by Avery Aster
With a glare, as if he doesn’t know me, Bo stands in the corner. Why am I suddenly a stranger to him? His words—“You tried to kill yourself”—play over in my mind like some bad Britney Spears song that I can’t turn off.
“Have you been depressed lately?” The doctor’s demeanor is friendly as he takes a seat next to the bed.
“No.” My lips tighten into a smile reinforcing my happiness. This is such bullshit.
“Mr. Boden, would you mind leaving us alone for a minute?” he asks. My husband nods and excuses himself into the hall.
“Anything going on in your marriage that you’d like to tell me about?”
The ridiculousness of it all forces me to laugh. “We’re newlyweds, still getting to know one another. I love my husband.”
“What else?”
“We just moved into a new condo on the Upper East Side.”
“Does he ever hit you?”
“No.”
“Any infidelities?”
“Once, before we got married. Bo has gotten better at staying faithful now. We worked out his sexual addiction before we got married. He talks to me when he has urges, and I do my best to help him.”
“Is he your patient or your husband?”
Totally out of line. I shoot him a nasty look.
“Sorry. How about money problems?”
I shake my head.
“Why did you try to take your own life?”
“I didn’t!”
He scratches his head, a flake of dandruff falling onto the red shiny tie that’s loosened around his thick neck. I notice just how wrinkled his clothes are, so I ask, “Have you worked a long shift?”
“You’re my last patient, and then I’m going home.”
“I won’t keep you with such silliness.” I smile.
He places his hand on my leg as if to reassure me that we aren’t finished here.
“Doc, come on. I’m a psychotherapist. I would tell you if I tried to kill myself. I didn’t.”
“I’m well aware of who you are. I’ve seen your face on the sides of buses.”
“You ride the M103?”
He nods. “I live just off Second Avenue in Murray Hill.”
Since my practice was on Lexington Avenue, I’d taken out a huge banner ad on the side of the bus that runs up and down the east side of town, specifically focusing on Lenox Hill. That demographic fits my business: rich, slightly mad, and they usually pay in cash so their husbands and insurance companies won’t be any of the wiser.
“Isn’t that subway construction on Second Avenue driving you crazy? I know it is me.” I realize what I’ve just said and bit my lip. “I mean the noise is unbearable. I’m not crazy.”
“The underground subway work is a war zone, like Bosnia or something. We’re getting off topic here, Mrs. Adler. I want to help you.”
“I appreciate that.” Uncomfortable with this conversation, I cross my legs at the ankles, my left over my right, and fold my arms over my breasts. “I’m fine. This is all a misunderstanding.”
“I have a private practice where I treat patients at night. I’d like to see you in a week. No charge.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need therapy, or your handouts.”
His eyes darken. “I’m afraid if I don’t see you for therapy, I’ll be forced to report your suicide attempt to the board of mental health.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” On the inside, I’m outraged. I want to slap him, but instead I keep my composure. Taking a deep breath, I use a relaxation technique I’d coined ‘the big ten.’ To myself I start to count back—ten, nine, eight—and settle my mind on happy thoughts, like Orlane, the chocolate chip cookies I left in the fridge, our honeymoon to Rome.
“Just doing my job. You would do the same if you were in my shoes.”
Five, four, three. “Something tells me your feet are much bigger than mine.”
“Next Wednesday.” He pulls out a business card from his front pocket and places it firmly in the palm of my hand. With its thick white cardstock and raised gray text, I notice the address is within walking distance of my apartment. “Seven o’clock.”
Done counting, I realize if I want to keep my license, I’ll need to appease him. “Sounds good.”
“Great. See you next week. You’re free to go. My nurse will call you tomorrow to see how you’re feeling.”
“Thank you.” I still want to punch him. The counting does nothing for my rage except helping me not lose it on him. This was sheer, utter bullshit.
I didn’t try to kill myself.
