A heavy weight tugs me down, pulls me under the sea, sinking my new image of us. “How many?”
“Does it matter?’
“Yes, the number matters.”
“Probably a dozen.”
I draw a deep breath.
Fifteen total isn’t addiction. Fifteen pills isn’t a problem.
But it’s the me who had three orgasms saying that. It’s not the me who’s a nurse. It’s not the me who sees the danger to both of us. I promised myself I wouldn’t be his safety net. I certainly won’t be his drug. That’s what scares me the most. Maybe he has acted better around me lately—stronger, happier, healthier—but what if that’s because I’m the high?
Love is a drug, and it’s stronger than Percocet.
I hate asking the question, but I have to know. “Andrew, am I your Percocet now? Am I what’s getting you through the grief?”
“No.” He snaps his gaze to me. “Not at all. Never.”
I want to believe him, but life was harder for him back home because it was normal, everyday stuff he had to deal with—living in an empty home, seeing his brother’s things, attending events without his best friend. Even though he’s been seeking answers here, his daily life feels more like a vacation—seeing the sights, indulging in treats, taking day trips.
Aside from that one slip-up with the photos, he hasn’t had to face anything terribly hard. What if he still needs assistance to help him through?
That’s the big issue. That’s why I need to know how he’s truly doing.
I take his face in my hands. “You’re doing so much better, but I want it to be from natural progression, not from me and not from drugs.”
His expression is pained. “It was only twice here. That night and the next morning, so it was practically the same time.”
My heart crawls up my throat, pushing up tears. That sounds like a justification. “But that was about me. You thought your brother and I—” I cut myself off. I won’t give that notion the dignity of words.
“It was once. One time.”
“But it was before too.”
He grabs my hand. “You have to believe me.”
“I do.” I sound desperate. I feel desperate. “I believe you with my whole heart. But you were taking them in Los Angeles. I’m so happy you’re healing. Nothing could make me happier. Nothing in the world. Not puppies, not sunshine, not a million perfect days.” I stop, look at the ceiling, and picture what’s still ahead of him. “But you’re not done. What happens if you find out something hard?”
“What am I going to find out, Holland?” he asks, and his caustic tone sears me.
“You haven’t seen Doctor Takahashi yet. Aren’t you trying to figure out why Ian stopped taking his meds? Isn’t that why you’re here? What if you learn that or something else, something you don’t even know, and it devastates you?”
“Are you hiding something from me?”
I wrench away. “No. I’m trying to help you, and don’t try to suggest that.”
“Are you breaking up with me?”
I sigh heavily. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
“Are you?”
I take his hand again. This time he lets me. “It would be impossible for me to break up with you, you ding-dong. Don’t you listen to me? I fucking love you. That won’t change. But I need to know you can handle things without drugs, and I need to know I’m not your painkiller.”
His eyes are etched with pain. “I can’t lose you again.”
My lip quivers. “You’re not losing me. But I am asking you to find all your answers to those questions before we dive into how the hell we’re going to make this work.” Once more, I take his face in my hands. “Do you understand?”
He nods sadly. “Will you stay the night?”
My heart lurches toward the man I love. The man who’s not done healing. “Yes, but in the morning, I have to go, and you need to keep stepping forward.”
“I will. But right now, I need to do something.”
I raise an eyebrow curiously.
He pulls on underwear and shorts and marches to the bathroom. Grabbing the pills, he dumps them into the bathroom trash can then ties up the small plastic bag from the bin. He holds up the bag like a trophy. “Be right back. “
A few minutes later, he returns. “I tossed them in the trash can on the corner. They’re gone. I don’t need them.”
I can see that he believes what he’s saying, and I can see how far he’s come. But I’ll feel better about us when I’m certain I’m not his crutch, and that I am the woman he can’t live without simply because he loves me. Not because he needs me to keep his demons at bay.
