“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.”