by Tom Bierdz
I reached for the phone to call Megan several times, once even dialing her number before hanging up. What the hell was the matter with me? I was a grown man with a strong identity, a strong sense of self, and I was acting like a dependent child. I talked myself into abandoning the phone and spent the evening switching between the television, computer, and books, finding nothing to occupy my mind and constantly checking the time on the clock, waiting for Megan’s call. Finally, I went to bed early, tossing and turning.
28
To onlookers we could have seemed like a couple going on a trip as Carrie and I left the office, strolled over to her car and tossed her bag inside. It was cold, damp, and gloomy matching the mood for an abortion. There was no question in either of our minds that Carrie was making the agonizing right decision. Deep down she longed to be married with a family but she didn’t want to bring a child into the world this way: from a one-night stand, fathered by a hunk she didn’t know anything about. This modern Millie was steeped in traditional values, wanting to fall in love, marry, and raise a family in that order. Thankfully, she lived in a culture where abortion was legal, performed by experienced doctors where her ability to bear a child in the future was not jeopardized.
She smiled and looked at me, her face peaked, “I wouldn’t be able to do this on my own.” She started the car, pulled into traffic. “This could have been special if it was our baby and I was going to the hospital to have it.”
I smiled, not knowing what to say. I knew Carrie loved me. I saw our mutual love and respect as a brotherly-sisterly love, not as a love between a man and a woman. I suspected she did, too, and her comment was based on her need to alleviate her anxiety. We were connected like magnets. We’d been friends for over fifteen years.
“You do think I’m doing the right thing?” She turned her wipers on to whisk away the rain that began to fall.
“I do.”
“You’ll do crisis management should I fall apart?”
“You’re not going to fall apart. I’m here for you now and I’ll be there for you whenever you need me.”
Her finger wiped away a tear that puddled in her eye. “Even if you move in with that blonde bombshell?”
“Even if I move in with Megan.”
“Are you?”
“I guess so.” I avoided Carrie’s eyes, wiped the moisture off my window and looked outside, seeing but not processing what I saw. I had said it out loud, given voice to the thoughts I’d been struggling with, realizing on some level I had already made the decision.
Nothing more was said until we reached the hospital. I stayed in the room with her after she was prepped until they wheeled her into the OR. I waited in the doctor’s lounge and reviewed some case files, making notes and assessing treatment goals. There were a couple of moments when I began to obsess about losing Kevin, connecting the abortion loss to my loss, but I flushed the nagging thoughts out of my mind.
When Carrie came out of recovery and was released I drove her home, ignoring my suspension, because she was in no position to drive. I took a taxi and returned to the office.
“Holy Shit!” Bobby shouted. “Did you read the paper today?” He sat at his desk, the paper stretched out in front of him.
“No,” I answered half-listening from my desk where I was reviewing the case file for my next patient. I heard Bobby’s footsteps as he scrambled to my open door. “The cowboy psychiatrist. What was his name?”
“Isley Hodges,” I said, looking up. “Why?”
“He’s dead!”
“What?”
“Hit and run.” He scooted over to my desk, laid the paper in front of me so I could read the article. “It happened the other night. Apparently, he’d been crossing the street where he lived and had been run down by a motorist.”
“No witnesses,” I said, following along with the article. “Jesus Christ!” I sat back in my chair. “The guy spends all that time in school and doesn’t even get a chance to practice, to enjoy the fruits of his labor.” My heart sunk, my sorrow compounded by our brief encounter.
“Probably some goddamned drunk. Too scared to stop.”
I thought about my DUI and how easily I could have struck somebody. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. One day you’re here, the next day you’re gone. It happens so suddenly. I liked the guy. I thought he’d make a good shrink.”
I felt a little ashamed at myself pining over a woman when Isley, in the prime of his life with his future ahead of him, was cut down by an oblivious driver who didn’t even have the courtesy to stop. Had he, perhaps Isley’s life might have been saved.
My next patient brought up the hit and run thinking I may have known the psychiatrist. I told her of my connection and we both lamented about the tragedy before getting down to work
That evening I, again, waited for a call from Megan which never came.
29
It was like we were in a stand-off, neither one wanting to make the first move; both of us stubbornly believing we were in the right. At least, that was the spin I was putting on it. Megan’s refusal to call could have been something else entirely, some major emergency that took her out of town. I didn’t know a lot about her background. But even if something like that happened, I’d think she’d let me know. No, not calling was a choice. Did Megan need the time to reassess our relationship? That didn’t seem consistent for someone who demanded I move in with her. How could she change her mind so quickly?
Did she want to teach me a lesson? And what would that be? That I was taking her for granted? Assuming she couldn’t live without me? That I had to work at the relationship? She had everything going for her–looks, money, smarts, and class–with no shortage of potential suitors. She boasted of enjoying a series of monogamous relationships. Was she tiring of me? Did she want to move on with someone new?
