Chapter 9 Now

The second day of the new year. Happy New Year! signs replace the glittering glow of Christmas lights and menorahs in windows. I pass a gym whose windows proclaim New Year, New You!

For once, they're right.

It's been a good month. I'm getting outside every day. Working out at the gym. I think I even see the beginning of toned muscles when I look in the mirror—who would have thought? Not me. But with my headphones in, the pulsing music pushing me, I've focused entirely on myself for once.

I pull at the mittens my brother gave me for Christmas—I stayed with him and his family, his two darling little girls. It's true they reminded me of another little girl I'd never met. It wasn't easy. His cheery family reminded me of all the dreams I used to have, of all the things Gabriel Wright lost. But I wrote about it and walked on the treadmill and somehow got it out of my head. And I was happy for my brother. Holidays haven't always been easy for the two of us, with losing our parents to different illnesses when we were in our early twenties. All in all, I think I did pretty well. I've fought off the desire to return to an old path and wait until Gabriel strode along it. I'm in a better place now.

A few blocks later, I realize I'm close to my office, so I decide to walk by. It's the first time I've even attempted it since I'd carried my boxes out the door months ago. In fact, I've avoided the block completely until now. But soon my suspension will be up, thirty-seven days and counting, and I'll be returning to work, returning to my practice. One step closer to normalcy.

I turn right at the corner, see my building up ahead. My heart pounds as I step closer, but it's a good feeling this time. Excitement, more than anxiety. A fresh start, not dreading the past. At least until I get to building number 988 and see my face plastered on the bus stop out front.

My heart thuds to a halt.

What the hell?

A close-up picture of my face is taped to the glass bus stop covering. Words are typed underneath, but my jittery eyes are so freaked-out it takes a solid minute for me to be able to focus enough to read them.

DRUG DEALERS AREN'T ALWAYS STREET THUGS

Dr. Meredith McCall prescribes drugs to known abusers.

Support Bill S0178 mandating permanent suspension for doctors who deal drugs.

Underneath is a logo of two fists with MAAD New York—Mothers Against Abusive Doctors.

My eyes dart around the street. It feels like everyone is staring—like they know what I've done. I expect to see people angry, people pointing. But I'm the only one paying the sign any attention. I reach forward and rip it from the glass, leaving only remnants of the white page taped at all four corners. Then I take off running.

I run and run, until my lungs burn and my legs feel so shaky that I start to worry I'll fall. Collapsing onto the stairs of a random brownstone, I lean over, head between my knees, and suck air.

"Are you okay?" a woman stops and asks.

I nod.

She smiles. "I tell everyone I'm fine, too. Just remember, whatever it is will eventually pass."

I doubt it. There are some things in life we don't deserve to run away from.

The following week, Dr. Alexander crosses an ankle over his knee. "Happy new year."

"Thanks. It's my birthday, too."

"Oh? Well, happy birthday." He adjusts his tie. "Any plans?"

"I…" I pause. I was going to make something up to make him feel comfortable. A habit of mine now. I do it for my brother often. Tell him I'm meeting a friend for lunch or going to a museum or—or something. But I don't need to soothe my therapist's worries. Plus, I've been better since I started being honest with him. "No, not really. Actually, I'm feeling really lonely right now."

"Tell me more."

I settle into the couch and cross my legs, staring at an abstract painting on his wall. "Well, I mean, I have my brother, but he's got a whole life. A wife and kids and a job. And he lives in Connecticut, so he's close, but not too close. I don't have a ton of friends. The ones I had in college, I lost touch with during the demanding years of medical school. After that, I was a busy resident, and, well… I wrapped a lot of my life around Connor. My friends were his teammates' wives or people we spent time with as a couple. And with everything that happened, most of them faded away. Or maybe I couldn't face them. I don't know anymore. I was pretty close with Irina, the wife of Connor's best friend on his team. But she has three kids under five and she couldn't…" I struggle for the right words. I'm also not sure it's all Irina's fault we haven't spoken. "We just drifted apart," I finish. "I do talk to a couple of ladies at the gym in the yoga class I started last month, but it's so hard as an adult—making that leap from casual hellos to ‘Want to grab a coffee?'?"

Dr. Alexander nods his understanding but doesn't speak.

I do the same thing when I want a patient to continue. Silence is often more effective than words. People feel the need to fill empty space.

"And I'm lonely at home, too." I take a shuddering breath and force the words out. "I've thought about dating. I've been alone almost two years… That's long enough, right?"

Dr. Alexander splays his hands wide. "Only you can decide how long is long enough, Meredith."

