A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  “Of course.” I scramble to come up with something, because I can’t let him believe that I’m just going to lie down and die when he goes off to college.

  Which I have no intention of doing. That’s not going to happen. I don’t know what exactly is going to happen, but I’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.

  “Well . . .” I sit back and rest my arm along the back of the sofa. “The first thing I’m going to do is accept that I’m never going to hold a scalpel again. I can’t keep waiting around for that day to come.”

  Zack hangs his head. “Mom, please don’t give up . . .”

  “I’m not giving up. I’m just being realistic. All these medications are working well, but they come with side effects, and I’m not as steady as I need to be.” I hold up my hand to show him. “Sometimes I get the shakes.”

  He rests his head on the back of the sofa. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still a doctor. I have practical knowledge, and you’d be surprised how many job opportunities are out there. I just need to figure out what direction I want to go in now. I loved being a GP before I became a surgeon. I could go back to that, or I could do another residency and learn a new specialty, something where I’m not holding a scalpel. Or I could move into research. It’s kind of exciting, actually, to think about a fresh start with something totally new.”

  A whole new life. Something to set my sights on.

  Zack smiles at me. “You’re smart, Mom. You can be anything you want to be.”

  “Except a surgeon,” I say with a chuckle, as an unexpected bubble of joy rises up inside me. “And thank you for the vote of confidence. I raised you well.”

  “You and Dad both.”

  I feel the smile drain from my face because of how Zack idolizes his father, while I’m finding it harder and harder to cherish Alan’s memory in any way, shape, or form.

  Zack reaches for the remote control to unmute the television. As he sits forward, I notice the scar on his elbow from the skateboard accident he had when he was fourteen, and it reminds me of Alan.

  He was delivering a guest lecture at the medical school when Zack fell off the skateboard and hit his head, and in a state of pure panic as a mother, I called and asked the organizers to interrupt the class and send Alan to the hospital, because I remembered what had happened on the day Alan’s mother died. Lester hadn’t pulled him out of class, and he never got to say goodbye to her.

  Zack’s injuries were serious. There was swelling in his brain. I couldn’t take any chances.

  When Alan arrived, he was very distraught and asked me all sorts of questions about what had happened. He demanded to see the x-rays, discussed the prognosis with the neurologist, and stayed in the ICU with me until Zack finally turned a corner.

  But then Alan said he couldn’t do it anymore.

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “I can’t see him like this. I can’t bear it.”

  Alan walked out of the hospital, leaving me standing there, dumbstruck, in front of the nurses’ station, watching him storm off without looking back. It was so unlike him.

  Thankfully, a few hours later, he returned. Not that I ever doubted he would. I knew he just needed some time alone.

  When he walked into the ICU, he went straight to Zack’s bedside. They had a brief conversation, and then Alan turned to me and pulled me into his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered in my ear. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that.”

  I was so happy that he had come back to me. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  We held each other, and I felt no resentment toward Alan for that brief spell of weakness. I knew it was because he loved us more than life itself. There was never any doubt about that. Not at the time.

  So maybe what I need to do now is find a way to look at my son and acknowledge the fact that my marriage wasn’t a total waste. Alan gave me Zack and was a loving father to him—the polar opposite of his own.

  Will that be enough to make up for what he did? Will I ever be able to answer that question in the affirmative?

  Zack’s phone rings, and he checks the call display. “It’s Jeremy,” he says. “Mind if I take this?”

  “Go ahead. I need to get supper started anyway.”

  Winston follows me to the kitchen, where I check to see what’s in the freezer. I hear Zack laughing on the phone. His voice is animated because he’s excited to share the news that he’ll be going to Queens or Western.

  Suddenly I imagine living here in this big house without him. It’s going to be very quiet. I take a moment to let that sink in and remind myself that it’s still many months away.

  February 14 rolls around, and though I would prefer not to wallow in misery over the fact that it’s my first Valentine’s Day without Alan, I can’t help but feel the weight of his absence as I remember how he used to bring me flowers and take me out for dinner at a nice restaurant. Often, he gave me jewelry. Every woman’s dream, right?

  But then I find myself racking my brain, struggling to recall the details from the last few years, when he must have been seeing Paula at the same time. Last year, he gave me a charm bracelet and took me to Café Chianti. Did he take Paula out to dinner too? Perhaps the weekend before or after? Did he give her a charm bracelet as well, and if so, what were the tokens that symbolized their relationship? Were they romantic and personal?

  Deciding that I’m just torturing myself by wondering about these sorts of details when nothing can change the past, I’m tempted to send a text to Nathan—the only other widowed person I know besides my mother—just to say hi, because he probably has a hard time with this cruel, wicked day too. But I recognize that I’m feeling bitter toward Alan, and I don’t want this to be about vengeance, so I set my phone aside.

  Later that night, it chimes on the kitchen counter anyway. I pick it up and read a text from Nathan: Hey you. Happy Valentine’s Day. Most romantic day of the year, right? Having fun yet?

  I smile and let out a breath that releases all the tension in my neck and shoulders. I quickly type a reply: I swear you must be my alter ego. I was thinking about going for a flying leap off the Macdonald Bridge just now, but your message has cheered me up. :)

  I hit “Send” and wait for his reply.

