Better to Trust Page 6

  “You’ll tough this one out alone?” Svetlana said.

  “Alright.”

  “That doesn’t sound so good,” the other therapist said.

  “That’s as good as she gets,” Svetlana said. “She doesn’t say much. Are you ready to sit up?”

  They put their hands on her back and helped her up. Once she was sitting, Alison again noticed the woman in the photograph, still beaming, so proud of making it through the race. Becca was with her in spirit, encouraging her to dust herself off and keep going.

  Svetlana looked at her. “Don’t let this get you down.” She brought her fist to meet Alison’s.

  The other woman handed her a can of orange juice and Alison tried to take a sip without dribbling. The juice tasted more sour than sweet, but she swallowed it, losing only a few drops out of the corner of her mouth.

  Svetlana dried her chin. “We’ll try this again another day.”

  When Alison arrived home from physical therapy, all she wanted to do was take a nap, but Rhea insisted she stay awake until after lunch. After Rhea arranged the pillows behind her back and elevated her right leg on the ottoman, she went to make lunch.

  Alison picked up her phone and looked through her Facebook feed. Remy Abelson, her college roommate, had posted photos from her trip to Machu Picchu: thirty-seven shots of her with her husband, two awkward tween boys, and a younger girl smiling among the ruins, jagged mountains rising up in the background. In the years after college, they used to speak every few months, catching each other up, but each time Remy announced another pregnancy, Alison found it more difficult to hide her jealousy. “Evan just looks at me funny and I get pregnant,” Remy would say, and Alison would force a laugh. How could she say something so blatantly insensitive? Why was getting pregnant so easy for her and impossible for Alison? As the years went on, they spoke less frequently, and since the surgery, not at all.

  On Cynthia’s page, there was a photo of Sadie beaming at her eighth-grade graduation, one arm around Alison and one around Cynthia. The pure joy on their faces reminded Alison how much she missed them both. She missed laughing and having fun with Sadie: listening to her stories from school, watching silly TV shows, and taking trips to the mall. And as much as Cynthia sometimes got on her nerves, Alison missed their weekly phone calls and holiday get-togethers. She wanted to believe they’d get past this and be sisters again, but she wasn’t sure it was possible.

  Becca’s profile picture was one Alison had snapped after a workout, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling, looking straight at the camera. Alison’s breath caught. She felt guilty thinking about Becca when Michael had been so attentive through this whole thing. It felt reassuring to know he was in her corner, but at the same time his constant attention could be suffocating at times. She longed to see Becca, to touch Becca, but then she would see Michael trying so hard to help her get better, and she’d be overwhelmed with guilt again. She went back to the newsfeed and scrolled down past a photo of a friend from graduate school sitting in the stands at the U.S. Open and one of Michael’s co-workers beaming in front of the Hamilton marquee.

  The phone rang and Rhea came in a moment later.

  “It’s your friend, Becca. She said it’s important.”

  Becca knew Alison wouldn’t answer her cell phone. Usually, Rhea said she was resting or eating lunch when Becca called, somehow sensing how difficult it was for Alison to speak with her. This time, Becca must have been persistent.

  Rhea handed her the phone.

  “Hi, Alison,” Becca said. Her voice was raspy, like she’d been at a concert singing at the top of her lungs. Maybe it was always that way and Alison had forgotten, but it sounded incredible. “How are you?”

  “Alright.” To say Alison missed Becca would be an extreme understatement. It was as if a vital piece of her had been amputated that day she’d passed out at school. As the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance, strapping her to the stretcher and turning on the flashing lights, they left behind the Alison Jacobs who felt loved and desired and connected to another human being. Not a day went by when she didn’t long to hear Becca’s voice, to see her familiar smile, to collect her auburn curls in her hands.

  “School is not the same without you,” Becca said. “Last year I kept telling myself it was temporary, but now with a new school year starting, it’s just so weird that you’re not here. It’s surreal to be setting up your classroom. You should be the one doing this.” There was a slight lisp when she said “school” and “classroom,” the air passing through the gap in her front teeth.

  “Okay, I …” Alison wanted to say it was even more strange for her, sitting at home doing nothing while her old colleagues geared up for a new school year, like she had stepped off an amusement park ride and it kept right on going without her.

  “I put up all of your posters and decorations so it will feel like your class when you come back.” Everyone was deluding themselves with all this talk about her coming back. She couldn’t walk or talk, so teaching a classroom of fifth graders seemed out of the question. “It’s looking good.”

  When everything happened, Becca had been working at school for nearly a full school year, covering Marisol Estrada’s second grade class during her maternity leave, and then when Alison went on medical leave, Becca was reassigned to her classroom. At her first weekly staff meeting a year ago, Alison noticed her broad smile while she shook hands and introduced herself to the other teachers and staff. For a few weeks, they only saw each other in passing, occasionally making small talk over lunch in the teacher’s lounge, until they discovered a common interest. They were both obsessed with working out, so they made a date to meet at the gym after school once a week, which soon turned into nearly every day.