A half laugh escapes me. "That's what I tell my patients, too." I chew my lip and contemplate. Of course, there are apps for that—for dating. Maybe I'll try one. It seems relatively anonymous. The sort of thing you can try out, then delete and pretend never happened. But my words remind me of something else coming up. "I get to start practicing again next month. I can't believe it's already been almost a year."

"How are you feeling about that?"

"Good. I think. I mean, I'll have to build my practice back up. Dr. Gerald Rodgers—maybe you've heard of him?—came out of retirement to cover me. He's wonderful, but he's in his seventies and has a different style than I do. Between him taking over and the headlines, almost half my patients left. So I'm a little worried about that, but I'll just have to put in the time to rebuild. God knows I have nothing but time these days. And then there's the worry about more signs or… worse."

His brows dip. "Signs?"

"There's a group, sort of like Mothers Against Drunk Driving, but they go after doctors who abuse their prescription-writing privileges. I walked by my office last week and found a flyer taped up on the bus stop with my face on it. And a while back, someone requested a copy of my file from the Office of Professional Misconduct. They can do that under the Freedom of Information Act, apparently. I'd originally thought it might be someone from the media trying to write a story. But now I think it might've been them."

Dr. Alexander blinks a few times. "I'm sorry to hear that."

I shrug. "It's my own fault."

"Still. That couldn't have been easy."

"No, it wasn't. But I'm not going to let it derail me. I was in a good place before that. I ripped down the flyer I found. Though I have gone by the building every day since then to see if another one is up. Luckily, more haven't appeared."

Dr. Alexander smiles. "I won't focus on it, then. Talk to me about how you're feeling about returning to practice. Do you think you're ready?"

"Yes." And I do. Absolutely. But I've changed, and the way I see my patients has changed. I tell him as much, adding, "I'll be a different psychiatrist after what I've been through."

"Our life experiences can be invaluable in being empathetic to our patients."

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere—back on the fact that my practice is barely staying afloat. My shoulders hunch. I worked so hard to build it, to not only make it successful but get to the point where it was thriving.

Again, thoughts of meeting someone seep in. Could I start over? Try my hand at dating? I swallow the lump in my throat.

Dr. Alexander peppers me with more questions—about day-to-day life, about my journaling, about my goals for this coming year. Eventually, he says, "Looks like our time is nearly up. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

I shake my head, only half paying attention. The other half is still thinking about the dating apps. Would it be possible to love someone like I loved Connor? The Connor I married and was planning to have a family with, not the Connor who destroyed a family.

"Has your new routine changed lately?"

The question brings me back to reality. He's asking if I've followed Gabriel again. Which I haven't. I've been good. It's been a month now. Not that temptation hasn't reared its ugly head. I still wonder. Think of him almost daily. The fact that he's happy…

"No, it's pretty much stayed the same." I force a smile. "I figure, if it's not broken…" I trail off. "But it will be good to get back to work soon."

"Excellent." Dr. Alexander nods and writes more in his pad.

I leave a few minutes later, wandering out onto the streets listlessly. I didn't bring gym clothes, so I can't go there to keep myself busy. The stores are in the midst of their after-Christmas sales, and I stare into a cute shop window, considering going in. But I don't need anything. It would just be a way to pass time. So I head home. Near the entrance of my building, my gaze catches on a couple kissing; they're locked in each other's embrace. The man's hands cup her cheeks; hers are tangled in his dark hair. Passion.

I feel a tug of envy inside me as I ride the elevator up to my apartment. But when I arrive at my door and find it slightly ajar, a very different feeling takes over: Fear. I freeze, physically paralyzed as my mind races through a million different scenarios.

A man with a mask has a knife.

A patient—one I treated at the psychiatric hospital years ago—has gotten out. He blames me for being institutionalized and wants revenge.

A burglar.

Worse, a rapist.

I lost my key not too long ago. What if someone picked it up and followed me home?

I should run, flee as fast as I can. Get a police officer to come back with me.

But I can't move. I literally can't move. My breaths come in shallow spurts, and my head feels like I'm spinning, yet my legs are paralyzed.

So I do the only thing I can and listen. I hold my breath, waiting to hear footsteps or a crash, maybe the sound of my couch pillows being split open by a knife-wielding deranged person. But the only thing I hear is the rush of blood swooshing through my own ears.

Eventually, I can't take it anymore. I lean in and push the door open, enough to see inside. It's dark, though I always leave the hallway light on and it's enough to make out that no one is there, and nothing appears out of place. So I swallow and lean my head over the threshold.

