Better to Trust Page 4

  “So, I got up on stage and I was so nervous and my heart was beating so fast. Mrs. Logan smiled and told me I was going to do great. Then I sang ‘Hakuna Matata’ and she loved it. Cooper just sang ‘Happy Birthday’ but I wanted her to be able to picture me in the role, to really imagine me as Timon.”

  “Ni … nice.” She’d seen Nate in the school hallways, of course; he was one of those magnetic kids who never went unnoticed, with his mane of wild hair and expressive face, but he’d never been her student. Now Nate had become Alison’s lifeline to her old self, her connection to the person she’d been before her life fell apart. She’d taken medical leave for the last few months of the year, hoping her disabilities were only temporary, but now that the new school year was starting, it was becoming clear she may never teach again. She expected small improvements, a few new words or increased strength on her right side, but she couldn’t imagine standing in front of a classroom for seven hours a day. Retired at thirty-eight.

  Rhea put her arm around Nate. “That’s wonderful, Honey. I knew you could do it.”

  Watching Rhea with Nate made Alison think about what she was missing. She had always wanted to be a mother, and Michael was desperate to be a father. After a year of trying, Alison started reading about infertility online, about timing sex to the right time in her cycle, and ovulation test strips and sperm-friendly lubricants. After those efforts failed, they turned to a specialist and eventually went through three rounds of in-vitro fertilization, all for nothing. Now it was too late. That ship had sailed, as Michael would have said. She would never be a mother now.

  Nate bent over and unzipped his backpack. “I can’t wait until she posts the cast list on Friday afternoon.”

  “Patience, my love,” Rhea said. “It’s a virtue.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Why don’t you get a start on your homework? It’s your weekend with your father. He’ll be here in an hour.”

  After Nate’s father picked him up, Rhea went to the kitchen to make dinner, leaving Alison alone with her thoughts. These days, her thoughts didn’t make great company. The longer she was alone, the more negative they became. She kept asking herself why this had happened to her, and never came up with any good answers. Now, she picked up her phone and opened the article from the Newton Reporter, again. She’d read it countless times, but for some reason she kept coming back to it. She skimmed until she came to the section with the quotes. When she reached the part about Grant, her heart sped up. No matter how many times she returned to it, the article still evoked a visceral reaction. Maybe if she kept rereading it, she would uncover the information she felt she was missing. She took a breath, her eyes moving down the screen.

  “He knew full well about the risks of the surgery,” Dr. Kaplan said. The doctor refused to give any further comment. Multiple attempts to contact the doctor for more information have been declined.

  It had been two months since she’d first read this article and so much was still unclear. Had Grant done something wrong? Did this lawsuit have anything to do with the results of her surgery? She’d thought Grant was an excellent surgeon, but this case made her wonder if she’d been mistaken. Cynthia’s reaction to the malpractice case seemed overly dramatic. Was there something she wasn’t divulging? Alison scrolled further down.

  The plaintiff had this to say about the outcome of his surgery. “This should have been a straightforward operation,” Stone said. “Dr. Kaplan has devastated me. My hearing loss affects not only my daily life, but also my livelihood as a violinist with the Boston Philharmonic. It took countless hours of practice to make it to this level. I never thought I’d lose my career like this.” Stone and his family are suing for medical bills, lost wages, and pain and suffering.

  Had it really been a straightforward surgery? Had Grant made an error or was the unfortunate result merely bad luck, a rare complication? The more times she read the article, the more the questions multiplied.

  Michael came into the room and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. When he saw what she was reading, his eyes narrowed in anger. “Not again. This isn’t healthy for you. It’s not going to do you any good to keep rehashing this over and over.”

  “But …” She wanted to tell Michael that she needed answers, that maybe pushing Grant and Cynthia away was increasing her anxiety rather than alleviating it.

  “Why are you so obsessed with this?” he asked. “Do you think there’s more to the story?”

  “Not … not sure,” she said.

  “I’m not either, but I’m not willing to give him a pass. You’ll likely be dealing with issues for the rest of your life. He can’t just walk away from this scot-free. He has to own up to his mistakes just like anyone else. Being a surgeon doesn’t make him a god.”

  “I …” she stammered. Michael seemed so sure that Grant was at fault, but he didn’t have any more information that she did. He’d jumped to conclusions, assuming that Grant had been responsible for Alison’s complications. Alison wasn’t so sure, but she didn’t know how to fill in the gaps. For now, she’d have to lie low and hope more information came to light.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alison

  August 26, 2019

  THE LATE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT peeked through the blinds, awakening Alison from her nap. She couldn’t remember the details of today’s dream, but she had a vague sense it had been about Becca again, a feeling of warmth enveloping her whole body. Pushing herself up to a seated position and propping the pillows behind her back, she grabbed her phone from the nightstand and looked back through the emails Becca had sent while Alison was in the hospital. They were all heartbreaking, but the last one always made her cry.

