Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  The way he’s looking at me is making me feel stupid. “He was manic when he told me he loved me. I know he was.”

  “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. Think about it—was he with anyone else this time around? Did he cheat on you?”

  I shrug. “I honestly don’t know.” But we were on the phone for hours every night, and together when I returned. “I don’t think so.”

  “So he behaved totally differently, and I think that’s because he does love you.”

  I look right into his eyes. “He did love me. But can you promise me he still does?”

  Mark doesn’t avoid my gaze, and I know his answer before he says it. “I’m sorry, Nessa. I wish I could.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I go to Cape May for the weekend. I need to get out of the city. I need to sit by the ocean and clear my head after spending several days passing Aron in the halls, seeking his gaze while he avoids mine.

  My mother gives me space for a few hours, refraining from asking questions on the drive from Philly and not saying a word when I announce I’m going for a walk. But when I return to the cottage, sandy and windblown, she has soup and sandwiches waiting. “You’re too thin,” she says as she sets a full plate in front of me.

  “Just busy,” I say, gazing at her care-worn face. My mother is a lovely woman, but the years and grief have etched themselves into her skin. And yet, somehow, she’s never cracked, never broken. “Mom?”

  She looks up from her soup bowl. “What?”

  “Tell me what it was like to be with Dad.”

  The color drains from her face a little, and I almost apologize and take the question back, but as the moments pass, her expression softens. “Which parts?”

  “After his episodes.”

  “Ah, the afterburn,” she murmurs.

  “The what?”

  Mom chuckles. “That’s just what I called it. It was like the imprint of all the things he’d done, all the things we’d done together, burned into the days that came after. I don’t really know how to describe it,” she says as her cheeks darken. “When he was back on an even keel, after being really high or really low, everything felt kind of singed and fragile. It always took a while to get over, to forgive and move on.” She shakes her head with some memory. “Some things took longer than others.”

  “What was it like?”

  She sets her spoon down. “It was … it was like walking on eggshells.”

  “Because you were scared of setting him off?”

  She shakes her head. “Because I didn’t want to lose him. And in those aftertimes, he was always so close to leaving.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes meet mine. “He felt guilty, Nessa. About the things he’d said, the things he’d done, the money he’d spent. We protected you from so much of that. But many times, he told me he thought he should go. Not because he wanted to, but because he wanted to protect us from the storms of his moods.”

  I bite my lip, my heart fluttering. “How did you get him to stay?”

  Mom smiles. “It was like getting a wild animal to eat from my palm. Luring him back was always an exercise in patience. Because sometimes I wanted to shake him, you know? It was like he didn’t believe he deserved us, and I always had to convince him to open his eyes and look at me again.” She gets up to grab a tissue from the counter. “As soon as he did, I knew I had him back.” She dabs her eyes and blows her nose. “It was always bittersweet, because I knew it was temporary. After a few years, I knew there would always be a next time, and that it would probably be worse. But it was part of being with him. And when you love someone like I loved your father, you’re willing to walk through hell with that person, because it’s worth it.” She lets out a sniffly laugh. “You must think I’m being silly.”

  I don’t, not at all. Unwanted hope is taking root in my heart, and I try to tamp it down. “But did you ever wonder whether it was worth it? I know it was hard for you, Mom. You may think you protected me from all that stuff, but I saw more than you wanted me to.”

  She takes my hand. “I know, and as you got older and he got more unpredictable, I did wonder if leaving him would be better for you, and maybe even for me. I loved him, but it got scary at times. The night he died wasn’t the first time he’d tried to hurt himself.”

  I force myself to keep looking at her, but Aron’s frantic attempts to make it over the balcony are playing out on the screen of my mind. “If Dad were still alive, do you think you’d be with him?”

  She inhales a long breath and squeezes my hand. “If he were still alive, I like to think we would have figured out what was happening by now. Your father was never diagnosed or medicated, Nessa, and you know how much of a difference that makes.”

