Page 32 of Doctorshipped
GRANT
Fiona’s asleep in her room. I tucked her in two hours ago. I can’t sleep. I’ve had insomnia ever since the day Margot received her diagnosis. When we lost her, it only got worse. I spent hours every night lying in bed asking myself what I could have done differently. Could I have changed fate?
A physician isn’t God, my dad told me repeatedly. Most doctors might have to mull that one over more than once before swallowing it as a bitter pill. People in my profession aren’t known for our humility as a rule. No one who takes on the saving of lives as a vocation would be inclined to see themselves as less than powerful. In the end, I couldn’t provide us one more day with her.
Was Margot the love of my life? Maybe. Probably not. We definitely made sense at one time. Two physicians—one in family medicine, the other internal medicine. We would never begrudge one another when patient care temporarily took precedence over family life. We had common goals. We both loved Fiona more than life. Well, I thought we did.
I stand on the back porch, looking out across our moderate-sized yard. The cool night air is a welcome contrast to the warmth of our summer days. Despite the breeze, a feeling of claustrophobia presses down on me. I’d love to mount my bicycle and ride the roads outside town. How can we be surrounded by so much wide open space, and yet I still feel trapped?
I close my eyes, letting the chilly air and the sounds of summer insects soothe my restlessness.
Jayme.
Her brown curls, wide eyes, curvy figure, and easy smile invade my solitude, causing me to feel acutely isolated.
Forget restraint. I’m going to allow my mind to wander. I’m alone. I can think about whatever—whomever—I want right now. I lean my hands on the porch railings, wondering what Jayme’s doing right now. Does she fall asleep easily, or stay up late? Does she write at night? Or does she watch ridiculous sitcoms, laughing those full, melodic belly laughs of hers at the inane comedy fueled by canned laughter.
I’ve never been this consumed by another person before. Margot and I just made sense. She liked me. I liked her. We had the warmth of early dating, the thrill of shared goals, the wonder of being one another’s firsts. But I never experienced hours on end where my mind looped back to her.
I never woke in the middle of the night wondering what she sleeps in, and how crazy wild her hair must look before she tames it in the morning. I never lost track of things, or myself. And I never smiled at the mere thought of her.
I loved Margot. A part of me always will. But I wasn’t hungry to figure her out, or to have more of her like I seem to be for Jayme. I don’t know how to be the man I’ve always been while thoughts about Jayme threaten to encroach on my life and my previously manageable heart.
I’d like to convince myself I’m merely intrigued by her, or even slightly repelled. But there’s a fine line between whatever I thought this was and what I suspect it might be.
I don’t need to act on any of this, of course. It’s late. I’m tired. Maybe I’m not even thinking straight.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, causing me to jump as if I’ve been caught doing something forbidden. If that’s not a sign that I should avoid indulging in all thoughts of Jayme, I don’t know what is.
I look at the screen and chuckle. Of course. It’s her.
Jayme:Check out this video about dyslexia. (Link attached)
Jayme:I hope you have your ringer off.
Jayme:If you don’t, I’m super sorry for sending you that video at this hour. I couldn’t sleep, so I was looking into ways to help children her age who have dyslexia.
Jayme:Actually, not sorry. I’m up trying to help your daughter. Get over it.
The texts stop, and it takes me a moment to realize why I feel odd.
I’m smiling.
It’s the same smile that spreads across my face unbidden when Fiona’s being ridiculous or adorable, only it’s her—Jayme—who is causing me to smile right now. She could be up doing anything, but she’s taking time to research how to help my daughter.
Grant:I’m up. I don’t always sleep well.
I hit send and regret it. I don’t want her to know about my insomnia. Once again, this woman has me doing and saying things I wouldn’t usually do or say.
Jayme:Insomnia?
Grant:Nothing for you to concern yourself with.
Jayme:Don’t worry. I’m not.
Grant:Good.
She doesn’t text back and my fingers defiantly itch to resume the conversation.