"Hello? Is someone here?"

Silence.

I yell louder the second time. "Hello? Is someone here?"

A noise makes me jump, sends my heart shooting up to my throat. But it's only my neighbor unlocking his door.

"Meredith? Is everything okay?" Mr. Hank has to be eighty, but he feels like Superman coming to rescue me at the moment.

I let out a big breath. "My door was unlocked when I came home just now. I'm afraid someone could be inside."

He disappears briefly and comes back with a baseball bat. "You wait in my apartment. I'll take a look."

"Oh, I can't let you do that."

"I insist." He steps into the hallway and gestures to his open door. "Now, come inside."

"I'd feel better if I went in with you."

He shrugs. "Okay, but stay a few feet behind me. Because if I swing, I don't want to hit you in the head with the bat."

I nodded. "I will. Thank you."

Mr. Hank lifts the bat to his shoulder and tiptoes into my apartment. We both look around the living room and kitchen before venturing down the hall. All of the doors are closed, which is how I normally leave things. Mr. Hank opens each one, taking his time to check the closets while I look under the beds. After all the rooms are cleared, he lowers the bat from his shoulder.

"Sometimes my key turns in the lock," he says. "But it doesn't catch the bolt. So I think it's locked, but it isn't. I have to jiggle the handle to check."

"I haven't had that problem."

"Maybe you were just in a hurry, then, and forgot to lock it. It happens."

My head has been in the clouds lately. So I suppose either is possible. Yet I don't feel entirely settled just because no one was inside. I nod and smile anyway. "That must be it. Thank you so much for checking things out for me."

"No problem. Anytime. You just knock if you ever need anything."

"I really appreciate that. Thanks again, Mr. Hank."

After he's gone, I do another sweep through the apartment. My office is the last room I look in. Nothing seems out of place at first, but as I'm pulling the door shut, I notice my desk drawer isn't closed all the way. So I go over and open it, shuffle through the items inside, take a mental inventory. Nothing seems to be missing. At least that I can remember.

At the doorway, I take one more glance back into the room, at my desk, before flicking the light switch and pulling the door closed. Then I head straight to the refrigerator. Wine is definitely needed to unknot the ball of tension at the back of my neck. I drink the first glass while still standing with the refrigerator door open and staring at the lock on the front door.

I try to replay leaving this morning. While I got dressed, I had the TV on, listening to the news. The weatherman said there was a chance of rain. I had on taupe open-toed shoes and briefly considered changing to closed flats so my feet wouldn't get wet. But then I looked out the window and there wasn't a cloud in the blue sky, so I didn't change. After that, I flicked off the television, set the remote on my nightstand, and went into the kitchen to grab my purse from the chair. The round table in the entryway has a colorful Murano glass bowl sitting in the middle—Connor and I bought it on our honeymoon in Italy. It's where I toss my keys as soon as I walk in every day. I remember scooping them out and swallowing down the ache I felt in my chest when I saw the new keychain I'd bought to replace the one I lost. Outside my apartment, the hallway had been dark. The overhead lightbulb has been out for at least a week. But most importantly, I remember pulling the door shut and lifting my hand with the key.

I locked the door.

I gulp back the rest of my wine.

Could I be remembering locking the door another day?

I don't think so. The only time my mind seemed to be clear lately was in the morning, and the memory played out in my head like a video with no break.

I remember turning the key.

I remember the clank.

Which means…

I swallow. I need more wine, that's what it means.

So I refill my glass and finally shut the refrigerator door. This pour is so full to the brim that I have to slurp a mouthful in order to not spill any when I walk. After I sip half an inch, I carry the glass with me to the door. My keys are in the bowl like always. I set my wine down and scoop them out like I remember I did this morning. My heart pounds as I turn the handle and the door creaks open. I peek my head out—left first, then right. But the damn light is still out in the hallway, and I'm too afraid to go back out there now. So I slam the door shut and lock it, leaning my head against the cold metal until my breathing returns to normal.

Not surprisingly, I finish off my second glass of wine faster than the first, chugging it back like it's medicine I need for my health. I suppose maybe it is lately, my mental health anyway. I really need to relax, so I force myself to go sit in the living room and flick on the TV. But I take a seat on the far left of the couch, opposite from my normal spot. It gives me a clear view of the front door, allowing me to keep my eyes on the knob—waiting for someone to try and turn it again.