  Avoid the bridge. Water’s too cold this time of year. Instead, I recommend a big bottle of cheap whiskey. Works for me.

  I laugh and type, Perfect! Wish you were here so we could drown our sorrows together.

  He doesn’t respond for a moment, and I wonder if that was an inappropriate thing to say. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all, and it’s been only three months since I buried my husband. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings about this friendship that’s been growing between us.

  Finally, a message comes in. He says, Me too.

  I sit down on the stool at the kitchen island and start to feel a bit uneasy. What if Zack picked up my phone and read these messages? What would he think?

  Nevertheless, it’s been a rough day, and I’m grateful to be able to express at least some of what I’m feeling. Nathan is one of the few people who truly understand.

  I decide to text another message: Three months in and I’m feeling pretty angry at the universe, but mostly at Alan. Especially today. It’s hard to remember the good times.

  There’s a long pause. Do you want to give me a call?

  I consider that, and part of me wants to, but another part of me is afraid of confiding in this man too much more than I have already. He’s generous and kind, smart and handsome, and he’s alone on Valentine’s Day. It feels a bit dangerous.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I type a reply: I would love to talk, but I probably shouldn’t. Zack’s waiting for me to watch a movie. I’ll insist on an action thriller of course, with lots of car chases and fistfights.

  None of that is true. Zack is at Jeremy’s house, and I’m here alone. But it gets me off the hook without my having to explain my
feelings.

  Nathan texts back, Good plan. I recommend Jason Bourne. Or King Kong has a certain appeal on Valentine’s Day. It’s a love story, sort of, so you won’t feel like you’re practicing total avoidance.

  I chuckle. Then I marvel at Nathan’s gift for lightening my load at any given moment. Those are excellent suggestions. Thank you. Have a great night :).

  You too. TTYL

  I like how he ends the message with “Talk to you later.” It’s nice to know that the door remains open.

  I set down my phone and start to walk away with a smile but immediately return to it and delete that entire thread of texts, just to be safe.

  A few days later, I sit down with the chief of surgery to talk about the future. I explain to him that I’m feeling better with the medications Dr. Tremblay has prescribed and I can function very well throughout the day and have no trouble meeting with patients, but I inform him that I can’t continue to wait around to return to the OR. I need to make plans for the future.

  “I need to find another way to be a doctor,” I tell him, “and I’m sure you’d like to bring in another surgeon to replace me permanently.”

  Dr. Richards regards me with sadness and compassion. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. You know how hard it is for me to hear you say that. You were a terrific surgeon. I hate to lose you.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “But I respect and appreciate your decision, and I agree that it’s for the best. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do next? Where you’ll go from here?”

  I think about his question and look down at my hands on my lap—no longer the hands of a surgeon.

  “Not yet, but I’m considering going back to being a regular GP, maybe joining an established practice that needs an extra doc. Daytime hours only.”

  “There are plenty of those in the city,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll be fighting to get you. And you know you can rely on me for an excellent reference.”

  “Thanks.” I rise to my feet and shake his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working with you these past few years. I mean that.”

  He makes a slight grimace. “Wait a second. You’re not planning on quitting today, are you? Because there’s still plenty of work around here—follow-ups and consults—and I haven’t even begun to look for your replacement.”

  I smile at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay until you find someone. I’d never leave you in the lurch.”

  He wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “Phew.”

  I laugh, and we chat for a few minutes. Then I return to my office to work on some files. Eventually, I feel an overwhelming urge to lay my head on the desk and close my eyes. Thankfully, it’s a good time of the day for it. I have a full hour before my next appointment, so I get up, close my door, lock it securely, and lie down on the sofa to take a quick power nap.

  A short while later, I wake to the sound of a knock at the door. It’s my receptionist, Janine.

  “Dr. MacIntyre, are you in there? Please answer. Your door’s been locked for two hours. Are you okay?”

  Oh God, has it really been two hours? I missed my appointment?

  I try to get up, but I can’t move, and this time, I know exactly what’s happening.

  Janine knocks again. “Dr. MacIntyre?”

  I want to answer her, but I can’t even lift my hand off the leather sofa or open my eyes or call out. All I can do is lie there like a corpse, listening to the sound of her rapid knocking on the door.

  Her voice grows more panicked. “Dr. MacIntyre! Are you in there? I know you are. Please answer me, or I’m going to get security to open the door.”

  Please don’t do that. Just give me a minute or two. The paralysis will pass soon . . .

  But it doesn’t pass, despite my intense efforts to push my eyes open and roll off the sofa.

  I hear keys jingling and Janine talking to someone, and I prepare myself for the security guard to walk in and find me drooling on the sofa cushions.

  The lock clicks, the door opens, but it’s not the security guard. It’s Troy—the young firefighter who rescued me from my vehicle on the night of the accident and later found Winston in the ice storm. He’s wearing heavy gear and carrying the Jaws of Life. Despite my embarrassment, I’m overjoyed to see him because he saved my life and Winston’s too.

  And that is the moment I know that I’m dreaming.