  I blink, not sure why I didn’t think of this distinction earlier. My father was never treated for bipolar disorder. He unraveled over the course of years, but never took medication—apart from the alcohol he used to self-medicate, we realized later. If he had been treated, how different could things have been? And Aron … Aron must be on medication. There’s no way he’d be allowed to return to the hospital if he wasn’t getting some kind of psychiatric care.

  But he still has to deal with the afterburn, the fallout from the things he did, the things we did together. The hope sprouts from the layer of barren earth around my heart. Could that be why he won’t look at me? Does he feel guilty? Is it possible to lure him back? And if it is, do I want to risk my heart again?

  I get to the gym early Monday morning, switching back into my brutal routine out of sheer necessity. I’m exhausted from being up the last two nights, my mother’s words replaying in my head, but this is going to be an intense week, and I have no time to rest. I get to the hospital by half past eight, and Nick catches up with me as I unlock the intern office. His expression is a thundercloud, dark and ominous. “Could you tell me,” he snarls, “why you never bothered to mention that you’d applied for the onco post-doc? Why did I find that out from Joanna, of all fucking people?”

  I shrink away as he towers over me. “Sorry, Nick,” I say, quickly unlocking the door and pulling it wide for him while I remain in the hall. It doesn’t feel safe to go in there with him right now, because he looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him, like he wants to hurt me. “It came up really quickly, and I didn’t get a chance.”

  His eyes narrow. “Came up quickly?” he breathes, stepping close. “No, I think you’ve been a spiteful, manipulative little bitch from day one. Did you ever tell Phaedra how you managed to get all those consults from them? Does she know you boned the docs—first Lindstrom, and now that Chinese guy? I saw you in the cafeteria the other day.”

  Anger heats my skin. “He’s Korean, he’s a friend of mine, and you’re a self-proclaimed asshole. Maybe that’s why I have the referrals.”

  Rage flares in Nick’s eyes. “Yeah?” he growls. “Does Phaedra know about him? What about Lindstrom? What would she say if she knew about your extracurriculars?”

  He’s opening his mouth to say something else when Lisa enters the basement. She freezes, eyeing him leaning over me. “Good … morning?” she says.

  “I’m going for coffee.” Nick says, taking a step back and giving me a nasty smile. “And then I have supervision with Phaedra. Lots of important topics to discuss.” He stalks away and slams the basement door behind him.

  I sag against the wall, my heart hammering.

  “Are you okay?” Lisa asks.

  “I think so.”

  “He told me you’d applied for the onco post-doc,” she says, perceptive as always. “I think he knows you’re a shoo-in.”

  “Maybe not,” I mumble, wondering how on earth I’m going to deal with this newest threat, hoping Nick is the victim of an unfortunate freak accident while fetching his coffee. “I have to head over to oncology.”

  “I heard Aron was back. It’s all over the hospital,” she says quietly.

  I clutch the strap of my bag a little tighter. “Yeah. But … u
m … I can’t talk about it now, all right?” I walk away quickly when she nods. It’s too weird, too sad, too complicated for me to tackle at the start of a busy day, not if I want to get anything done—and deal with whatever crap Nick’s planning to fling in my direction. So I throw myself into my work, seeing Rohan, who has a procedure scheduled for Thursday that we need to get him through, and meeting with the depressed mother of Cally, an eighteen-month-old with neuroblastoma. By the end of the morning, my head is aching with fatigue, but I force myself to sit down in front of the computer in the records booth to enter my consult notes. If I want to be a “shoo-in,” I need to do good work. I type my notes for Rohan, then click to Cally’s note and document the plan I’ve made to do dyadic sessions with the developmentally delayed toddler and her mother to facilitate a stronger bond between them.

  I am so immersed in my note that I jump when I hear a quiet cough behind me. I look over my shoulder to see Aron standing a few feet away. I have no idea how long he’s been there. “Hi,” I say, taking the opportunity to look him over. He has a bottle of water in one hand and his phone in the other. He’s cleanly shaven and he’s gotten a haircut. He smells amazing, that grassy, clean scent, and it brings back a billion unwelcome, delicious memories.

