly ajar. But the point is, it’s not closed and it’s clear there are medications inside it. And in all honesty, I’ve never been great at respecting other people’s privacy. That’s how I know Heather uses acne medication.

  So I tap the door open all the way.

  Immediately, I’m really sorry I did it. Mostly because there are a lot of pills in here. Like, way more than I’d guess the average thirty-eight year old would be taking. It frightens me to see all those pills. Why is he taking so many medications? What’s wrong with him?

  Okay fine, he did get shot in the head. Still, that was years ago. He seems mostly okay now.

  I pick up one of the bottles: Vicodin. I know that’s a painkiller, but I’ve never heard Matt say that he had significant pain before. But clearly he does—why else would he have this medication? Where is he having pain? Why didn’t he tell me about this?

  I know I should stop now, but I can’t resist looking at a second bottle. And this one really makes me sick: it’s Zoloft. I know what that is from my high school days, when my parents sent me to a therapist. Zoloft is a medication for depression.

  I quickly shut the door to the medicine cabinet. I should never have snooped on him in the first place. Well, it’s his fault for leaving the door open.

  I spend one more minute studying my reflection in the mirror on the cabinet door. I’m not pretty, in case you were wondering. My dark hair is way too stringy and I’m always pale like a ghost, no matter how much time I spend in the sun (which admittedly, isn’t much). I don’t wear make-up, but it probably wouldn’t help. I’m just not pretty, end of story.

  Lucky for me, you don’t need to be a model to get a man more than twice your age to sleep with you. Anyway, I may not be pretty, but I know some guys think I’m sexy. At least when I’m trying to be.

  Matt seems to think I’m pretty though. He says it enough, and the way he looks at me, I actually believe he means it. I’ve slept with a lot of men, but none of them liked me the way he does. None of them cooked for me. None of them spent hours tutoring me. And definitely none of them wanted to lie in bed with me all night, their arms encircling my body.

  I wash my hands off with his foaming hand soap, and go back into the dining area. I can see Matt sitting at the table, patiently waiting for me. I watch him as he pours wine into the two glasses and places mine in front of my plate. He adjusts the candle in the center of the table, trying to get it centered perfectly, but then he swears and yanks his hand away.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, racing over to the table.

  Matt looks up at me, still cradling his hand. “Really hot wax,” he admits sheepishly.

  “That’s what you get for trying to be too romantic,” I scold him.

  “Yeah, I’m an idiot,” he says.

  I run to the kitchen and get a paper towel, which I run under cool water for a minute then fold into quarters.

  “Let’s see,” I say.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” he says.

  He’s trying to be macho—it’s adorable.

  I have to coax him until he shows me the burn on his hand. It’s his right hand—the bad one. There’s an angry red area on the back of his hand where the wax got him, and I kneel beside him as I gently press the washcloth onto his skin.

  “How’s that?” I ask him.

  “Nice,” he sighs.

  The fingers of his right hand feel very stiff, even more so than usual. I try to slip my hand inside his, but it’s actually difficult to pry his fingers apart.

  Matt notices what I’m doing and says apologetically, “The muscles are probably spasming from the burn. Plus I’m overdue for Botox shots.”

  “Botox?” I stare at Matt’s face. He has a few lines around his eyes, but he doesn’t seem like the cosmetic procedure type.

  He grins crookedly. “Not for my face. It loosens up the muscles in my hand. I get shots to my finger flexors.” Then he adds, “Can you name the muscles that control finger flexion?”

  I stare at him.

  “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have… this is your night to relax…”

  I turn the paper towel over on his hand and say, “Flexor digitorum profundus and flexor digitorum superficialis.”

  “That’s right,” he says, and he grins so wide that I’m really glad that I read ahead this afternoon. “Come here,” he says, holding out his arms to me.

  An hour later, my specially prepared vegan meal has gone cold, and the treacherous candle has burned down to nothing. But I don’t care.

  I think I’m in love.

  Chapter 50

  I’m careful about when I go to Matt’s office. He said to me that I should only visit him at most once a week—any more than that is too big a risk.

  But it’s hard not to visit him at school. I keep thinking about him all day and it’s hard not to stop by, knowing that he’s sitting in his office, probably doing nothing.

  A few days after Thanksgiving break, I find myself outside the door to his office. I see the light is on underneath the door and I can hear voices coming from inside. And one of those voices is female. I feel a twinge of irrational jealousy. I glance around and see the hallway is empty, so I press my ear up against the door.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” It’s the voice of Wendy, my fellow classmate from remedial anatomy. She sounds nearly hysterical.