  He kneels down beside the sofa. “Dr. MacIntyre, can you hear me? Just try to relax. You’re going to be fine.”

  I want to tell him that I’m already fine. I know exactly what’s happening to me. It’s just narcolepsy.

  He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Don’t be afraid. We’re going to get you out of here. We’re just setting up the equipment. Can you hear me?” He presses his fingers to the pulse at my neck and says to Janine, “She’s alive. But barely. We just need to get her out of here.”

  No! I’m fine! And you don’t need to get me out of here. Just wait a minute or two. I’ll be able to move soon.

  And you’re not even here.

  Two more firefighters come running into my office to operate the Jaws of Life. Troy tosses a heavy blanket over my head to protect me from flying glass and steel. I feel panic and fear.

  The noise is deafening, and my heart is racing. Then it occurs to me that maybe I’m not here at all. Maybe I’m back in the wreck, and all of this agony in my life has been a nightmare, just like I imagined it was on the night Alan died. Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe I’m truly dying. Maybe I’m already dead. Is this the afterlife?

  Please, don’t let it be that. I don’t want to die. I want to live.

  Suddenly my strength returns, and I can move my fingers and toes but not the rest of me.

  Am I stuck under the dashboard? Is that the weight that’s pressing down on my legs, or is it just the paralysis? Am I truly unconscious?

  I draw in a quick breath and force my eyes open.

  It’s bright.

  The middle of the day.

  I’m staring at the ceiling in my office.

  The room is quiet and empty. The door is closed. Troy isn’t here, and Janine isn’t knocking at my door.

  But my heart is pounding like a drum, and I can’t stop shaking as I try to sit up.

  It was just a dream, Abbie. You’re not back in the ravine, trapped in your car. You’re not dying.

  But it felt so real . . . the sound of the machines, Troy’s voice in my ear, the fear of death. I truly thought I was back there.

  I wasn’t, thank heavens.

  I survived the wreck, and I’m still here.

  I’m here. I’m alive. And I’m so grateful for that.

  Slowly, I sit up and try to work some strength back into my limbs. I rest my elbows on my knees and rake my fingers through my hair, shake my head to try and clear away the fog.

  I glance at the clock on the wall, worried that I’ve missed my appointment, but evidently I’ve been asleep for less than twenty minutes, not two hours, although it feels like ages.

  My body is heavy as lead, but I manage to drag myself off the sofa and move to my desk to send Dr. Tremblay an email. I want to tell him about this latest hypnagogic hallucination.

  He responds immediately to let me know that it’s unlikely I’ll ever be completely free of hallucinations during my daytime naps, but the sedative at night should at least allow me to get the sleep I require and lend some normalcy to my life.

  Life.

  Normalcy.

  By some miracle, I survived the accident, and I have my entire future still ahead of me. I didn’t die that night, like Alan did. How lucky I was! I feel so happy and relieved I’m completely breathless.

  Leaning back in my chair, I cover my face with my hands and begin to weep. These are tears of joy and gratitude—passionate tears that flow like a waterfall down my cheeks as I laugh and cry at the same time. I feel an exhilaration I never imagined I would ever feel again. I am positively euphoric, and I can’t believe
how lucky I am to be alive. I feel reborn. Who ever knew that my narcolepsy could turn out to be such an unexpected gift?

  The exhilaration continues into the night. I feel euphoric again when Zack skates past the center line and passes the puck to a teammate, who scores a fast goal. I cheer and clap with my mittens on, jumping up from my seat in the bleachers while the game horns blare and the other hockey parents cheer alongside me. Maureen and I high-five Gwen and Kate and shout over the boards, “Way to go, Citadel!” Rock music shakes the arena while the players congratulate each other, and the referees give the signal to start another play.

  The game ends with a score of three to two, with Zack’s team coming out on top, and I feel lighthearted as I exit the arena with Zack beside me, hauling his giant equipment bag over his shoulder. I’ll definitely miss the excitement of these games when he goes off to college in the fall, but he plans to try out for the team at Western, so it’s nice to know there may be more hockey in our future. But even if there isn’t, I’m happy today.

  Later that night, as I settle into bed, I scroll through messages on my phone and feel an urge to text Nathan, just to tell him about the game. Nothing more.

  Hey there. Just got home from the rink. Zack’s team won and they’re going on to the finals. A good day!

  Nathan responds a few seconds later. That’s great! Cheers to more good days ahead. And I’d love to see him play sometime.

  Suddenly, there’s a disturbance in me, because I can’t imagine inviting Nathan to one of Zack’s hockey games. How could I introduce him to the other hockey parents who sat in chilly arenas beside Alan and me for years? What would they think of that, so soon after Alan’s death?

  And how would I explain to Zack why Winston’s veterinarian—who just so happens to be a very handsome man—is sitting in Alan’s place, watching and cheering?

  I don’t respond to the text. Later that night, I toss and turn in bed. I flip from side to side, thinking about my friendship with Nathan and wishing I could be a normal grieving widow who wouldn’t feel the confusing desire to send personal text messages to a man she barely knows and reveal intimate details about her marriage. And then feel guilty about it.