Everyone looked at me, the outsider. The boring gastroenterologist (who had also saved a life tonight, though that story wouldn't get aired).
"I'll do it," I said. "What would you like?"
Despite a magna cum laude degree from Tufts, medical school at the same and a profession in which I earned a third more than my boyfriend, it seemed I was back in the days of waiting on customers at Scupper Island Clam Shack.
"Thanks, Nora," Bobby said. A couple other people paused in their self-praise to echo him.
"You bet." I walked through the ER, trying not to sigh.
In the hallway was a gurney. A young woman in a neck brace lay there, holding hands with a young man about the same age, also in a neck brace. College kids in a car accident, I'd guess. He leaned down so his forehead touched hers, and her hand went to his hair. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. Their love was that palpable.
Bobby and I had been like that once, right after the Big Bad Event.
But not for a long, long time.
It made me feel...gray.
Outside lurked the typical raw Boston April night--rain splattering, a cold wind gusting off the bay, the smell of ocean and trash, since the sanitation workers were on strike. It was eight-thirty, which meant a quiet night in our fair city. SoHo we were not.
I started off the curb, glanced to my left.
There, right there, was a giant green ant on top of a van and the words Beantown Bug Killers. In a flash I saw that the driver had one of those hideous lumberjack beards with crumbs in it, and he wore a Red Sox hat and there were Dunkin' Donuts napkins on the dashboard, and then the van hit me. I didn't feel anything at first, but it would hurt, I knew that, and, boy, a lot of thoughts can go through your head in one second. Have they ever measured that? Brakes screeched as I sailed through the air like a rag doll, distantly aware that this would be bad. I hadn't taken one step to get away; there hadn't been time. Then the ground slammed up at me, my head bouncing on the pavement, hard. A car door slammed, followed by a thick Southie accent. "You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me, lady. I didn't even fuckin' see ya. Oh, my Gawd! You okay? Fuck!"
His voice was fading.
The smell of trash only now, sour and sickly sweet. I was lying near an overheaped garbage can. Would that be the last thing I saw? Trash? I wanted Boomer.
I wanted my mom.
The trash can was graying out. I couldn't see anymore.
I'm dying, I thought. This time, I'm really going to die.
And then I was gone.
2
How will my dog cope with this?
My soul, it seemed, wasn't ready to leave just yet and was still hung up on the concerns of the material world.
Poor Boomer, the Dog of Dogs, my sweet little hundred-pound puppy, who protected me and came into the bathroom when I showered to stand guard just in case someone broke in. Boomer, who loved me with all his giant heart, who would put his head on my leg, who asked for nothing other than an ear scratch, who was afraid of pigeons but adored ducks... No one would love him the way I did. He'd be sad and confused for the rest of his life.
I knew I shouldn't have waited for stupid Bobby! And why the hell was I the one getting the pizza? Why hadn't I stood up for myself and told beautiful, snotty Jabrielle to go her damn self? She was a resident! I was a fully vested doctor, thank you!
But I hadn't, and now I was dead.
I hope we can still go with open casket.
I had often envisioned my funeral--me lying against the rose-colored satin, looking utterly stunning, U2's and Ed Sheeran's sadder songs playing gently in the background while my friends wept and laughed over their precious memories of me. A closed casket was not part of the scenario, hit by Beantown Bug Killers or not. I wondered if my face was smooshed in. Eesh.
I have nothing to wear to my funeral.
Granted, in life I'd been a clothes whore, at least during the past fifteen years or so. But for my funeral, I wanted something special. The navy-blue-and-white polka-dot Brooks Brothers dress I'd been eyeing, or that pink floral Kate Spade. But maybe that would be too festive.
I'll never meet Daniel Radcliffe now.
It had always been a long shot, I knew that, but I'd imagined stalking him after he did a show on Broadway, waiting by the side door, our eyes meeting, his inimitable smile, going out for a drink, sharing our favorite moments from Harry Potter, me finding out that he, too, hated the destruction of Hogwarts and agreed that Ron was nowhere near worthy of Hermione. Now, with me dead, it definitely wasn't gonna happen.