  “Your score is better than last time,” Matt is saying. “I think you just need to dedicate more time to studying.”

  Okay, I get it. I know exactly what happened. In spite of the extra tutoring, Wendy has failed the second anatomy exam.

  “I just can’t do it, Dr. Conlon…”

  “Let me give you the names of a few upperclassmen that do tutoring,” he says. “I’m sure the extra sessions will get you a passing final grade, Wendy. I know you can do it.”

  I’m pressing my ear so hard against the door that I nearly topple over when Wendy yanks open the door. Wendy’s doe-shaped eyes are rimmed with red. She glares at me.

  “Yes, Rachel?” Matt says, raising his eyebrows.

  I look from Matt to Wendy, my cheeks t
urning red.

  “Um, Dr. Conlon, I need to… um… talk to you about the exam…” I stammer.

  Wendy’s features change—she probably assumes that I failed the exam too. Wendy pats me on the shoulder and whispers, “Good luck. He was really nice about it.”

  I close the door behind me. Sometimes Matt scolds me when I risk visiting him, but today he seems thrilled to see me. He gets up and limps over to me, then lowers his lips onto mine.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he breathes in my ear.

  For some reason though, I’m distracted.

  “Are you going to fail Wendy?” I don’t know where the question came from, but I feel compelled to ask.

  Matt pulls away from me. He blinks a few times.

  “No,” he says.

  “You mean if she aces the final, you won’t fail her?” I ask.

  Matt pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If Wendy’s entire set of answers to the final consists of beauty tips about her nails, she’s still going to pass the class. Nobody is going to fail my class this year.”

  I stare at him in surprise. “Nobody?”

  He lowers his eyes. “Rachel,” he murmurs. “You don’t know what it’s been like. Seven kids are dead. Dead. And five of them failed my class.” He lifts his head again. “Do you have any idea how that feels?”

  I shake my head no. But I can imagine.

  He sighs. “I was a jerk that first year,” he says. “I came back here to teach and all I could think about was how unfair it was that a snot-nosed little brat like Brett Shelton was going to be a physician, while I couldn’t. I didn’t make things easy for him. I could have found a way to pass him, but I wanted to fail him.” His blue eyes become glassy. “When they told me he killed himself, I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to quit, but the dean talked me into staying. And I promised myself that from now on, I was going to do everything I could to increase the passing rate.”

  “And you have,” I say gently.

  He squeezes his eyes shut. “Not enough. Every year, Rachel. Every goddamn year. I feel like it’s some curse that I brought on the school because of… of what happened with Kurt and me. He was my roommate—I should have seen it coming. I messed up.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Matt,” I say. Although to be honest, I don’t entirely blame him. Every year, one of his students has killed himself. That must be hard to take.

  “Last year was the worst,” he says. “Jared was… well, that was sad. But Mary… that was tragic. She was so enthusiastic and sweet and she would have been such a great doctor. A great person. And now…” His eyes are wet and I’m truly scared he might cry. “If it happens again, I’m going to quit. I’ve decided. I can’t deal with it. Not again.”

  “It won’t happen again,” I say.

  He gives me this look, like he knows I’m full of shit. And I guess he’s right.

  “All I can say,” Matt tells me, “is that it won’t happen because of a failing grade in anatomy. Nobody else is going to die because of me.”

  Somehow, I think of that bottle of Zoloft in his medicine cabinet.

  _____

  When I get out of Matt’s office, I am weak at the knees. I always thought that was a dumb expression used in romance novels, but I literally feel like I can’t stand up, that my legs won’t support me. I don’t know how he always does this to me. All he has to do is touch me and my whole body tingles. Another romance cliché, but it’s true.

  I’m shutting the door to his office when I turn and see another person headed towards me. For a fleeting second, I pray that it’s a janitor or something. No such luck.

  I immediately recognize the face of my classmate, Lauren Chou. There are worse people who could have seen me, but this still is not good. Obviously. And I’m certain she knows that I came out of his office.

  I play it off, trying to act casual about the whole thing. After all, I haven’t done anything wrong. All I’ve done is come out of my professor’s office. Is there a law against that?

  Lauren isn’t a friend or anything, so I acknowledge her with a quick nod and she does the same to me. Except why is she staring at me? Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I feel like Lauren’s eyes are directed right at my chest like laser beams. Maybe it’s the whole bra thing. Except I’m actually wearing one today.

  I look down, to where Lauren is staring. And that’s when I notice, to my horror, that my shirt is buttoned all wrong. Wrong enough that it seems very unlikely that I could’ve been walking around like that all day.

  Christ, why did I have to wear a shirt with buttons to begin with? Why didn’t I wear a T-shirt like I do most days?