Panged with jealousy I knew I didn’t want to lose her. She wasn’t perfect, but who was? She had a mean streak. But couldn’t I help her with it? I was a psychiatrist. Maybe if she had a long term, positive relationship with a male, with me, she could overcome it.
In any case, the separation had shown me how much I missed her, how much I wanted to be with her, and maybe, even, that I loved her. If she wasn’t going to make the first move, I would.
Bobby discreetly learned Megan’s tennis schedule. I planned to show up at the court and challenge her to a game of tennis, but not before engaging Bobby into another practice game. Highly motivated, I was on my game with Bobby, serving zingers and wielding a formidable backhand. “Thanks for the game, Bobby,” I said, catching my breath. “Now if I can only play like that against Megan.”
His breathing was normal even though I had run him ragged. “If she don’t take you back, you’ll have the satisfaction of beating her.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. I didn’t expect to be rejected.
The next day I got into my tennis whites, grabbed my racket, and had Bobby drop me off at the tennis club before the prescribed time. I checked with the reservation desk to see which court Megan had reserved, then sat on a bench and waited, watching a couple of uncoordinated women play, occasionally tossing them their ball which rolled in my direction. One of them, knowing she was being watched, flirted with me by smiling and tossing her dark hair, and shaking her derriere more than necessary.
Troy, Megan’s partner, appeared before long. He was tall, sinewy, good-looking, and only in his twenties. Nodding briefly at me, he cast his attention on the woman performing for her audience. I introduced myself and gave him a hundred dollar bill to go away. When their time was up everyone vacated the court.
Megan appeared five minutes later, looking luscious in her tennis skirt, her hair held in a loose chignon. Her neckline was modest, not plunging as it was when we played before. Stunned to see me, she dropped her racket, clunking it on the floor. “Seems I have a new partner today,” she said, picking up her racquet.
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“No, I prefer it.
” She set down her racquet and bag, gave me a perfunctory hug. “Choose your side.”
“I’m good.”
She stepped to the other side, bounced a few balls. “What should we play for?”
“Winner’s choice.”
“Mmm. You mean when I beat you I can decide what happens between you and me?”
“For today and maybe tomorrow, not forever.”
Smiling, she bit her lower lip, shaking her head, holding back her impulse to laugh.
My face flushed for my asinine needless qualification. When would I learn to flow in the moment?
“Volley for serve.”
The volley was short as she tapped one just over the net when I was near the line. I hit her first two serves into the net and she was quickly up thirty-love. It took me a while to get my mojo up. Her forehand was fierce. She had me running back and forth across the court like a ping-pong ball. She played the net, but I hung in there winning points on lobs that barely stayed in bounds. She won the first set 7-5.
“Good game,” she said, handing me a bottle of water from her bag. “You were only inches away from winning the set.
I drank heartily, wiped the sweat from my face with a towel, and replaced my wet headband with a dry one. She had a sheen on her exposed body but wasn’t dripping wet like mine. “You’re as good as I remembered.”
“You didn’t think I was lucky the last time?”
“No, I thought I was better this time. You still beat me.”
“You were better. Ready? Let’s change sides.”
I won the second set 6-4. We played pretty even with long volleys and balls hit at precise points. Like the last time she was able to return any kind of shot with sizzling speed and accuracy. I won only because her serve was off and she double-faulted. It wasn’t a gimme. She was determined without the killer look and apologized for the one errant shot that buzzed by my ear.
“I’m bushed,” she said, sweating like me when she congratulated me. “What say we forget the third set and call this a draw.”
“No sweeter words were said.” I huffed and puffed. “So who gets their wish?”
“I say we both do. What’s yours?”
My eyes zeroed in on hers. “To spend the night with you.”
She showed a full-face grin. “We’re in synch. My wish was the same.” We showered and met in the front.
It was cool, but she rolled back the car top anyway. We were warmly dressed and it seemed by exposing us we were making a statement for the world to see, that we were together again. She drove slowly taking in the sights, passing by verdant parks with rolling hills, azure blue rocking lakes with sailboats in the distance, and peaceful residential neighborhoods. We jabbered non-stop; talking about nothing in particular, talking to reconnect. As we began the incline into her subdivision I fantasized how proud I would feel, motoring my Porsche up the winding roads through the picture-perfect palatial estates with their professionally manicured, landscaped yards.
Remotely opening the wrought iron entry gate and garage door, Megan rolled her car into the garage.
I hopped out, looked around the three-car garage. “Will there be space for my Porsche if I move in?”
“Of course. I can move the car over a little and if we re-stack that patio furniture, there will be plenty of room.”
“I thought your SUV was black,” I said, glancing at her huge Mercedes on the other side of the garage. “Now it looks maroon.”
“Cinnabar red. I traded the other one in.”
“They look the same.” My eyes remained on the utility vehicle.
“Yeah, but it was last year’s model.”
“You trade every year?”
