Now That You Mention It Page 11

  Me: Did Ortho reattach?

  Bobby: No, too much damage. Quite a sight, tho.

  Me: I bet.

  Him: Everyone misses you.

  That was nice. That was good to hear.

  Tell them I said hi, Maine is beautiful, I have an extra bedroom and can buy lobster fresh off the boat. Lily gets out August 5, so once I see her, I'll head back to Beantown.

  There was a longer pause. Was Jabrielle with him? Were they a couple now? Was she lying in bed next to him, naked and irritable that his ex-girlfriend was disturbing her sleep?

  Him: It'll be good to see you when you bring Boomer here.

  My heart tugged with sadness and love. We'd had a good thing, Bobby and I. A second later, another text from him. How are your injuries?

  Me: Much better. Looks like I'll be filling in at the clinic here. Getting itchy to work again.

  A pause, then: That's great, hon.

  Hon.

  It was time to get out of this conversation before I said something I'd regret.

  Thanks for talking, Bobby. I'm gonna make a sandwich and watch Naked and Afraid.

  We used to watch that together.

  Him: LOL. Sleep tight.

  I didn't have any intention of getting out of bed. That would be too scary.

  Instead, I lay there, petting Boomer and wondering if Bobby and I would be married and expecting our firstborn if the Big Bad Event had never happened.

  10

  There's a time in life when you rewrite your past. First, your teenage years. Just watch a reality-TV show. All those aspiring singers or models or designers or cupcake chefs talk about their tragic childhoods, their sacrifices and struggles. It makes for better TV if you talk about your "homeless" period, rather than the truth. "I was so mad at my mother, I slept over at my friend's house that weekend."

  I rewrote my past, too, starting with the minute I walked into my dorm that cold January day. But I did the opposite. I didn't want to be known for all the misery I'd been through. I wanted to be seen as the happiest person around.

  And I was. God, I was.

  With happiness came the end of my stress breakouts, my greasy hair, my nervous sweating. Because I wasn't miserable anymore, I only ate when I was hungry, and my extra forty pounds slipped away. I went to the ridiculously posh athletic center, started running along the Mystic River, took yoga classes, swam, joined crew my sophomore year. In class, I spoke up and found that I was funny. I listened and found that I was a sought-after friend.

  No one saw me as stealing a scholarship from the town's golden boy; instead, my peers were filled with admiration that I was this year's Perez Scholar, awestruck that I'd met him. And because of his generosity, I was able to buy clothes for my changing body, go out for pizza with the gang, take an interim trip to London. The scholarship provided ten grand a year in expenses. Because of this, I was practically a rich kid.

  I started separating my old self from this new person. My island self from my Perez self.

  When I did talk about some of the realities of my life, I stuck to the basic facts and was told I was so well-adjusted, so mature. When I described my childhood home, I said, "It's a beautiful island. And very small." I'd laugh ruefully. You know what I'm saying, it was good to leave that provincial burg behind, let me tell you!

  But I never said anything negative about Scupper Island. I had a little islander pride, at least. And Scupper was still the place of midnight bike rides down Eastman Hill, of tidal caves and pine trees that seemed to whisper secrets.

  I referred to Lily as my bohemian sister and not as the sister who was probably dealing drugs, possibly doing them herself. After Poe came into the world, I framed a picture of her and told the truth: I wished I could see my niece more. My mother...well. "She's a classic Mainah," I'd say. "She can fix a boat engine, chop her own wood and shoot a squirrel to fry up for dinner. She's amazing."

  I didn't mention that my mother and I hadn't had a meaningful conversation in a decade. That she seemed neither proud nor impressed by me. On Parents Weekend, I acted like a tour guide, chatting about the buildings on campus, the programs they had, the food, my roommate. My mother nodded here and there, said little and left Saturday afternoon, saying she had work to do. Most other parents stayed till Sunday.

  I aced the MCATs and got into Tufts School of Medicine, and those years rushed past in a blur. The workload was inhuman, the information endless, and half the time (more than half), I had no idea if I was parroting facts or actually learning. Some nights, I'd wake up from a sketchy sleep, terrified that it was all a mistake, that I'd be outed as an imposter, that I'd be kicked out of med school, denied a residency. I had nightmares that I killed patients, that I was elbow-deep in someone's abdomen before remembering I hadn't taken any math classes, that I was hiding in the hospital so the chief resident couldn't fire me. That he did fire me, and I had to go back to Scupper.