  Well, at least my fly is still zipped.

  Lauren shakes her head at me in disgust as she walks past me. I want to run after her and try to explain, but I have a feeling I’d just make things worse. I’m not exactly good at talking to people. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t want to put ideas in her head.

  I look back at the door, wondering if I should tell Matt what just happened. Then I decide against it. He’s got enough to worry about as is.

  Chapter 51

  I’m worried things might be a little awkward after our talk in Matt’s office, but he calls me the next evening, sounding relatively cheerful. Heather is in the room with me, so I press my cell phone tightly against my ear so that there’s no chance of my professor’s voice being overheard. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m pretty sure you can’t be too cautious when you’re screwing the professor.

  “Hey, Rach,” Matt says. “Do you feel like coming over and doing some studying?”

  Half the time when he says that, he means sex. The other half of the time, he actually means studying. I can never tell by his voice which is which.

  “Sure,” I agree.

  I close my anatomy text, get up off my bed, and pull my coat off the chair in front of my desk. Heather raises her light brown eyebrows.

  “Where you headed?” she asks.

  “Nowhere,” I mutter.

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Nobody…” I clear my throat. “Just going out to study.”

  “Then why aren’t you bringing any books?”

  I feel a rush of blood come into my cheeks. “Um, I’m going to, uh…”

  “Oh, come on, Rachel!” Heather gushes, nearly bouncing on her mattress. “Tell me who it is! Please? Is it Johnny Chang? Chris Johnson?”

  Yeah right, like I’m going to tell Heather anything when she’s acting like a complete child. It’s bad enough that Lauren might know. Anyway, it’s not like she’s been honest with me.

  “Tell me why you broke up with Abe.”

  That stops Heather in her tracks. She sighs, “Fine, go have fun with your prince.”

  I take the now familiar ten-mile drive to Matt’s apartment, weaving through the back roads. As I made the final turn on the wooded path to his one-story townhouse, I notice that I’ve started humming the new Rihanna song. Oh great. Matt’s turning me into freaking Heather.

  I pull into the driveway and park behind Matt’s car—a large white Lincoln Continental. Considering he’s the youngest professor I’d ever slept with, I find it amusing that he drives a car that looks like it’s owned by an eighty year old. In a lot of ways, Matt acts very much like an old man. It’s something I always tease him about.

  Matt yanks the door open almost before I even have a chance to knock. I can’t help but suppress a smile.

  “Happy to see me?” I ask, closing the door behind me as I enter the house.

  “You have no idea,” he says as he pushes me against a wall and starts kissing me.

  As I press against him, I feel him wince slightly. Ever since I found those painkillers in his medicine cabinet, I’m acutely aware of him showing any signs of pain. I hate the idea of him being in pain.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, pulling away from his embrace.

  “Huh?” He raises his black eyebrows at me. “What do
you mean?”

  “You flinched,” I point out.

  “Oh.” He shrugs. “I messed up my left rotator cuff. I overuse my left arm because my right doesn’t work. What are you gonna do, right?” He shrugs again. “By the way, can you name the four tendons that make up the rotator cuff? You should have started that dissection two days ago.”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he says. “The mnemonic is SITS.”

  “Matt,” I sigh, “I was really just hoping that we could… spend some time together without talking about anatomy. I mean, the final isn’t for a while, right?”

  Matt seems almost taken aback by my request. “Oh, uh…” he stammers. He shakes his head then grins at me. “Yeah, of course. I’d really like that.

  _____

  About two hours later, we’re both exhausted and as we lie in bed holding hands, I make the executive decision that we should order pizza. Matt nods soberly.

  “Yes, I think we’re definitely too tired to cook,” he says. He grabs for his cell phone. “Toppings?”

  “Hawaiian, what else?” I say.

  “That’s my girl,” Matt says with a grin.

  He’s the only other person I know who loves ham and pineapple on a pizza as much as I do. Okay, I know cheese pizza isn’t vegan. And the ham part is really not vegan. But he’s been nice enough not to comment on that fact.

  We lie in bed a bit longer then Matt decides he’s too sweaty and wants to take a shower. I’ve suggested showering with him in the past, but he’s rejected my idea, saying he’s too worried about slipping and breaking his neck. (See? He really is an old man.) So I lie in bed, playing games on my phone, until I hear the doorbell ring.

  I knock on the door to the bathroom and stick my head in, “Pizza’s here. I’ll go get it.”

  Matt sticks his head out from behind the curtain. His black hair is plastered to his scalp and he has water in his eyelashes. He looks pretty sexy, actually.