  “How’s your physical therapy going?” Becca asked. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “Yes.” She wanted to say that Becca was always on her mind as well. She couldn’t stop herself from comparing Becca and Michael, imagining how Becca would react differently than Michael. Her marriage had always been predictable and she’d loved that in the beginning. It was comfortable to always know what Michael would say. But from the first day she met Becca, she’d felt a connection that kept her on her toes and never stopped surprising her. It was exciting.

  They spent the first few months side by side on the treadmills or elliptical machines, sharing the details of their lives while pushing each other to go longer and harder. A few weeks in, they began sharing more intimate details of their lives. Alison spoke about her struggles with infertility—the drugs and procedures and monthly heartbreak—and Becca shared that she’d come out as a lesbian when she was a sophomore in high school. Before this, Alison had appreciated female beauty in a detached way, like admiring a painting behind protective museum glass, but after Becca’s revelation, something changed. Alison started watching Becca as she exercised, noticing the way her calf muscles undulated as she ran, the way her hair bounced on her back, the way the sweat collected on her upper lip. She found herself imagining what her breasts looked like under her sports bra, how kissing her would be different than kissing a man, whether her pubic hair was natural or waxed. The harder she tried to push these thoughts away, the more they flooded her mind. Sometimes Becca caught her watching and smiled, like she could read Alison’s thoughts. She’d never been attracted to a woman in this way before. There were a few brief flickers of guilt about Michael, but mostly she was consumed by thoughts about Becca. Maybe because she was attracted to a woman instead of a man, it didn’t feel like cheating, more like an experiment.

  “I know it’s hard for you to see me,” Becca said now. “But that doesn’t erase how we feel.”

  She made it seem like their relationship could endure anything, like Alison’s disabilities were just a small pothole rather than a massive sinkhole. She wanted to tell Becca that seeing her now was too painful, that watching her gather her curls at the back of her neck made Alison long to turn back the clock and erase
the events of the past few months.

  “Alison,” she said. “I love you, and that feeling isn’t going away no matter how many of my phone calls you decline.”

  They became more than friends right after Christmas break. Becca had gone home to visit her family in Texas, and during those excruciating eleven days, Alison thought about her all the time: while watching a movie with Michael, while lighting the Hanukah candles with Sadie, while watching the ball drop with Grant and Cynthia. That day, after their first workout post-vacation, Becca suggested they use the showers. She took Alison’s hand and pulled her into one of the stalls. Before she closed the curtain behind them, Alison looked around the locker room to make sure no one saw them go in together. As her heart raced, her mind filled with a mixture of terror and excitement.

  Alison watched Becca take off her clothes and step in, shocked to finally have answers to some of the questions she’d been obsessing about for months. Becca’s naked body was more beautiful than she had imagined, her belly curving smoothly up to her meet her waist, her breasts small and round, her nipples firm and pink.

  “Are you going to join me?” Becca asked. Alison couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Even though she’d been fantasizing about this, turning it into reality was a whole different story. Was she really ready for this? What about Michael? She had never been unfaithful to him. Would being with a woman even be considered an affair?

  Becca stood with her eyes closed, letting the water saturate her hair and run down over her chest, and then she opened her eyes and looked at Alison, the look on her face saying everything Alison needed to hear. Pushing thoughts of Michael out of her head, Alison stripped off her gym clothes and crossed the threshold into another life. Becca put her arms around her, tickling her back with her fingernails. Alison ran her hand along the smooth skin of Becca’s shoulder and then dared to cup her breast in her hand, running her thumb over her nipple. Moaning, Becca pulled her closer so her pelvis pressed against Alison’s thigh. Michael had never turned her on like this. Not even close.

  “I’ve been waiting for this day,” Becca whispered.

  “Me, too.” Alison guided Becca’s face to hers for their first kiss. Her lips were soft and full, nothing like Michael’s thin lips and Alison knew right away that kissing a woman was nothing like kissing a man, and when Becca put her fingers inside her, Alison knew her life would never be the same again. A small part of her couldn’t believe this was really happening, and a much bigger part of her knew nothing could be more right.

  “Did you hear me?” Becca asked now. “I said I love you.”

  “I …” Since she had awakened in the hospital, she’d thought about Becca all the time: as the nurses checked her blood pressure and rewrapped the bandages on her head, she wondered what Becca was doing. When she couldn’t sleep, she remembered lounging on Becca’s bed and talking about teaching, and what books they were reading and which countries topped their travel bucket list. Had she finished that Kate Atkinson novel she was reading? Would she take someone else to that B&B in a castle in Ireland they’d been fantasizing about? And when Michael told a corny joke and Nate cracked up, Alison wanted to cry because she missed laughing with Becca so much. But despite her constant thoughts about Becca, she wasn’t sure if it was love. Lust, undoubtedly, but whether it was truly love, she wasn’t quite sure.

  “I know your feelings haven’t changed,” Becca said. “I’m coming to visit tomorrow, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Wait …” Alison wanted to tell Becca not to waste her time trying to recreate what they’d had. She missed the passion between them, but she didn’t know if it would be the same after the surgery. Was there a better match out there for Becca? Someone who didn’t drool when they ate and could fully participate in life without physical limitations? She couldn’t imagine going back to the gym with Becca now. And what about Michael? Before the surgery, Becca had been hinting about divorce and Alison wasn’t blind to the flaws in their marriage, but he had been standing by her side through all of the challenges of recovery. She wasn’t at all attracted to him anymore, but she had to believe his loyalty was worth something.