True, no one was acting like I was dead, but I was fairly certain I was. Maybe they just hadn't noticed yet. I guessed this ER wasn't quite the be-all and end-all of modern medicine, was it? I thought I'd heard the words dislocated patella and ortho consult and trauma alert. I was pretty sure I'd seen the tunnel of light, but my spirit was tuning in and out.
What was that beeping? It was really hurting my head.
I'd read about this kind of thing happening. Out-of-body experiences. The soul lingering a little while before heading for the afterlife. Did I know anyone who'd greet me from heaven? My dad, maybe, if he was dead? That mean-ass grandmother of mine who used to tell me I was fat? I hoped she wasn't there. Who else? Maybe that sweet patient who'd died of pancreatic cancer during my fellowship. God, I had loved her. My first fatality.
"So she's your girlfriend?" someone asked. I knew that voice. Jabrielle. Couldn't miss that hint of sneer.
"Yeah." Bobby.
Was he about to start sobbing? Wait, did Bobby have to call the code on me? Or had he been hysterical, calling my name, having to be dragged out by two burly orderlies? Either way, the poor, poor man. Dang, I wished I remembered! I guess I'd shown up a little late to my own death. Which did seem to happen a lot in the movies.
The beeping was persistent and annoying.
"How long have you been together?" Jabrielle again.
"Oh, a little more than a year. It's funny, though. I was gonna break up with her this weekend." A pause. "She's not in the best shape, anyway." Gentle laughter.
I almost smiled.
Wait. What?
Did Bobby just break up with me?
I was barely even cold! Did he--Was he--
"So what will you do?" Jabrielle asked.
"It would be pretty shitty to dump her now, I guess."
A female purr. "Well, when you're a free man, give me a call."
"Wish I didn't have to wait so long."
Are you even kidding me?
No. No, no. I was dead. I didn't care about these things. Soon, I'd be floating up to the stars or something.
But just in case, I decided to try to open my eyes.
Oh, shit. I wasn't dead. I was in the ER. That beeping sound was the heart monitor, nice and regular, 78 beats per minute, O2 sat 98 percent, BP 130/89, a little high, but given the pain, not unexpected.
And Bobby was fondling a piece of Jabrielle's hair.
"Do you mind?" I said, my voice croaking.
They jumped apart.
"Hey! You're awake! Take it easy, hon, you're gonna be okay." Bobby took my hand--ow, my shoulder!--and smiled reassuringly. He did have the prettiest blue eyes. "You were hit by a car."
"Beantown Bug Killers," Jabrielle added.
"Did I die?"
Bobby smirked. "We had to sedate you. You have a concussion--we scanned you, but you're fine. Bruised kidneys, broken clavicle and a patellar dislocation, which we reduced. It's splinted, and we're waiting on ortho to check you out. Can you feel your toes?"
Everything hurt. My back, my head, my shoulder, my knee. I was one giant throb of pain. But whatever they'd given me made it so I didn't really care.
I guess my tunnel of light had been the CAT scan.
"I want another doctor," I said.
"Hon, don't be that way."
"Bite me. You were flirting over my corpse." I pulled my hand free. Ow.
He rolled his eyes. "You weren't dead, Nora."<
br />
Fury blotted out the pain for a second. "Well, I thought I was. Get out. Both of you. Don't be surprised if I file a complaint for unprofessional conduct. And call Gus to walk Boomer."
The tug of the sedation or concussion pulled me back under, and before the door had closed, I was asleep again.
*
When I woke up, I was in a regular hospital room, Bobby asleep in the chair beside me. Some weary white carnations were in a vase next to me, their edges brown. If that wasn't a metaphor for our relationship, I didn't know what was. I sensed that moving would be very painful, so I breathed carefully and took stock.
My left arm was in a sling. A brace of some kind was on my right leg. My back hurt, my abdomen ached, and my head throbbed, little flashes of light in my peripheral vision with every heartbeat.
But I was alive. Apparently, the concussion and drugs had given me that out-of-body feeling.
Bobby stirred, never a good sleeper. Opened his eyes. "Hey. How you feeling?"
"Okay."
"Do you remember what happened?"
"Hit by a van."