“Usually. Sometimes every couple of years.” She hit the button to close the garage door, began to walk toward the house.
I followed. “Why do you need an SUV?”
“For delivery. When I need to move something. It’s either that or a truck. I don’t see myself driving a truck.”
“I’ve never seen you in the SUV.” I assumed any large delivery items were transported by servants. I closed the door behind me as we were both in the mud-room now.
She untied her head scarf, shoved it into the sleeve of her brown leather jacket that she hung on a hook. “Anytime you want a ride in the SUV, let me know.” She finger-combed her hair. “You’re very inquisitive today.”
“Well, if I’m going to move in here with you I need to know if there’s a place for my Porsche among other things.” I dropped my overnight bag on the floor and hung up my jacket.
“Then let’s uncork a bottle of Dom Perignon and talk about the details.”
“Scotch first. I’ll celebrate later.”
“Start a fire. I need to use the lady’s room, then I’ll bring out the drinks.”
I sauntered to the living room to the massive, two story, stone fireplace with the terrazzo hearth, stacked a pile of kindling on the grate and lit it, adding birch logs when the fire took hold. I sat on an ottoman watching the flames, reflecting on how something so beautiful could similarly warm and comfort or destroy. Was there a parallel with Megan? I had experienced both sides of her.
Megan brought me my drink, taking me away from the hypnotic flames. “I missed you terribly.”
She sat beside me, pushing me over with her hip.
“You didn’t call.”
“I would have in another day or two.”
“You have more willpower than me. I couldn’t wait any longer. I was lost without you.”
She gave me a squeeze. “Me, too. Let’s talk about some ground rules before we get carried away.” She sipped her martini. “I know you need to feel comfortable, so I suggest you keep your place for now should you need some space.”
“I plan to.”
She looked like she was about to say something but, instead, sucked in a swallow of air. She curved her lips in a smile. “For now we’ll just play it day to day. You want to add anything?”
“No, long as you realize I’m still a little skittish, I make no long term commitment, and might need a little space once in a while.”
“As long as you come back to me.” She gave me a seductive look, stood, and reached for my hand.
I set my glass down, stood, and drew her toward me, kissing her passionately. As she pulled me toward the bedroom, I breathed, “And if it doesn’t work out?”
“I’ll tell everyone how you sexually took advantage of me.”
“You can add tonight to the list.” I threw her on the bed. There was a frenzy to our joining. It was as if our separation was too long and too much, filled with the realization that it could be over for good, and that this moment might never arrive. Now that it was here, we clung to it desperately and drained it of every last passionate drop.
30
For the first week I found my living arrangement with Megan to be mostly satisfying, but I still had that niggling feeling of discomfort; unease about something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Some of my anxiety was the typical kind of thing anyone who has been divorced, or hurt in a prior living arrangement feels in the beginning of a new commitment. Am I making the right move? Is this the right person for me? Will she continue to love me and accept me with my limitations after the newness wears off, or will she turn against me and hurt me? But there was more: raw fear, the kind that chilled my whole body, gave me the shakes and the sweats. It was the mean streak I witnessed, plus the warnings from Nick and Hanna.
And, the visit from Detective Rollins found a way of creeping into my mind at the most inopportune times.
One night when I was struggling with a nightmare, broken out in sweat, I told Megan it was because of Kevin. I lied, yet it was related in the sense that I haven’t been able to trust my instincts since he killed himself.
This particular morning, like the others, Megan dropped me off at the office. The day began in typical fashion. My patients came and went, then in the middle of the afternoon Bobby informed me that Detective R
ollins was here to see me. My stomach flipped and I steeled myself behind my desk as I watched him stroll into my office, a happy-to-be-the-bearer-of-bad-news, sardonic grin on his battered face.
“Your boy said you’d have some time to talk to me,” Detective Rollins sneered, turning the good side of his face to me, a habit I assumed developed after his cheek bones had been crushed.
I wanted to choke Bobby for not warning me beforehand. “Sure, Detective, take a seat.” I tightened up, tried to camouflage my revulsion with a wan smile. “Apparently, you haven’t put the theory of foul play behind you, or did you come to apologize?”
Rollins sat in front, dropped his elbows on the desk and glared at me. “I thought doctors were all for the truth. You know, the truth will set you free, as they say. One truth for sure, you and Miss Fatal Attraction are an item.”
“Yes, Miss Wilshire and I are seeing each other. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Living together is what I would call it.” He said, smirking like he pulled one over on me. “Sometimes referred to as an LTA, a living together arrangement.”
I flinched. How would he know that? My move in was recent. Am I being watched? “Like I said, that’s none of your business.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He picked up a paperweight on my desk, a palm-size stone with the word, create inscribed; played with his lower lip with his other hand as he studied it; then glared at me while he set it down. “I thought it was unethical to sleep with your patients.”
“She is not, and never was, a patient. As I told you before, she came in for help to prevent her sister’s suicide.”