  From: IrishBecca@yahoo.com

  June 11th, 2019, 6:15 PM

  To: aljacobs12@gmail.com

  Alison,

  As you can tell from all of my previous emails, the past months have been excruciating for me. I’ve tried to call a lot, but most of the time, they won’t tell me anything. Something about a stupid privacy policy. If another nurse quotes that fucking policy, I might lose my shit. Priscilla said you’re now at Spaulding. She said Michael called her to fill her in. It was weird that I had to hear this from our principal, but I’m desperate to get news any way I can. The last time I visited you in the hospital, Michael thanked me for coming and then he said I didn’t have to come so often. He clearly didn’t want me there. Maybe he somehow sensed our connection. I figured I’d take a short break so he doesn’t get too suspicious.

  Knowing you’re out of the hospital makes me breathe a little easier. I can’t stop worrying about you. You’re going to get better. I know you will. All I want to do is hold your hand and help you through this. I need to be there for you. Being apart like this isn’t healthy for either of us. I don’t know how much longer I can take it. One of these days, I’m just going to show up again. I don’t care who sees me. Enough is enough.

  Always,

  Becca

  Alison wiped tears from her cheeks. Becca’s suffering was palpable, and Alison couldn’t imagine how much more she’d have to endure if she stayed. Becca deserved so much more than that. Alison’s phone vibrated with a text from Becca, as if she knew Alison was thinking of her.

  “What’s happening, sexy?”

  Becca never failed to make Alison smile, but the one time she’d visited her at home about two weeks ago, introducing herself to Rhea as a colleague from work—true but not nearly the whole story—had been strange and awkward. Being in the same room with Becca and not being able to talk to her, to tell her how she felt, to reach out and run her fingers over the freckles on her arm was beyond painful.

  On one hand, Alison wanted to ignore the text to make it easier for Becca to move on with her life, but her fingers itched to reply. She used her left hand to scroll through the emojis and chose the red kiss mark, pausing a second before pressing send. Not able to type words, she could at least communicate in this rudimentary way. From what she’d lea
rned, some aphasics could read, others could write, and the lucky few were able to do both to varying degrees. She’d watched a YouTube video about a Princeton classics professor who had relearned how to write academic papers but still couldn’t order a hamburger and French fries.

  “I miss you,” Becca said.

  None of the emojis really said, “I miss you, too.” The closest she could get was the thumbs up sign. She would have to remember to download more than just the basic ones that came with the phone.

  “Who are you texting?” Michael came in without knocking. It was his bedroom, too, but somehow Alison expected him to knock. When she had first come home, she’d slept in a rented hospital bed for a few weeks and Michael had given her space. Even after she no longer needed the hospital bed, he never returned from the guest room. Their marriage had been unhealthy long before the vessel burst in her brain, but now, she didn’t know how they would ever come to terms with it.

  Alison shook her head and threw the phone on the coffee table.

  “It was someone,” he said.

  She shrugged her shoulders and looked out the window, the afternoon light giving way to evening.

  “Alison, you never text me. I’d be happy to communicate with you any way you want. Text, Morse code, carrier pigeon. I don’t care, as long as you let me in.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

  “When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, dammit. The Alison I know wouldn’t give up like this.”

  “Alright,” she said.

  Damn. Things were far from all right, and Michael knew it. He knew their relationship, their lives, and probably their future was far from all right. She wouldn’t blame him if he’d found another woman. It’s a human trait to crave contact with other people, to long for the warmth of someone else’s hand on yours, the feeling of soft fingertips on your inner thigh or along the underside of your breast. If he had made eye contact with a woman during his daily commute on the train, if he approached her and did that thing where he looks away when he gets uncomfortable, if he got her cell number and then called her later in a moment of loneliness, Alison would understand.

  “Nothing seems right, Alison.” He crossed the room and sat down on the bed facing her chair. “I feel like I’ve lost you, and you’re sitting right in front of me. Maybe if I sleep in here again, things would improve.”

  She shook her head. The last thing she wanted was to have him beside her, snoring and farting in his sleep. She needed to focus on her recovery without any added distractions.

  “You won’t even give it a chance?” he asked. “We have to do something to get our relationship back on track. We can’t kick the can down the road forever.”

  Alison shrugged.

  “You’ve given up? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “No, not okay. I’m glad you found that word, but it’s not very useful right now. When are you going to recover ‘crap,’ and ‘shit,’ and ‘fuck,’ because I feel like you’d get a lot more use out of those.”

  Alison was keenly aware of how messed up this whole situation was. She was the one living as an invalid, left with only memories of the normal person she used to be, and the faint glimmer of hope that one day she’d be able to do half the things she used to take for granted. But maybe she shouldn’t shut him out like this. He’d been by her side through this whole fiasco, so maybe he deserved one more shot.

  She reached out her left hand out to take his. “I … I know.”

  His mouth turned up into a tentative smile. “I have no doubt you’re in there. You’re the same person you’ve always been.”

  He didn’t know who she really was. She wasn’t proud of some of the choices she’d made. You would think a near-death experience might make her think twice, maybe cause her to take a close look at her bad decisions and start fresh.

  “I think it’s time for me to move back in here,” he said. “I can’t live the rest of my life in the guest room. I want to sleep next to my wife.”

