“I’m back.”
“Wait, what? Why didn’t you tell me? I—”
“Can you come over?” My voice is shaky, the words barely audible.
She must hear all that transpired in the question because she says, “Oh, hon. I’ll be right there.”
Chapter 41
“Did yours deliver?” Emily asks as I sit at my charting spot.
I nod then laugh at the way she’s sprawled on her chair, her eight hours of overtime transpiring through her every pore. She groans, melting even further into her chair. “It’s so unfair.”
“Don’t be a sore loser.” I pick up my department zip-up hoodie, the feel of its cotton as familiar as slipping into decades-old pajamas. “Mine was a fourth baby, so there was no competition anyway.” I barely had time to call the doctor in before my patient Renata’s baby girl was born.
“So, you’re done now?”
I look at the digital clock behind her. “I guess.” Not that I’m that excited to go back to my empty apartment.
That first night, when Emily arrived, she pulled me into her arms and let me cry on her shoulder for a long time. Then, she decided we were going to deep clean my place while she updated me on all I’d missed during summer. The cleaning was useless—I’d kept the apartment squeaky clean since Michael left—but keeping my hands busy while listening to all the department drama kept my mind blank, which was exactly what I needed. I’m pretty sure allthe wild details she added about the anesthesiologist she went on one date with before determining he was a freak were fake, but I appreciated the effort all the same.
I was back at work the next day, and while I’d dreaded it, it was… fine. There was a new detachment in me, which made the job easier, if a little boring. My heart wasn’t in it anymore. Maybe that was how it needed to be, though. When I cared, I couldn’t tolerate it. Being a good nurse to my patients doesn’t mean I need to be the person I was before, and while I don’t feel nearly the same amount of fulfillment I used to, at least I don’t get into shouting matches or come home crying, so I decided to take it as a win. I got my period in the middle of the week, and thankfully, this one was tolerable. I don’t think I could’ve handled an episode like the one I had in July on top of everything. Even so, I pat myself on the back for surviving it by myself. I craved Eli there by my side again, his fingers tangled in my hair, cold compresses ready for me because he somehow always knew what I needed without me saying it. I felt comfortable living through my pain with him, bloated and moaning, and having that trust with someone, even for a single summer, is something I’ll cherish forever.
“Hey, Cass?”
“Hm?” I sling my purse across my shoulder.
“You doing okay? Like, really?”
Sariah, my boss, asked me the same thing this morning, and when I answered I was great, she smiled and clasped my shoulder, the way she used to when I started working under her. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Glad your break did you some good.” A partof me was proud that finally, I was able to properly lie to her. She didn’t need to know I was still dying inside, although for different reasons than before my break.
However, with Emily, I can’t hide it.
“I will be,” is what I settle on.
She smiles sadly, then blows me a kiss. I return it before making my way out of the unit and to my car.
For the drive home, I put on an audiobook; some thriller I borrowed from my local library. Back inside, I’ll turn it off only when Netflix will be on and will only close that tab when it’ll be time to go to bed. My thoughts are too loud to be given any room.
When I park in the garage, something rattles behind my seat, and when I go check, my heart stutters. The scrapbooking boxes. I unloaded all my stuff from Maine with Emily when she came over, and we made sure to hide everything that could remind me, even for a single glimpse, of Cape Weston. I guess we forgot to do one last trip to grab the stuff on the floor of the backseat. The sight of the boxes is like being drenched in a cold wave of memories.
I consider leaving them there and acting like I never opened the door. Go back to my apartment, eat my single portion of watery lentil soup, and pretend I don’t think about all of them 24/7 anyway.
Jaw tight, I pick up the boxes and bring them upstairs.
My plan is ruined.
I’m no longer only drenched. I’m flooded. Drowned. I haven’t bothered turning on Netflix. At this point, it’s not going to change anything. Silence fills the apartment as I continue rifling through photo albums. I knew Ruth liked to scrapbook around pictures, but I never realized just how important they were in her craft. She didn’t create art around the photographs. She made the photographs come alive, with quotes painted in dark quill and themed papers that gave meaning to a two-dimensional picture. There’s Ruth with her girlfriends and a child version of me, back when I would pretend I was a grown lady with them, and they would indulge me. There’s Mom in her early thirties, holding a small Keira’s hand, and a baby-sized me in her arms. Mom is there quite a lot, actually. If I hadn’t known it before, it would’ve been obvious through the scrapbooks that Ruth loved Mom. Mom is in Ruth’s art more than Dad is.
Keira and me. Eli and me. As kids, as teens, as would-be adults.
My throat is tight, but my eyes only get watery when I reach my college graduation picture, with my first stethoscope around my neck. I hadn’t known how I’d ever pay for it, until a bubblegum-colored Littman stethoscope arrived at my doorstep the week before classes started. In the picture, my smile isn’t close to the ones I wore in previous collages, despite having followed my dreams. I was supposed to be happy then. I swallow as I trace a finger across the face of that hopeful, naïve girl. By that point, I hadn’t seen Ruth in four years, yet she still printed the photo I emailed her and put it in one of her most treasured places.
When I go to turn the page, the photo falls off, as if it hadn’t been glued like the rest. Something on the back of it catches my eye, and when I understand what it is, tears spill over. I never thought I’d see Ruth’s writing again.
My dear Cassie,
I stop reading there, my hands shaking so much I sit on them. I can’t do it. She wanted me to find this. Wanted me to read this. But what if I read whatever she wanted to tell me and learn I’ve disappointed her somehow?
