Because I specialize in sleep disorders, his story is not unique.
“Have you talked about it with your wife?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m too ashamed. She never says anything the next day, but something’s shifted between us since this started. Her eyes are empty—and she jumps whenever I go to touch her.”
I press my lips together in sympathy, knowing exactly how he feels.
We talk for thirty more minutes. I ask about family history, any other medications that he’s taking, and whether he’s been evaluated for sleep apnea—he has, and he doesn’t have it. I question him about alcohol usage, as that can make symptoms worse. Seeing as he doesn’t drink very much, I decide to start him on a course of treatment. As the session nears the end, I pull my prescription pad out.
“I’m prescribing hydroxyzine to take before you sleep every night. It’s very mild, and a good starting point. If this makes symptoms worse—as it can for a small subset of people—pleaselet me know. There are other things we can try, such as a benzodiazepine, but that’s riskier and should only be used as a last resort.”
His eyes go wide. “You mean you can cure me?” he asks, taking the paper from my hand.
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. You’ll never be cured, per se, but we can identify and treat the triggers. Medication helps, so let’s start with the safest one first.”
He stands up but doesn’t make eye contact. “Thanks, Doc. I’m glad I made this appointment. It happened again last week, and I apparently got pretty aggressive with her. She never says anything, but I see the bruises.”
I nod. “That’s very common. Please try not to blame yourself for something you can’t control.”
“I know. But I still feel like a terrible husband.”
I stand and walk him to the door of my private office. “I’d like to see you next week, once you’ve been taking the medication for a few nights. I’m currently in the middle of hiring a new assistant, so it might be them who reaches out.”
“All right, Doc,” he says, eyes bleary.
“Get some sleep. Trust me, being overtired only makes things worse.”
He gives me a grateful smile before exiting the room, where he’ll take a nondescript hallway to the exterior patient door of my house. I wait until I hear his car on the gravel before heading back to my desk chair. Once seated, I click through to my email.
A few more applications for my assistant position have trickled in this morning, so I quickly flick through them. Because the position is advertised as either in person or virtual, I get applications from people all over the United States. Nothing has stood out so far—there’s a single mom of two with zero experience, a young guy who just graduated with his bachelor’sin psychology, and an older, local woman coming out of retirement who was recommended by a colleague.
They’re all fine—and truthfully, this job will be hard, so I can’t afford to be picky. As I get to the email that pinged during my session with Colin, I lean forward and stare at the picture attached to the application.
Most people have attached pictures, but this one stands out.
It’s a younger woman with long, dark, straight hair. She’s barely smiling—her eyes seem sad, like she doesn’t want to be taking the picture. Not only that, but she’s… fucking beautiful.
I click over to her résumé, taking in the words on the screen like a starved drug addict.
Francesca Bristow.
San Diego, CA—a few hours south of me.
Her age isn’t listed, but she does have the year she graduated college. I do the math in my head.
No experience as an assistant to a doctor, but her résumé is filled with volunteering gigs—the NICU for three years, a year with an unhoused person charity, and then there’s an Etsy shop listing. I click on it, and I’m suddenly mesmerized by this woman who seems like an anomaly. Small, thick blankets made with gender-neutral prints and faux fur…
She makes baby blankets on the side.
I go back to the picture of her, studying her large gray eyes. I take in the whole picture, from her makeup-less face, her denim overalls, the sizable bit of cleavage, the curvy nature of the top half of her body…
My heart is pounding for no reason at all, but I know in an instant that I’m going to offer her the job.
Not because I find her attractive—I mean, I’d have to be dead to not see how gorgeous she is—but because something about the way she’s looking into the camera is hauntingly soulless, and I want to know why.
I also want to know why I’m having this reaction to her in the first place. She’s certainly not the first beautiful woman I’ve seen. But her eyes are calling to something inside of me, and I’d never be able to stop thinking about the woman in this picture if I didn’t offer her the job.
Replying quickly, I ask if she’s available for an interview later today.