  “Hi,” he says, sounding shy. He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “I didn’t want to bother you …”

  “You can bother me,” I blurt.

  “I want to refer one of my patients to you. Can you take the case?” The water bottle crackles in his grip.

  “Do you want me to take it?” I ask, watching his face.

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you going to make me beg?”

  “No, sorry. Tell me a little about it?”

  He does. The patient is a six-year-old with divorcing parents who’s having massive tantrums and has repeatedly attempted to pull out his IV line. Aron gives me a faint smile. “I need some help with this one, and as it turns out, you come highly recommended.”

  For the first time since his return, Aron’s gaze strokes over my face in that amused, fond way it used to, and it takes my breath away, even though it disappears quickly. It reminds me of what my mother said about luring my father back. Like getting a wild, skittish animal to eat from your palm. And as I look up at Aron, that is exactly what I want to do. Gazing at his face, remembering how we were together … it crushes my doubts. Forget the risk to my heart—I want to offer it to him right now. I shouldn’t be thinking this way. It shouldn’t be this easy to decide—especially after living with my dad, after seeing what my mom went through. With him in front of me, though, it makes it difficult to remember all the reasons I should be careful. The opening game is about setting yourself up for future victory, the Aron from the fall whispers to me. “I’d be happy to help,” I say.

  His smile grows, still small, but warm, and it makes me want to touch him, makes me realize how long it’s been since I actually have. “Good. Joanna told me you’d applied for the post-doc,” he says softly.

  “I have other options. It’s not a sure thing.”

  He nods, then uncaps his water bottle and takes a drink, looking uncomfortable. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but it’s probably too soon to expect him to fall to his knees and beseech me to stay at CHOP. “I imagine you’ll have to decide soon, though,” he says as he screws the cap back on.

  “Yeah.” Nick’s threat from this morning settles like a boulder in my stomach. “Assuming they offer the position to me.”

  Aron’s brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  I bow my head. “Just … um. It’s nothing. I’m not the only applicant, and it’s competitive.”

  I look up to see Aron frowning at me like I’ve started to speak a foreign language he can’t quite translate. It makes my heart skip, so I ask, “Did you need the computer?”

  He stares at me for a moment, then nods and waits as I click back to Cally’s general medical record. As soon as I do, Aron’s hand closes over my shoulder. “Wait a minute,” he says sharply, leaning forward and squinting at the screen. “That dosage can’t be right.”

  I frown, gazing at a long list of meds and dosages. “Which one?”

  Aron shakes his head. “I need to find Kimble. He should have been more careful when he entered this. I’ll see you later?”

  He strides away quickly, and I feel a little sorry for Dr. Kimble, the resident who’s working on this case. But the rest of me is rejoicing, because what I just saw … that was Aron, as he should be. Precise, intense, dedicated. He’s back, and I’m going to fight for him.

  Phaedra calls me into her office the next morning, and I can tell by the look on her face as I walk in that this is going to be unpleasant. She gestures for me to sit, and once I’m settled, she closes the door and sits on the edge of the desk in front of me. “Several people have come to me about you in the last twenty-four hours.”

  My stomach turns. “Several?”

  She nods. “Nessa, I need you to be honest with me now. Can you do that?”

  I look into her eyes, swallowing my dread. “Sure?”

  “Are any of your colleagues harassing or threatening you?”

  I blink. “What?” Because that is not what I expected her to say.

  Her blond-gray hair haloes her head and bobs as she speaks. “Lisa came to me yesterday and said she thought Nick was trying to intimidate you. Then Nick came to me to level some rather unsettling allegations. After that, Dr. Feldman called me to express her confidence in you, saying she was speaking for the whole onco department, and then Dr. Lindstrom called to say how he appreciated your willingness to take a difficult case with him despite your already full caseload. He specifically said he hoped your post-doc application was being seriously considered.” She blows an errant strand of hair out of her face. “I’ll be frank. It’s been a bit strange.”