  But I held my own. When it came time to declare a specialty, and my peers were positioning themselves for the hardest fields--cardiology, oncology, surgery--I chose internal medicine with an eye toward gastroenterology.

  It wasn't as competitive. Most people didn't die. If I made a mistake, chances were high it could be fixed. Despite having come so far, I still felt a little bit like an imposter.

  My mother came to graduation. "So you're a doctor now. Imagine that." She smiled. Dr. Perez also came, hugged me and told me he was proud of me, then went off to donate another building.

  Fast-forward through my residency, which was nothing like Grey's Anatomy, shockingly--no plastic surgeons performing brain surgery, no bombs going off in the hospital. I got a fellowship in my field, and a year later was hired by Boston Gastroenterology Associates, one of the best groups in the state.

  I rented a small apartment in a new building and didn't have a roommate for the first time in my life. I could afford furniture...nice stuff, too. My house looked like a model home--the open floor plan with a small but perfect kitchen, a bedroom with windows on two walls. I kept it immaculate, overcome with the thrill of living on my own, being able to afford a painting, a pale green couch, plush white towels. I bought martini glasses with thin, elegant stems, modernistic lamps and a fluffy white rug. I made friends with Tyrese, the night security guard, and the Ambersons, the family with two kids in 3F. Avi, who owned the sweet little grocery store two blocks down, knew how I took my coffee and called me Doc. I belonged here.

  Heady stuff.

  I'd made it off the island, through one of the most competitive colleges in the world, through med school, residency, my fellowship. I was no longer fat, my skin had cleared up, I'd made friends with clothes, I was even reasonably attractive. I loved working in a hospital, those little cities rich with drama of every kind. The whole Lion King circle of life took place on our floors, and we doctors were at the heart of it all.

  The imposter feeling faded. Nora the Troll, Nora whose father had left without even saying goodbye, the ugly sister, the boring sister, the girl who stole Luke Fletcher's scholarship and put his twin in the hospital... She was a creature of the past. Now I woke up every day in my adorable apartment and couldn't wait to get to work, figure out what was ailing my patients, do rounds in the hospital. I was a good doctor, if still new, and the partners in the practice liked me. I got great patient reviews. Some of my Tufts classmates were at Boston City as well, and we'd go out for dinner or drinks, to parties, to the Common or Back Bay.

  I dated, went away for weekends with my girlfriends, spent the occasional weekend happily alone, reading, cooking, going for a run, ambling through Boston. I was so happy.

  Enter Bobby Byrne.

  I'd seen him--he was hard to miss. In the immortal words of Derek Zoolander, he was really, really, really ridiculously good-looking. Six-two; muscular build; thick, curly dark hair; aquamarine eyes that are usually only seen after Photoshopping. He was the best-looking guy I'd seen in real life. More beautiful than Luke Fletcher, even.

  Once,
he would've been so ridiculously out of my league, I would've lowered my eyes to the ground as he passed. Not anymore. Now we were equals. I was thirty-two, secure with my abilities, comfortable in my own skin, someone who enjoyed her own company and loved her friends, too.

  Bobby was the head of the ER, a young person's job fit for adrenaline junkies and doctors who didn't love patient interaction. Fix 'Em Up and Ship 'Em Out was the ER's motto, and no one embraced it more than Bobby. Once in a while, I'd be called to the ER for a rectal bleed (usually just hemorrhoids, but everyone always thought they were dying, so it was kind of nice to be able to reassure them). I'd see Bobby, he'd smile at me.

  There was a group of us at the hospital who were unmarried; we called ourselves Doctors Without Spouses, and we'd go to Fenway once in a while, or to Durgin Park to get Indian pudding. For the first six months we knew each other, Bobby was dating Mia, a social worker at the hospital. She was quite pretty, if way too thin, and perpetually unhappy. Once in a while, she'd come out with Doctors Without Spouses. Our group clearly irritated her; she wasn't a doctor, kind of missing the joke--the group wasn't just doctors, but somehow, Mia had never heard of Doctors Without Borders, and every time she came, the name of our group had to be explained to her. But more, she was irritated because she clearly would've loved to be Bobby's spouse.