"That's right. You were crossing the street, and you got hit. Besides the patellar dislocation, your left clavicle is broken, and you've got fractures in the sixth and seventh ribs on the left. Pretty good concussion, too. The trauma team admitted you for a night or two."
"Did you call Gus?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah." He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward. "I'm sorry about Jabrielle."
Surprisingly, my throat tightened, and tears welled in my eyes, slipping down my temples into my hair. "At least you made it easy," I whispered.
"Made what easy?"
"Breaking up. I can't really overlook you hitting on another woman when I'm bruised and battered in the ER, can I?"
He looked ashamed. "I really am sorry. That wasn't classy at all."
"No."
"Roseline came by. I called her. She's upstairs on L and D, but she'll come down later."
"Great."
We were quiet for a few minutes.
Once, I thought I'd marry Bobby Byrne. Once, I thought he'd be lucky to have me. But somewhere in the midst of our year and change together--after the Big Bad Event--I got lost. What was once a bright and shiny penny had become dirty and dull and useless, and it was high time I admitted it.
Bobby hadn't loved me for a long time.
I was going to need help for the next few weeks. Concussions were serious business, and with my injured arm and leg, I had mobility concerns. I'd need help, and I wasn't about to stay with Bobby.
Problem was, we lived together. Roseline was a newlywed; otherwise, I'd stay with her. Other friends... No.
"I want to go home," I said.
"Sure. Tomorrow. I'll take a few days off."
"I meant home. To the island."
Bobby blinked. "Oh."
Strangely enough, I wanted my mother. I wanted the pine trees and rocky shores. I wanted to sleep in the room I hadn't slept in for fifteen years.
I wanted to see my sister.
Yes. I'd go home, as one does after a brush with death. I'd take a leave of absence from the practice and go back to Scupper Island, make amends with my mother, spend some time with my niece, wait for my sister to come back and...well...reassess. I might not have died, but it was close enough. I had another chance. I could do better.
"And I'm bringing Boomer," I added.
*
A week later, still sore and slow, arm in a sling, leg in a soft brace, one crutch to balance me, I looked around our apartment for the last time. Bobby's apartment, really. Roseline had come over last night, and we got a little weepy, but she said she'd come see me on Scupper. Bobby had thoughtfully made himself scarce and had been sleeping on the couch all week.
I should never have moved in with him. We'd only been dating a couple of months before the Big Bad Event, after which we shacked up. Way too early. But then, going back to my place was out of the question. He said we were moving in together, I said yes. Also, we'd been in love.
And lest we forget, Bobby got off on saving people.
In the week since I was hit by Beantown Bug Killers (who had sent flowers every day), I'd done a lot of thinking. I wanted to stop being afraid, to stop settling for the half love Bobby gave me, to stop feeling so gray. The time had come.
Bobby stood by the door, Boomer on the leash. There were tears in his aqua-blue eyes. "This is harder than I thought it'd be," he admitted.
"We'll still see each other. Joint custody and all that."
He smiled, petting Boomer's big head. "Thanks for that."
Yes, we were sharing the dog. After all, we'd gotten him together.
"You want to go for a ride, Boomer?" I said, uttering the most wonderful words a dog could hear. "You want to go in the car?"
Bobby drove us to the ferry station, where people could grab a boat to Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Provincetown or, in my case, Scupper Island, my hometown, a small island three miles off the rough and ragged coast of southern Maine. The ferry came to Boston almost every day; it was also the mail boat and could carry all of three cars.
Bobby unloaded my suitcases and bought my ticket. Our breakup had made him once again solicitous; he'd been a prince these past few days, fetching me my painkillers, reading to me as I fell asleep, even cooking for me.
I didn't care. He'd been fondling someone's hair in my hospital room, and that was not something I'd forget.
The ferry pulled in, a battered little thing, same as it had always been. Jake Ferriman, the eponymous captain of the Scupper Island ferry, was a fixture. He didn't acknowledge me, just tied up the boat and jumped off, a small sack of mail in one hand.
I'd hoped my mom would come on the ferry to get me; I'd called her when I was discharged from the hospital and told her I'd be coming home, that I'd been hurt but was okay--I think I used the words expected to recover, always looking for attention where my mother was concerned. Her only response had been a sigh, followed by "I'll pick you up at the dock when you get here," and I bit down on all the things I wanted to say. It could wait. I was starting over, after all.