  Struggling to see past her disabilities to the future, Alison wanted to do what was best for all three of them, if there even was such a thing. Should she stay with the husband who provided for her but bored her to tears, or run off with the lover she craved? If she believed the articles in women’s magazines, intimacy was the driving force of a marriage and sex with Michael was lackluster at best; but was what she felt for Becca enough? She wasn’t sure. But Becca had made her intentions clear and as the line went dead, Alison could do nothing about it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Grant

  February 19, 2019

  GRANT JABBED THE POWER BUTTON on the blender for the third time, but nothing happened. Switching the plug to the other outlet didn’t work either, the powder sitting on top of the milk, the two pills suspended halfway down. He thought of using the shaker bottle that had come in the package with the protein powder, but when Sadie came downstairs, he lost his train of thought.

  “Dad, I missed the bus,” she said. “Can you drive me to school?”

  He was already running late for office hours, but with Cynthia at an early Pilates class, he had no choice.

  “Get ready quick,” he said. “I’m running late.”

  Putting the blender jar in the sink, he grabbed his bag and phone from the kitchen table. He’d take his pills when he got to work. Sadie jammed her feet into her boots and followed him out the door.

  After he dropped Sadie at school, Grant sped out of the parking lot, ignoring the aggressive hand motions from a traffic agent in an orange vest. He made it to the Mass Pike in record time, but as soon as the highway came into view, he saw the snarl of traffic. He made a quick call to Wendy to fill her in.

  “Get here as soon as you can. There are important patients on the schedule today,” she said.

  He wasn’t sure what she meant, but he was too focused on merging onto the highway to ask any questions. As he sat in traffic, his thoughts turned to Alison and Michael. They had flown out to Ohio last week for a consultation, and the guy out there, Wally Richman, had suggested a plan for treatment. From the note Alison had emailed to him, it looked similar to what Grant would have recommended—surgery followed by stereotactic radiation— but it would require a several-week stay in Cleveland. Alison could probably take a leave of absence from school, but he wasn’t sure Michael’s accounting firm would spell him during tax season.

  As Grant finally reached his exit, his stomach started to churn. He wasn’t sure if it was thinking about Alison’s dilemma or skipping his morning shake that was causing the queasiness—maybe a combination of the two. He tried to grab his bag from the backseat to take out his Adderall, but he couldn’t reach it and watch the road at the same time.

  When he got to the office, Grant hurried through the crowded office waiting room, saying a quick good morning to Wendy and the new front desk girl, Laura, as he passed the check-in desk. He was the only surgeon in the office today, so he knew all of these people were waiting to see him. He much preferred being in the operating room to seeing patients in the office, but consultations were a necessary evil. No consults, no surgeries. Anesthetized patients didn’t complain or babble on about their bowel movements or bring in pushy family members who asked a zillion stupid questions; more importantly, in the OR, he could fix their problems with his drill and his scalpel. In the office, all he could do was talk.

  Throwing his work bag down onto the desk, he reached into the side pocket where he kept the bottle, finding only a few tissues and some loose change. His heart sped up while he checked every pocket and then emptied out the contents of the bag onto the desk, sifting through old issues of The Journal of Interventional Neurosurgery, napkins, and keys. Where the fuck was it? He always put it in the same place so that he could make his shake in the morning and start the day right. He mus
t have left it on the kitchen counter when he was messing with the blender. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face as he opened the bottom drawer in his desk. He took out a few bottles, turning them over in his hand to read the labels. Vicodin, Neurontin, Percocet. No Adderall.

  This wasn’t good. He couldn’t leave with a waiting room full of patients, so he tried to put it out of his mind. Before he had started taking the pills, he’d muddled through somehow and that’s what he would do today. He pulled up his schedule on his computer and scanned down the page. The first patient on the schedule was Scott Ainsley, a curator at the Museum of Fine Arts. Grant had resected his brain meningioma last week. Scott had been at work when he’d noticed changes in his vision, the paintings suddenly blurry. Grant felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue as he put on his white coat, forcing one arm in and then the other. He wouldn’t let the pills rule his life, he told himself as he walked down the hall.

  He knocked on the exam room door and entered. Scott was sitting on the exam table with his wife, Patricia, in the chair next to him. Grant extended his hand.

  “Scott, how are you?”

  “Feeling so much better,” Scott said, returning the handshake.

  “How’s your vision?” Grant knew he sounded more curt than usual. On most days, he liked to chat with his patients, make a little small talk before launching into questions about symptoms, but today he was in no mood.

  “Totally back to normal. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Any weakness in your hands?” Grant took both of Scott’s hands and told him to squeeze as hard as he could.

  Scott followed the command. “I’m feeling strong. Do you notice any difference?”

  “Very slight,” Grant said. “You’re looking good.”

  “Can I go back to work? I can’t wait to see my Cézannes and Monets again.”