  She was whiny, constantly drawing attention to herself by being visibly wretched. She didn't like the rest of us, answered questions with one word, sat with a puss on her face. Every time she came with us, she'd have a whisper fight with Bobby and, most of the time, leave, not very surreptitiously wiping away tears. It was all very drama queeny, and I hated it for him...and for me.

  She never ate, and being a GI doc, I would wince as she asked for water with a slice of lemon, no food. Her fingers were swollen (laxative abuse), her arms dangling like sticks from her shoulders. Because of the habitual vomiting I suspected, her cheeks were puffy, her lips cracked and chapped, and her teeth looked translucent from enamel loss.

  I wanted to help her--and like her--but it was hard. She was obviously troubled and wanted everyone to know it.

  One day, I saw her in the hallway, looking harried and on the verge of tears, which was her resting expression. "Mia, got a second?" I asked. We went into an empty waiting room.

  "What do you want?" she asked. Not terribly polite.

  "Well, to be honest, I'm a little worried about you."

  "Why?" she snapped. "Because you want to date my boyfriend?"

  I let that sit a beat. "You're very thin, Mia."

  "I'm naturally slender." She looked at my size 10 body with clear disdain.

  "You have all the signs of an eating disorder. I'm a GI doc. I can tell."

  She rolled her eyes in disgust. "I'm fine."

  "If you want help, I'm here, okay? I can recommend a bunch of programs and--"

  "It's none of your business, Nora." She stomped out, the wounded doe on her toothpick legs. Anorexia was such a horror, the warped sense of self, the bizarre pleasure the person got from self-damage. If she didn't change her ways, she'd face a lifetime of poor health. A short lifetime. I asked Roseline about her, and my friend said everyone had reached out to her, and that she was Bobby's current damsel in distress.

  I mulled that over, let me assure you.

  I thought about Bobby too much, sitting on my tiny balcony, nursing a glass of wine and looking over at the Zakim Bridge, that architectural stunner. I liked Bobby, but I wasn't about to flirt with a guy in a relationship.

  One night, when Doctors Without Spouses was going out (minus Mia), Bobby and I walked side by side. In a low voice, I asked him if he had any concerns about Mia's health.

  "You mean her anorexia?" he asked.

  "Well...yes."

  He sighed. "I'm trying to help, but she's pretty happy being miserable."

  "Yeah, that comes across."

  "It would be so nice to date a normal person," he said, cutting me a look.

  "Who you calling normal?" I asked and he laughed. My stomach tightened with the thrill of it.

  Two weeks later, Mia quit the hospital and went back to Minnesota to her parents and enrolled in a treatment program. Bobby texted me with the news. For Mia, I was relieved. For me, I was exhilarated.

  Bobby was free, and he wasn't being subtle about his interest.

  For the next few months, we kept things at a flirty friendship level--I treated him the same way I treated Dr. Breckenridge, a seventy-something-year-old doctor who was beloved by everyone. But I didn't have the hots for Dr. Breckenridge.

  Bobby was fantastic. Funny, smart, snarky. I almost didn't want to start dating, our friendship was such a blast. We went running together along the Charles, saw a great blues singer in an appropriately seedy bar. We grabbed lunch at the hospital cafeteria. We walked the Freedom Trail and got Sam Adams beers afterward.

  Then one night as we were walking back from a Doctors Without Spouses pizza outing--the original Regina's in the North End--Bobby took my hand, and it was lovely. Just held my hand, but we knew, and so did everyone else. "How long are you two gonna pretend you're not a thing?" asked Roseline.

  "We're not a thing," I said. "We're two fascinating, miraculous clusters of cells."

  "Throbbing for each other," added Tom from Ortho.

  "That, too," Bobby added and everyone laughed. It was a golden moment--the beautiful spring finally here after the long winter, a group of young friends at the start of what would clearly be illustrious careers, love on the horizon. Pizza, just like I'd always imagined back in high school.

  Two days later, Bobby kissed me. "You ever gonna sleep with me?" he asked.

  "Someday, maybe," I said. "Not today, of course."

  I'd had boyfriends before (three...well, two and a half), but I'd never been in love. I was pretty sure that was about to change.