It was nearly afternoon, having taken us a few hours to get discharged from Bellevue. My hand in his, Boden and I are silent in the cab ride uptown. The traffic traveling north on Third Avenue moves slowly, inch by inch. Sometimes, especially like now, it’s quicker just to walk.
Springtime has arrived early.
Folks were gearing up for the weekend; I can tell by how busy the liquor store is as we pass. A young man buys bushels of brightly colored flowers from the sidewalk bodega, and a French bistro’s storefront windows are open, ready for customers. The weather is perfection.
“I love this time of year. Don’t you?” I ask.
He gives no reply.
There’s one thing I hate more than being alone, and that’s silence.
“Say something,” I plead.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about that you believe me. That in your heart of hearts, you know I didn’t write that letter, and I would never try to kill myself.”
“Then who did?” His mouth hangs open.
“Bo, seriously?”
“It’s in your handwriting. Wait and see. Same cursive stylish way you write stuff. If it wasn’t you, then who was it? Your evil doppelganger?”
I shrug. Although never at a loss for words, I’m truly stumped on this one. But one way or another I’ll find out who, and then Dr. Tiesto can suck on a rotten egg and leave me the hell alone.
His palms are moistened. Letting go of my hand, Bo rubs them alongside the top of his khaki slacks. My husband’s legs are like tree trunks, long and thick, just like every square inch of his body. Every woman’s fantasy. I reach for his hand but he pulls back, resisting and withdrawing from me even further.
“Piper, this isn’t a game.” He rolls down the window and I do the same on my side.
The fresh air smacks my face as I stare out, fighting back the sudden groundswell of hot tears. I don’t want Bo to see me cry. I always try to be strong. Always have. Always will.
Our taxi comes to a stop at a red light. We’re at 52nd Street; only twenty more blocks to go till we’re home. Then what? How long would this ‘you tried to kill yourself’, ‘no, I didn’t’ bickering carry on?
Seconds turn into minutes, and I wipe my eyes on the sweater he brought for me.
“Look at me,” I demand, grabbing his chiseled features, forcing his dark eyes to fixate on my green ones. “I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.”
Slowly, he licks his full, pink lips. His eyes dart up, studying my hairline for a second before relocking his gaze with mine. He almost makes me nervous. Almost.
For the first time since the day I met him, I notice dullness in his pupils, a fog, as if he put up a wall to keep me out. “I want to believe you, Piper. Honestly I do. I want nothing more than to think that you want to be my wife, adopt kids with me, and live happily ever after, but it’s obvious that you don’t.”
“You won’t believe me?”
With apparent regret, slowly his head shakes.
I’m in shock. More than I was when he first told me I’d tried to kill myself. That was just a misunderstanding. But this right here is a blatant attempt at calling me a liar. I may be a lot of bad things—codependent, argumentative, a know-it-all, jellybean junkie, chatty, slightly entitled, overeducated, emotionally distant at times, a label whore with a serious handbag obsession—but a liar isn’t one of them.
Without thinking, I
pull the door handle and pop it open. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed my purse and my feet are on the pavement. I slam the door behind me.
“Piper, get back in the car,” he commands loudly from inside the cab, nostrils flaring.
The cabby curses at me, first in English, then in Hindu.
“I need to think,” I shout back. “I’m gonna walk home.” I wave him off and head south toward Second Avenue. Before turning the corner, I glance back over my shoulder to see if Bo has gotten out of the car to follow me.
Often the scenario plays out that after we fight, he comes after me, we argue some more, make up, and then we have sex. Angry, lustful, orgasmic, hard, rough, sex. That’s the way it’s supposed to go, cat and mouse. He loves it. I do too.
Not this time. The yellow cab accelerates north. Bo remains inside, holding on to his false truths.
Bastard.
The walk uptown to our building, the Barclay, will take me about thirty minutes. Hungry, I stop off at Pinkberry and have a frozen yogurt with chocolate sprinkles. The bitter, creamy, iced texture soothes my tender throat. For a brief moment, I think back to the hospital, all that vomiting, and pray I’ll keep this down.