I spend the night curled up in his arms. In the morning, when the sun rises, I leave, saying a silent prayer to the universe that he’ll come back to me at the end of his journey.
28
Andrew
Four days.
Four brutal days where June melts into July and a sticky blanket of heat sinks down on the city as the calendar flips. The streets radiate heat, and the sun throws it right back again, like it’s casting bolts of fire. June was a temptress, a tantalizing geisha with a come-hither wave and a sway of the hips. July, with this cruel combination of intense heat and Holland’s ultimatum, is a wicked stepmother.
Fine, technically Holland didn’t give me an ultimatum, but it feels like one.
Get your shit together or else. Prove to me that you can.
Maybe she was right to ask the tough questions. I’m determined to function without her to prove she’s not the one who stitched my heart back together.
I’m the one.
And in true Peterson fighting form, I’ve crushed it solo-style. The first day after PercocetGate, waking up alone, I snagged a guest pass to a local gym and lifted weights.
Then, I visited that food stall, and Mike and I shot the breeze about music and weather and the latest fish hauls.
The next two days, I buried myself in books, studying for the Bar, heading out only for sushi or noodles, and to wander Shibuya at night, becoming part of the crowds.
Today is Sunday and I venture to the Tatsuma Teahouse, reflecting on my conversation with Kana when we were here. I don’t go inside, but I stop at the end of the stone path before the wrought-iron fence. I gaze at the garden, the trees and bushes, and the small, unassuming teahouse at the edge of a pond.
I squint, trying to see it through Ian’s eyes, to picture how it looked to him the first time he arrived here.
Such a simple place.
But when I reflect back on Kana’s reaction to it, I know this wasn’t an ordinary teahouse. I’m not sure it was mystical but it meant something to Ian. Something important. Something vital to his health, or maybe, vital to his healing.
I remember my own words that day. “Sometimes healing isn’t about our bodies.”
Ian wasn't healing in the conventional sense, but in some ways, perhaps he was recovering.
But what did I do when faced with a shitty hand? Did I take the painkillers for my body?
No, I didn’t.
I took them for another reason. To numb my life. But now as I stare at this teahouse once more, seeing, really seeing Ian here, I don’t feel the potency of that reason so much anymore.
I don’t hang around for long. I’m not a lingerer.
I take off, heading across the city. My destination is the temple my brother went to, since I recognized it as a well-known one from some of the pictures he took.
When I reach it and head up the steps, I bow my head.
I’m not a temple guy, so the bowing doesn't mean much to me personally, but it seems like that’s what you should do when you go inside one.
The silence is eerie. The temple is nearly empty. Only a few people are inside, kneeling on the carpet in front of a small Buddha statue.
Quietly, I wander, inhaling the incense, checking out the candles, trying to imagine what Ian did when he was here. If he sat cross-legged on the red carpet. If he
bowed. If he prayed even.
Maybe he became a Buddhist.
Maybe he always was one.
Or maybe he came here for the quiet.
For the contemplation.
Because that’s what I’m doing, I realize. Taking the time to think, to reflect, to ask questions.
I’m not sure I have all the answers yet, but I believe I’m coming closer. I leave and walk around the streets, looking at shop windows, checking out ramen menus, perusing sections of the city I haven’t visited before.
In the afternoon, when the temperature hits eighty-nine, my California soul cries for mercy, and I retreat to the apartment to worship at the altar of air-conditioning and case law.
Kate worked her magic and rescheduled me for the February Bar exam. I hunker down for an hour or two to study for it, but an idea keeps nagging at me.
Tomorrow is my meeting with the doctor. I researched him when Kana first wrote to me, but it wouldn’t hurt to refresh. Like exam prep, you read your notes one more time the day before.
I toggle over to Google and review the basic details.