Jake returned from wherever he dropped the mail, carrying the return post in a bag in one hand. He checked his clipboard. "You travelin' alone?" he asked, eyeing Boomer.
"With the dog here."
He frowned, glanced at me again, then made a check mark on his clipboard.
"I guess this is it, then," Bobby said. "Call me when you get settled, okay?"
He hugged me carefully, then buttoned my coat over my sling. There was the lump in my throat again. "Take care," I whispered.
We'd been friends for a long time and a couple for more than a year. All that was over and done with now.
Bobby's eyes were wet, too.
Jake hefted my suitcases onto the boat, then took Boomer's leash. My dog jumped happily onto the boat and snuffled the wind. I followed more carefully.
I went inside the ferry's cabin and sat down, laid my crutch next to me. Looked at Bobby through the window and waved. Tried to smile.
"Ever been to Scupper before?" Jake asked.
I blinked, surprised he didn't know who I was. Then again, I was an adult now. I wasn't the overweight girl with bad skin and worse posture. "I grew up there. I'm Nora Stuart, Mr. Ferriman."
"Sharon's girl?"
"Yes."
"The one with the kid?"
"No. The other one." The doctor, I almost added, but that would've been prideful, and Mainers didn't like that.
Jake grunted, and I sensed our conversation was over.
Then he started the engine, pulled the lines, and we were off, Boston's pretty skyline growing smaller as we headed out on the dark gray water, toward the clouds hanging on the horizon.
My hands tingled with nerves, and I petted Boomer's head. He looked up at me with his sweet doggy smile. "Sorry about this, pal," I whispered. "No one is going to be too happy to see us."
3
Scupper Island, Maine, was named for Captain Jedediah Scupper, a whaling captain who left Nantucket after he lost an election on the church council. He came to settle his own island and give Nantucket a big middle finger. Nantucket didn't seem to mind. Captain Scupper brought a wife and five kids, and those five kids found spouses, and before you knew it, there was a legitimate community here.
Over the years, its residents lived the same way as those on most Maine islands did--they suffered after the whaling industry died, then turned to fishing and lobstering.
Islanders prided themselves on survival and toughness, bonded together by hurricanes and nor'easters, drownings and hardship. When the Gilded Age hit, it gave Scupper a new industry--service. Cleaning, gardening, catering, carpentry, plumbing, nannying, taking care of the rich folks and their property.
That never changed.
I grew up with the belief that while the rich people came in June--the summer nuisance, we called them--Scupper Island was for us, the tough Yankees. We'd deal with the summer people, those who owned big houses on the rocky cliffs and moored their wooden sailboats in our picturesque coves. The kids were attractive and polite, but never our real friends, not when they wore Vineyard Vines and Ralph Lauren and had European nannies. Not when they ate at the local restaurants where our parents worked.
But they were our bread and butter, and lots of them were genuinely nice people. They donated to our schools, paid the taxes that kept our roads patched and plowed, fed the local economy. Still, we were glad when they left every Labor Day. Being cheerful representatives of their summer getaway was a little wearing.
Scupper belonged to us. To my sister and me, to our dad and absolutely to our mom.
My mother, Sharon Potter Stuart (and believe me, her maiden name was the source of great joy to this Muggle), was a fourth-generation islander, born and raised here. She was a typical tough Maine woman--able to shoot a deer, dress it and make venison chili in the same day. She cut and stacked her own wood, made her own food, viewed going to restaurants as wasteful. She knew how to do everything--fish, sail, fix a car, make biscuits from scratch, sew our dresses. Once, she even stitched up a cut when the one doctor on Scupper was attending a difficult birth.
Scupper was not just the name of our founder. It's also part of a ship--a drain, essentially, that allows excess water to flow out into the ocean, rather than puddle in the bottom. It was almost fitting, then, that so many of Scupper Island's residents left, slipping away to bigger waters. If you didn't make your life off the sea or tourism, Scupper Island was a tough place to stay.
Now That You Mention It Page 2