A few construction workers make crude comments between drilling into the cement as I pass by while walking on the East Sixties. Most women would flip them the bird. Not me. I take it as a compliment.
Second Avenue has been a mess for quite some time. Construction workers during the daytime, especially when the weather is as lovely as it is today, are the norm.
That’s how we were able to get our condo for so cheap. We’d never be able to afford to live there otherwise; the building is filled with the richest of the rich.
Our realtor, Maxine Valentine, a sophisticated woman who is the epitome of a true New Yorker with her couture clothes, yummy-smelling perfume, and fine jewelry, also resides in the building. She had told us that we were facing a year or two of loud blasting-type noises. In a few months, the basement of our building would be blown up to make way for electrical cables to power the subway. But once that was over, and the trains started running, we’d have doubled our investment because we’d be smack-dab in the middle of the best transit system with easy access to downtown.
Bo thrives on making money. It’s that ‘in for the kill to make the deal’ mentality, which most, if not all, guys who work on Wall Street possess in order to do their jobs. He signed the papers to buy the place before I’d even had a chance to argue otherwise. Don’t get me wrong, I love living on the East side. Similar to Beverly Hills with its legacy of generations and resides who’ve made their mark in this town with their feet firmly planted on the ground, it’s not touristy like the west part of townit’s real New York. We’re also zoned for the best public schools in the city. I can’t wait till we foster and adopt a child.
Wiping my lips on a napkin, I toss the empty yogurt cup into the trash as I turn the corner onto 72nd Street. I’m home.
The walk did me some good. I feel calmer, as if I can talk to Bo about anything.
As I enter the building through its double brass-framed glass doors, I greet Carmine, the doorman. Thanking him for calling the paramedics, I slip him a fifty-dollar bill from my purse. He insists that it’s not necessary, but I tell him to keep it. I’d be dead without him. I should give him more, but I usually don’t carry much cash on me.
The apartment door is unlocked so I enter, walking down the hall to our master bedroom. On the nightstand, just as Bo mentioned, is the letter.
While the paper, an ecru color I’ve never seen before, remains unfamiliar, the handwriting, all squiggly and elegant with its long styled letters, is surely mine.
‘Boden, I made a mistake marrying you. I’m not happy and can’t go on like this anymore. Please forgive me for killing myself. Love, Piper.’
I read it again and again, trying to see if the words stir up some memory that I actually wrote it.
Glancing out the bedroom window, I notice Bo in the backyard, smoking a joint. Whenever he’s stressed he lights up. Personally I don’t like the feeling of being stoned, but there’s one thing I’ve learned about my husband: I can’t tell him what to do.
I grab a bottle of bourbon from the counter along with two tumbler glasses, then head outside onto the patio with the note. I pour us both a glass, offering him one. He accepts, and I sit beside him on the kelly green cushioned chaise lounge. Before I go into it with him, I take a moment to admire the false indigo I planted when we first moved in. They’re sprouting now, and beautifully so. Vivid shades of purple reach for the sun. They separate our backyard from Reid’s.
Like a large elephant in the room, I place the letter on my husband’s lap.
He stares at it for a minute and then looks up at me. As if this is going to be a heavy conversation, he takes a sip of his bourbon, then a hit from his joint. He offers me some.
I decline and say, “Sure does look like my handwriting.”
He nods and hums with aggravation, “Ah-huh.”
“Have I ever written you a letter, an e-mail, or a Post-it and addressed you as ‘Boden’ before?”
Shoulders tense, his body freezes. He says nothing.
“Don’t I always address you as Bo?” I’m a simple syllable kind of gal.
He nods, leaning away from me.
Taking in this revelation, we sit in silence for a minute. I notice the cracks in the cement, wider and deeper since last week; they’re from the subway construction. I imagine, in a year or so, we’ll have to take up all of this, laying new bricks to make for a better foundation, which kind of reminds of my marriage.
“And while this does indeed look like my handwriting, where did the paper come from?”