Dr. Takahashi was educated at Kyoto University, did a residency at Mount Sinai, then studied traditional Chinese medicine, especially herbal treatments for cancer. He’s known for bringing a rigorous mix of Western and Eastern medicine to patients—collaborative cancer treatment, he calls it. I scroll through a journal article he penned on new anticancer drugs and advanced therapies then another one on the roles of nutrition, physical exercise, and emotional health in recovery from the disease. I pause at those words—emotional health.
I push away from the table, wander to the window, and stare six flights down to the trash can where I tossed the pills the other night. I don’t miss them.
A dart of tension shoots through me as I think about tomorrow.
The last leg of the journey. The last chance to find answers.
I shut down my search and return to studying, but I scratch my neck, then my leg, and stare at the ceiling. The walls start to close in. I can feel the presence of my brother too much, and it’s clawing at my chest. Making it hard to breathe. I haven’t felt this way, too close to him, since I arrived here, but I also haven’t spent this much time in his space. I’ve had Holland here, or I’ve been in the city exploring. Now I’m here where he spent so many days and nights, and it’s just too much right now, especially after the temple and the teahouse.
Taking a deep breath, I stand, walk around, try to figure out what I need. Is this what Holland was worried about? I don’t want a pill. I want Holland, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t crave her and can’t imagine a time when I won’t. But to have her, I have to figure this out myself.
I need a way out of this feeling—a healthy way.
I call Jeremy on Skype. Maybe some news about Sandy will ease my mind.
He answers quickly. “It’s almost midnight. You’re killing me.”
“Ha. You’re always up late. Did you crack level thirty on Call of Duty or something?”
“I wish. Just finished reviewing a term sheet.”
“What’s going on there? How’s work?”
“It’s great,” he says then tells me about the promotion he nabbed at the venture capital firm where he’s a junior associate.
“Congrats, man. That’s awesome.”
“Yeah, Sandy was super excited. She took me out for a nice IPA to celebrate.”
I laugh. “I love how you’re anthropomorphizing my dog.”
“She’s practically my dog now. She loves me.”
“What’s she doing right now?”
He switches to video. “This is the one and only time I will do this.”
He turns the phone toward my dog, who’s snoozing on the couch, legs up in the air. I smile like a crazy man, my heart jumping when I see my girl. “She looks happy.”
“She is. Hold on one second. I need to grab a Diet Coke.”
He sets down the phone, giving me a perfect view of his ceiling.
That’s a little dull.
But five seconds later, there’s a snout filling the screen.
“Hey girl,” I whisper.
Sandy tilts her head to the side.
“Do you miss me?”
The other side now.
“I miss you so much.” I scratch her chin on the screen. Scratch ’n’ Sniff dog.
Her ears perk up.
“I’ll see you soon. I can’t stand being away from you for long,” I tell her.
When Jeremy returns, he’s not alone. A pretty brunette is with him.
“Andrew, meet Callie. We’ve been seeing each other.”
She’s the girl from the photo. Holy smokes. He did it. Jeremy nabbed a woman with my dog greasing the wheels.
“Nice to meet you, Callie.” To Jeremy, I say, “Guess you aren’t working late, are you?”
He laughs. “I really was reviewing a term sheet. Now, we’re going to review other sheets.”
She swats him on the shoulder then drops a kiss on his cheek. That’s my cue to go.
I thank my buddy again for taking care of my dog, say goodbye, then drop the phone on the table and stare at nothing for a second.
That itchy feeling has dissipated. The walls are no longer closing in.
Talking to Sandy always sets me straight.
Moving forward is the key. Everything I’ve done is a step toward the other side of this pain—seeing Laini, talking to Kana, retracing Ian’s steps through the city.
Going to see his doctor tomorrow.
I think about tomorrow, and about Ian, and about answers.
Now, I’m seeing paths I didn’t notice on the map before.
I’m seeing a problem I think I can solve.
I stand and pace.
There’s a zigzagging pattern of ideas in my head, but the lines don’t entirely connect. They feel like threads on a conspiracy board in a movie, and I’m trying desperately to connect the dots.