  My head is spinning. “I didn’t ask the docs to call you,” I mumble, still processing what she said about Aron. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if he wanted me to leave? “And I can handle Nick. We’ve never gotten along, but that doesn’t mean we can’t co-exist.” I might dislike him, but it wouldn’t feel good to tell on him to Phaedra like that, not when he and I are competing for the same position. “And as for the allegations, I’m not entirely sure what they are, so I’ll be honest like you asked, and you can draw your own conclusions.”

  I take a deep breath. “I was involved with Aron Lindstrom for a few months in the fall.” I look down at my hands, my fingers twisting together in my lap. “He took a leave of absence, and that ended our relationship. His friend, Mark Kwan, supported me through that time, which was, I’ll admit, rough. But Mark and I are just friends. Nick saw him comforting me in the cafeteria after I found out Aron was back. And that’s it. I don’t sleep around with the onco staff.”

  Phaedra starts to laugh. “I didn’t call you in here to discuss Nick’s allegations, Nessa. I wanted to talk to you because I was worried about you, and how Nick has treated you.” She leans forward. “But I appreciate your candor. Your relationship with Dr. Lindstrom was hardly a secret, though his abrupt leave of absence in the fall was slightly more of one, and unfortunately has become fodder for rumors.”

  “Rumors?” Anger burns inside me, pure and protective. I hate the idea that people might be whispering about Aron, that they would say things that might hurt him.

  She gives me a knowing look, as if my feelings for Aron are written across my forehead in indelible ink. “As long as his attendings are satisfied with his work, the rest of it will go away with time. This kind of thing is always more noise than substance, I think.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “But all of this information has certainly helped me make my decision regarding who to offer the post-doc position to. It’s yours … if you want it?”

  A grin spreads across my face. It feels strange and foreign, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve really smiled in quite a while. “Thanks, Dr. Truax. I accept.”

&nb
sp; Chapter Twenty-One

  I wipe down the shoulder press and move to the incline chest press. My bootcamp class was cancelled this morning because the teacher called out sick at the last minute, so I’m on my own and clumsy at best. I tug at the pin to adjust the weight, but it’s stuck. After a minute I’m red-faced with frustration and embarrassment, because there’s a middle-aged woman in spandex who’s waiting for her turn.

  A hand reaches over my shoulder, turns the pin slightly, and slides it out of the hole. And I’d recognize those fingers anywhere, given how often I’ve obsessed over them. “Thanks,” I say to Aron, turning in the weight machine’s seat to look at him.

  He’s in shorts and a worn Penn t-shirt, and his hair and face are sweaty. He’s holding a large, half-empty water bottle. He must have been around the corner, at the treadmills. “You’re welcome,” he replies, and I don’t think I’m imagining the appreciative way his eyes flit over my body.

  The middle-aged lady clears her throat, and Aron gives her an apologetic look and walks over to the free weights. I complete my chest presses as the debate rages in my head. I could go talk to him, or I could let him be. I could allow these fragile shoots of hope to grow, or I could stifle them and walk away.

  Aron has changed, and there’s no way around it. I’ve watched him lose his mind, and I have no idea what’s happened since. He’s like a stranger—one who could singlehandedly tear through all my protective layers and leave me raw and hurting all over again. I know how unpredictable bipolar disorder can be, how much suffering it can cause. It’s not like there’s some easy and permanent cure. He’ll be living with this for the rest of his life. And I’m so close to meeting my goals—why would I let anyone slow me down or sink me when I’ve worked so hard?

  But … the past five months has done nothing to loosen his grip on my heart, and surely that means something? I’ve never been happier than when I was with Aron. I’ve never felt as alive and connected, as healthy or whole, as able to offer myself and engage with the people who might need me. I’ve never let anyone have all of me, never wanted to give myself completely to anyone but him. I’ve never met anyone like him, and I doubt I ever will again. Yes, he has bipolar disorder, but he’s still Aron. How could I let him go without trying at all?