“I dunno,” he replies, not understanding where I’m going with the questions.
“It’s résumé paper. What you’d write a business letter on or send as formal correspondence. We don’t have stationary like that in this apartment, do we?”
Again he pauses before shaking his head and taking another sip. I do the same, hoping this’ll sink into his thick skull. I study his eyes, still dull as before. The walls aren’t coming down.
“Lastly, this is written in what appears to be a blue ballpoint pen.”
“So?” His agitation is becoming more evident.
“You know I only buy and use black.” When I went to college for social work, black ink was the standard from most of my professors. We wrote our notes in black. Took patient briefs in black. Gave doctors our summaries in black. And did all of our written tests and essays in black. I’d made it a general rule in my adult life to only use black. Not strategic or intentional, it just was what it was. And that wasn’t blue.
“What are you trying to say?”
I lean my face into his, smelling the bourbon on his lips, the heady aroma of marijuana in the air. “Someone is out to kill me.”
The weekend passes and Bo jets down to Palm Beach early Monday morning to close some big deal. He’ll be gone for a few days. We didn’t talk much about what happened after Friday. His walls are still up. I know this is going to take some time to get over, so I don’t push it. For once in my life, I just let us be.
That’s hard for me, as I thrive on control. I like to know where things, especially relationships, are headed at all times. Probably due in part to my rocky childhood; I never had a solid relationship with anyone in my life until Bo. However, sometimes in life you just have to let things go and see where they end up. Right?
I dress in a pair of light blue slacks, a white silk blouse, and navy stiletto Gucci heels while reviewing the patient load my virtual assistant has booked for the day. I’m slammed, nearly every hour on the hour. A heavy workload is a good thing; I remind myself it’ll take my curious mind off what’s going on.
Downing my second shot of espresso, I throw my yellow gator-skin Birkin bag over my arm and set the stereo system on Mozart for Orlane. With his droopy sad orange eyes, he gives me the usual ‘please don’t
leave me’ glare. My lips pressed into a smile, I lean down, kissing him on the forehead. “I’ll be home by six. Reid will be over in the afternoon to take you for a walk.” I talk to my dog as if he understands what I say. Often I think he hears me better than Bo does.
Reid works from home as a cartoon illustrator. The popular character Incredible Irene is his claim to fame. Think Marvel’s Wonder Woman meets Beavis and Butthead’s Daria Morgendorffer. An insanely brilliant, glamorous yet nerdy action superhero who can fly, freeze things, and make bad guys catch fire.
At lunchtime he goes for a walk, and he always takes Orlane with him.
Locking the door behind me, I turn on my heel. That’s when I notice Saturday’s, Sunday’s and Monday’s newspapers stacked across the hall in front of Reid’s door. Did he go away this weekend? Come to think of it, he didn’t reply to any of my texts thanking him for calling Carmine.
In the lobby, I see Carmine and ask if Reid is out of town.
“No,” he replies in a thick Italian accent. “He’s been home all weekend. Locked himself in. Told me no visitors.”
Oh brother. “Why?”
“Mrs. Adler, if I knew why residents here do what they do I’d be a very rich man. But I don’t.” He laughs and I realize from his vantage point we must all look a bit nuts at times. To Carmine, Reid is eccentric, and I’m… well… a lady who tried to kill herself.
My morning patients consist of the following:
At 8:00 a.m., an alcoholic who recently got arrested for driving her Volvo into Bergdorf Goodman’s window display on Fifth Avenue. She defends that the stress of finding out that her business partner stealing two million dollars from her, over the course of several years, caused her to act so foolishly. I suggest a month’s stay at a Lenox, Massachusetts spa to dry her out and de-stress.
At 9:00 a.m., a college freshman coming to terms with her sexual orientation. We talk mostly about gender reassignment surgery and what her future looks like if she were to become a man. Seeing as how her lesbian girlfriend likes women with large breasts, the revelation that she’d probably break up with her after the surgery because she’d then be a man doesn’t sit well.