  Another month of flirting and kissing and holding hands before we finally went back to my place and proceeded to laugh, undress each other, laugh some more, kiss and finally get it on.

  This was it, I thought as we lay there afterward. Fabulous sex, a guy who was funny and popular and smart and me, who was finally, amazingly, all of those things, too (except for the guy part).

  For three months, I had the absolute best time of my life. Life was revving on all cylinders--career, personal, romantic, health. Bobby and I spent at least a few nights a week together, and we laughed and watched old horror movies from the '60s and made love and ate pancakes at 2:00 a.m. and laughed some more.

  Bobby was surprisingly thoughtful--surprising to me, because he was brisk and efficient as a doctor, none of that hand-holding stuff I myself loved doing. He brought me bubbles one Sunday afternoon, the kind kids use with the wand, and we sat on my balcony and we watched the bubbles rise and float. When I sat up all night in the room of a critical patient who'd had massive blood loss after a GI bleed, he came up with a dish of soft-serve ice cream and got me a blanket. One night, when we were spooning in bed, he said, "If I can't smell your hair at least once a day for the rest of my life, I might have to kill myself."

  It sounded like a marriage proposal. "Don't kill yourself," I said and squeezed his hand, basking in the glow of being loved.

  At work, I had energy by the bucket load, smiles for everyone. The urge to burst into song was strong. When I wasn't with Bobby, I was kind of in love with myself. One night, as I sat on my balcony, I tried a little mindfulness, a little look at you now. I was a successful physician who loved her job, lived in a great American city, had a fabulous apartment with a view. My friends were wonderful, funny, smart and kind.

  And now I had a fantastic boyfriend.

  It was a long way from Scupper Island's most hated resident. The memory of my last day of high school made me shiver, but I pushed the thought away. That was a lifetime ago.

  On the street below, a man was walking his dog, a brown-and-white mutt. The guy looked up, and I waved. He waved back. "Cute dog," I called, the friendliest
person in New England.

  "Thanks. Nice view up there?" he called.

  "The best," I answered. Yes. Life was wonderful.

  And then it wasn't.

  I left the office one Tuesday, swung by the hospital to check on a couple of patients, popped into the ER and was able to wrangle four minutes of hot kissing in a supply closet with Dr. Byrne. Then I took the T to my neighborhood, came aboveground and stopped at the corner market for some salad fixings, a chat with Avi and a Snickers bar. As I was leaving, a guy held the door for me.

  "Thank you!" I said, beams of sunlight practically radiating from my skin, so in love with life was I.

  "My pleasure," he answered.

  A cloud passed over my sun.

  I knew. In that instant, I instinctively knew he wasn't a good person. He had on a Red Sox cap, pulled low on his forehead. Wore an oversize jacket. He didn't have any purchases with him, though he was leaving the store.

  Nice, Nora, I told myself. A man holds the door for you, and you think he's a terrorist.

  It turned out, he was a terrorist. My own personal terrorist.

  Now, I wasn't fresh off the ferry. Granted, I grew up on an island where we didn't even have house keys, because locking up was for the summer people, who had something worth stealing, not for us.

  But I'd lived in Boston since I was eighteen. Not once did I have a problem with crime, but I knew how to walk tall, wear my bag diagonally across my body so it couldn't be lifted. I didn't get into elevators with people who gave off a bad vibe. I lived in a building with a guard, the comforting, smiling Tyrese. I always locked my doors. Even the balcony slider, and I lived on the third floor.

  I waved to Avi and walked the three blocks home, not too fast, not too slow. Twice, I glanced back, as I'd later tell the police. No one was following me, but I still felt uneasy. I called Bobby; it went to voice mail, but I made it seem as if he'd picked up. "Hey, handsome, how are you? You want to come over later?" He was working second shift, as I well knew, since I'd just been making out with him. "Okay, big guy. See you in a bit." I'd explain later.

  I got to my building, grateful for the big and strong Tyrese. I asked about his twin daughters, admired some pictures of them on his phone. Then I got on the elevator, hit 3 and tried to relax. "Stop with your perturbation," my mother used to say when I was nervous, in that strange mix of island dialect where she'd say ain't and use an SAT word in the same breath.