By my third glass of wine, I start flipping through the channels. Jeopardy! is on, so I occupy myself by playing along as I sip. Eventually, my shoulders loosen and I stop obsessing over the door. I even convince my tipsy self that what Mr. Hank said is right. One day bleeds into the next. I leave my apartment on autopilot. I'm remembering the lock-clanking sound from another day. After I get up to pour a fourth glass of wine, I return to sit in my usual spot. I can't see the door anymore, and I don't care. I slump into the cushions and lift my feet to the coffee table. My mind wanders now—back to what I talked about with Dr. Alexander earlier. How lonely I've been lately. If I had someone in my life, maybe they'd have been with me tonight when I came home, and I wouldn't have had to rely on my eighty-year-old neighbor for protection.

I top off my glass once more, push the cork back into the nearly empty bottle of merlot, and head to the bedroom with my wine in hand. I'm physically tired, but my mind is still too stimulated from the events of the evening to wind down. So I pick up my phone, flip through the apps, then go to the app store and search dating. My finger hovers over the first one that pops up, considering. I rub my legs together, realizing I haven't shaved them in at least a week. The bristly roughness leaves me annoyed—Jesus, how could I date when I'm such a mess? And what would come of it? One glance around the room shows remnants of my marriage. Our wedding picture is still on the dresser. Connor's hockey bag, which I finally moved out of the entrance, still falls out of the closet every other time I open the door. I don't even know why I still have all the reminders—yes, I loved my husband, but I hate him more now. Hate what he did to the Wright family, what he did to us. A few weeks back, Dr. Alexander had asked if I still kept memories of my marriage around. When I admitted to having a few, and told him how often I'd contemplated getting rid of them, he delved into why I hadn't gone through with it yet and suggested perhaps I was punishing myself with the constant reminders. At the time, I didn't think that was it, but as I sit here staring now, it certainly causes me pain to see them. Maybe the good doctor wasn't that far off base after all.

An alert on my phone buzzes—just a CNN update, but it brings me back to the app store.

The dating app.

I stop thinking about it and press download. Hold my breath while the circle slowly fills, then open it. I tap through, creating a skeleton of a profile. I just want to do a search. Just want to know what it feels like to look at another man's profile. Test the waters, know if it's even something I should waste time considering. But it wants a photo of me. I'm not sure I'm ready to go that far, put myself fully out there. Though it won't let me continue without uploading something. So I scroll through my old photos and find a photo Irina took while we were at a game in Canada what seems like a lifetime ago. It's snowing out, the wind is blowing my hair so it covers almost my entire face, everything except a giant, painted-red smile. I look happy. Which is of course now a lie. But nonetheless, I upload it since I'm fairly certain no would recognize it as me.

I set up search parameters—between the ages of thirty and forty. Male. It defaults to living within a mile of me, and I hesitate—why would it do that unless it's just a hookup app? But I leave it as is and skip past the stuff that doesn't matter to me—color of eyes, hair, ethnicity—and then suddenly a list of men pops up. Images, with basic stats attached. My chest squeezes as I scroll through them. I stop, look up at our wedding photo one more time.

But it's been twenty-two months, nearly two full years.

I scrub my face with my free hand and realize I'm trembling. God, why is this so hard?

I scroll again, and again. Hit the NEXT tab for more profiles. Just trying to normalize this in my head—get used to the idea of considering seeing someone. I open the profile of a moderately handsome man, ignoring the fact he actually looks a little like you, and swipe through his photos until I come across one that makes my jaw drop—a photo of him and a blonde who probably models in her spare time. Looking for a third, it reads. They're wrapped up together, her ass practically hanging out of a shiny silver skirt. I swipe back as fast as I can. I'm not opposed to that sort of thing for others, just—just not what I'm looking for.

I take a steadying breath and scroll again, inspecting a few profiles more closely. I even hit the heart button once or twice, saving them so I can come back later. Or maybe it tells the man I've done it and puts the ball in his court? I'm not sure. I just know this is how everyone is doing it these days. Meeting people.

I finish my wine, rise long enough to apply a foaming facial cleansing mask, and to pour yet another full glass. An hour goes by, then two, maybe more, and I roll my wrists, getting the stiffness out of them. My eyelids droop with exhaustion. I've looked at hundreds of men, but none of them seems quite right. None of them I want to meet.

A heavy sigh works its way through my body.

I stare at our wedding photo again.

God, I love you so much.

God, I hate you so much.

My heart feels like it's being strangled again. Or maybe it hasn't stopped feeling that way since the night my phone rang. The night you ruined our life. But that's it. I'm done. I stumble to my feet and walk over to the photo, taking one last long look, before placing it face down.

There. That's something. Baby steps…