  Her phone buzzed. She pulled back her hand back and they both reached for the phone. Alison got there first, her left hand as nimble as ever.

  Michael raised his eyebrows.

  She held the phone up so Michael couldn’t see the screen.

  It was a text from Becca. “I want to spread your legs and ….”

  She coughed and tucked the phone into the side of her chair.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  Alison shook her head and buried the phone farther down next to the cushion.

  “Fuck, Alison,” Michael said. “You have to stop shutting me out.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Michael groaned in frustration and stood up. He had nothing more to say.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Grant

  February 6, 2019

  GRANT ADDED TWO SCOOPS of chocolate protein powder to the blender and topped it off with a few Adderall tablets, his morning pills. He secured the lid and pressed the button on the blender. He had started having a protein shake for breakfast a few years ago, and now it had become part of his routine, the whir of the blender at 6 AM a familiar sound in the Kaplan house. Adding just a few to his shake made the day go much more smoothly, his focus razor sharp, distractions and annoyances so much easier to tolerate. The benefits outweighed the guilt, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach dissipating as the thick, sweet liquid slid down his esophagus.

  Cynthia came into the kitchen wearing her well-worn gray sweatpants and oversized Brandeis sweatshirt, which dated back to their college days. Her mouth started moving, but he couldn’t hear her over the whir of the blender. When he raised a finger in the air to tell her to wait a minute, she gave him a dirty look. He stopped the blender and poured his shake into the portable plastic cup with the hospital logo printed on it.

  “I didn’t sleep at all last night,” she said. “I couldn’t stop thinking about Alison lying in a hospital bed.”

  He took his first sip and felt an immediate boost in his mood. The medication hadn’t yet reached his bloodstream, so it had to be the placebo effect, but if it helped him tolerate Cynthia, he’d take it.

  “Do you think she’s going to be okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t think, I know. Calvin’s the best of the best.”

  “I just don’t understand,” Cynthia said. “We just talked on Sunday night. It was a totally normal conversation.”

  “That’s the way brain bleeds happen. It’s not a gradual thing. You’re fine, and then all of a sudden, you’re not. Welcome to my world.”

  “It’s so scary. I don’t know how you deal with this all the time.”

  “Don’t worry. He put his shake down and wrapped his arms around her. He realized he hadn’t hugged her fully, more than a sidearm or a lean as he pecked her on the cheek, in a very long time. It felt surprisingly good to be close to her. “She’s on my turf now, and I’m going to watch over her. I promise.”

  Now he could feel the Adderall fine tuning the frequency of his senses. A few years ago, during a routine visit with his primary care doctor, Adam Silver, Grant had mentioned that he was having trouble staying focused during surgery, and Adam had written him a prescription without any questions. No self-respecting top doctor needed pills to keep them on their game, so Grant hadn’t intended to fill the prescription. But a few weeks later on a hellish day after one of his residents found a cerebrospinal fluid leak he’d missed and he spaced out during a conversation with Wendy, he’d reconsidered. Since then, Grant had become a bit loose with the recommended dose of one pill in the morning, taking several throughout the course of the day to keep his adrenaline pumping. It made him feel more alive: the blue color of the surgical drape was brighter, the beeping sound of the anesthesia machine in perfect rhythm with the movement of his hands, his surgical drill sharper and more precise. On the unfortunate days when he reached the bottom of the bottle without calling for a refill, everything seemed
dull and sluggish, like a video playing in agonizingly slow motion.

  Releasing Cynthia, he reached for his shake and took another large sip. The downside of the Adderall was that he needed a little help coming down after the work day ended, but it was nothing a few tabs of Oxy couldn’t handle. He usually took one or two during his commute home and was ready to deal with Cynthia’s nagging and Sadie’s mood swings by the time he pulled into the driveway.

  “When’s your protein shake obsession going to end?” Cynthia stepped away, putting distance between them again. “Haven’t you heard about the real food movement?”

  “Can we skip this today, Cynthia? It works for me.” So much for closeness, he thought. He didn’t know why she felt the constant need to criticize his food choices, but he decided to let it go today. If he wanted to be nasty, he could insinuate that her diet could use some tweaking too—she could afford to lose more than a few pounds— but he didn’t want to attack her.

  “Dr. Otis says you should have at least five superfoods every day,” she said.

  “I seem to remember you mentioning that before.” He’d never understood her obsession with Dr. Otis. The celebrity doctor was a narcissistic, money-hungry quack. When his reality show had aired a few years ago, Cynthia had forced Grant to sit and watch with her. That asshole strutted around the hospital with a self-congratulatory look on his face telling patients that he had saved their lives and that if they’d gone anywhere else, they surely would have died. Every time Grant cursed at the TV, Cynthia shushed him without taking her eyes from the screen.

  She listed, “Blueberries, sweet potatoes, asparagus, kale, almonds—”

  “I’ve got it,” Grant said. He didn’t ask her if the Doritos she kept hidden in the drawer under the oven qualified as a superfood. He knew she took the bag out late at night and though she tried to bury the empty bag at the bottom of the garbage bin, the chemical ranch smell always permeated the kitchen in the morning.