I blink, and the connections start to tighten. The possibilities turn crisper. I head to the entryway table and tap the stack of cards, letters, and the Dodgers cap.
I pick up the magnet from Silverspinner Lanes and flip it over. This one eludes me. But the others . . .
Ideas fly faster, coalescing into one.
Could it be?
Is that the answer?
I need to get outside and clear my head, no matter how hot it is.
I pace through the streets of broiling Shibuya, past arcades, past shops selling socks with hearts and rainbow stripes, past pachinko parlors where people are winning cat erasers and manga figurines. I wander by cell phone stores and crepe dealers and a nail salon, trying to see them all through Ian’s eyes. Like the dog mosaic outside the subway station, and the jumbo screen on the building across the street. I’m trying to see everything here through a new prism. I picture my brother at the temple. I see him at the teahouse. A snapshot of him at the fish market shooting the breeze with Mike flashes before me. I imagine what he was feeling.
The noodle shops, the shopping arcade, the concerts, and the woman.
Most of all, her.
Beads of sweat drip from my forehead. I reach for the bottom of my gray T-shirt and wipe my face with the fabric. When I look up at the time, I see the temperature outside the Bank of Tokyo. It’s ninety-one degrees, and it’s balls hot, but I don’t care.
I’ve figured it out. I’m pretty sure I know what the doctor is going to tell me.
More than that, I think I’m ready for it at last.
29
Andrew
After the temple and the teahouse, I expected a short Zen master in some traditional Asian garb, maybe in a feng shui-ed garden office.
Instead, the doctor is surprisingly tall and also impeccably dressed in a gray business suit.
He doesn’t offer me tea, like I expect. Instead, he gestures to the crystal bowl in front of me, filled with lemon and orange hard candy.
“Please. Have one,” he sa
ys as he pops a lemon candy into his mouth and takes a seat across from me. “I am a candy connoisseur.”
I’ve never been to a shrink’s office, but I suspect it feels like this. Like someone trying to make you feel comfortable when you feel displaced.
“Though, truth be told, it’s really an addiction,” he adds. “I can’t stop myself when it comes to candy.”
Is he really talking to me about candy? I take an orange one to be polite and put it in my pocket for later. “How was Tibet?”
“Uplifting. I treat the poor and indigent there who are suffering. They are grateful for the help.”
He sucks on the lemon candy, his cheek pouching out as he does.
“What else do you do in Tibet?” I ask, because it is so much easier to say that than, Can you please tell me something I don’t know about my brother, or confirm what I suspect to be true?
He tells me about his work overseas. I hear maybe every three words because I’m focused on what I wish he’d say instead.
“But I suspect that’s not why you are here,” he says gently, and I want to thank him for putting me out of my small-talk misery.
“No. That’s not why I’m here, Dr. Takahashi. You treated my brother. You sent him to drink tea and see temples. Do you believe in that legend, then? The one about the tea, about the emperor and his wife?”
“I believe that sometimes if you believe you are healthy, you are healthy.”
“Mind over matter?”
“There is something to it, Andrew. There is something to the energy in the universe, the energy you put out, the energy you take in.”
Does he truly believe that? I ball my hands into fists. “And does that work for cancer treatment?”
He leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand over his chin as if weighing his words, easing into it. “If you have someone who wants to heal, sometimes they will respond to the unconventional. Their minds are more open to healing, so their bodies become more willing. I believe medication, while a wonderful thing, has its limits. There is value in the unconventional. And Ian wanted that. He asked for that when he initially came to me when he was in remission, and then when we first saw the signs that the cancer was likely returning. I treated him with conventional cancer medicine to try to stave off the return, but also with Chinese herbs and acupuncture. And yes, I encouraged him to go to the teahouse and to see the temples and to keep his mind and heart open to new ways of healing.”
Unbreak My Heart Page 14