Page 15 of Delayed Intention
As we start the walk back around, I take a turn schlepping the youngest, Etty, in the baby backpack contraption to give Miche a break. I can feel her grow heavier as sleep takes over. Her little face is resting heavily on the back of my neck.
“So, are you going to write her back? Or call her or whatever? I guess you’ll have to call her if you are going to be sampling wedding cakes together.” I can hear in her tone that Michelle is feeling protective about this.
I already know the answer, but to pretend to care less than I do, I take my time to answer. “I mean, sure, why not?”
“Why not? Because she took almost twenty years to write you an apology, which means she’s either thoughtless, selfish, or a total mess from being in that crazy family. I mean, why else couldn’t she write to you before now?”
“Something to think about,” I say in the tone I usually reserve for patients who have been researching their symptoms for hours on the internet.
These are all valid points, but they don’t matter for my purpose. I’ve read through the letter a few times. Okay, maybe more than a few times.
I don’t admit to my sister that she was right with her first comment about Lily and me. In 2005, Lily’s disappearing act hurt. Looking back as an adult, I recognize that because Dad had just left us, I was vulnerable to being more wounded than I otherwise may have been.
These days, I approach the opposite sex with a cool calculation. I do everything I can to avoid too much hassle, for the most part. I tolerate dating—I certainly enjoy sex when it’s available. I know Michelle considers me a slut, but the truth is I do try to keep my hook-ups pretty infrequent—especially since that disaster with Rachel. I try to be careful and keep my encounters with people who are like-minded about being casual. The problem with working in mostly rural places is that the selection of available women is slim, which is how I ended up being less discerning and receiving threats from a woman like Lara. I’ve already decided to keep that whole situation to myself. No sense in worrying my family because of my carelessness.
The office had gotten back to me—there have been no scathing reviews online for the practice or me, personally. There’s been no trolling on our group’s social media accounts. Maybe Lara was just spouting off empty threats. Still, she has me spooked, which is why I’m not seeing anyone right now. In any case, I barely even mentioned Lara’s existence to anyone, so no reason to get into it now.
When I was younger, I had a fantasy that I’d see Lily again—I would take her out on the date of a lifetime, listen to all of her hopes and dreams, and then not return any of her calls afterward. Time has faded my resentment. That said, it did occur to me the morning after I read her letter that if I were to hook up with her, it might be a way to achieve a sense of closure.
It’s hard to imagine Lily Mendes as someone that I could have casual sex with, however. From the little I know about her, she doesn’t seem to get out much. Then again, that may just be the image of herself she shares with her family. Reality may be something else altogether.
The idea of facing Rose Haddad, let alone my mother, after possibly hurting Lily, is less than ideal. For now, I’ve decided to write Lily back and give her a chance to apologize or whatever, and leave the past in the past.
From what my mother told me, I’m aware that Lily’s not only single, but she also hasn’t seriously dated anyone. The unspoken understanding in her family is that she is either gay or asexual. Having read her letter and her admission that she had feelings for me when we were teens, I wonder if either of those things is true. She says she’s sorry and would like us to be friends again. Well, unlike when I was sixteen, I have plenty of friends, and I don’t need a long-distance friendship with a possibly unhinged single woman with a clinical anxiety disorder.
Simultaneously, I’m no fool. I’m very aware that Rose and possibly my mother have a misguided notion about playing matchmaker. What Rose doesn’t know and my mother refuses to believe is that I have evolved. I know better than to believe in the notion of a match out there for me. Love may exist for some people, but I’m certain it’s not for me.
Ella and Erin took over the rest of the conversation during our hike. They are both becoming more talkative the closer they get to passing out for nap time. I hung back a bit since I had Etty sleeping on my back, and also to sort my thoughts on Michelle’s observations.
The truth is, I don’t know exactly what to expect when I see Lily face to face. I don’t mind admitting to myself, if not my sister, that I’m intrigued to see her—part of me has wondered how she’s turned out. I mean, there was a time when we were best friends. I can hear echoes of that girl who was my friend in the letter she wrote. It’s only natural that my interest is piqued.
Of course, it will be something to see her again. I wonder how she looks, how she carries herself. If she’s ever learned to master that frizzy brown hair she always complained about. She didn’t believe me, but I found her to be attractive. She had expressive brown eyes and a smile that would light up a room. As her friend, she’d tell me the things she saw were flaws in her appearance but from my point of view, she was beautiful.
I shake my head to myself, which stirs little Etty. We approach Michelle’s SUV, and I hand off the sleepy toddler to her. When we get the kids strapped in and take off down the road, I check for messages now that my cell service has returned.
Rose Haddad has sent me a text with the contact information for Lily Mendes, accompanied by a winking emoji. Of course, I already have the same information from Lily’s letter. I laugh aloud at the emoji while also seeing what Rose is up to. Underneath my laugh, there’s a feeling of looking forward to seeing my old friend again and a reminder that I should write her back soon. Pushing aside figuring out what capacity I want to see her in, I text the picture of the girls that I took to my mother and their father.Plenty of time to figure that out later.
Happy Sukkot
Lily, Maryland, October 2024
Procrastinating the inevitable, rather than buckling down to finish my charts for the day, I collapse onto the sofa in the provider lounge. Pulling out my phone, I see a new email and sit bolt upright when I glimpse the name of the sender:Joshua Cohen, MD. Just moments ago, I was relaxed to the point of nearly napping, and by just reading the one line, ‘Subject: Your Letter,’ my insecurities have surged, supplying a nervous energy that had my heart racing as if I’d just had a bucket of ice water thrown at my head.
What if he is just writing to tell me to go to hell? What if he is so mean I cry at work? How could I let Nona talk me into this?
I pause and look again. The subject line is not giving me much to go on. I breathe and attempt to center myself. I remember, without much enthusiasm, that I won’t perish if someone doesn’t like me. I have experience with that every Sunday night.
I open the email and read. Okay. It’s a little icy, but not unkind. Much better than I probably deserve. Then, he ends by confirming we should connect to help with the wedding. It dawns on me that waiting for his response was not nearly as challenging as the idea of seeing him in person again. But this is all good. Once these amends are made, I hope to free myself of some of these old insecurities. I mean, if we can become friends again, some of my regret could slip away. After I talked with Monica about the letter, I could see that cleaning up my messes from the past could be another step to help me move forward. That doesn’t make any of this less terrifying.
I compose an email to send back after checking my calendar and adding some dates I might go out there. I think about Josh and me, together, going to check out venues and food. It seems impossible. After I hit send, I waited for the relief, a sense of closure, or at least diminished regret. I make myself tea and wait some more. I don’t feel a change yet, but maybe it just needs to sink in: Josh and I are back in touch, and I’m working to heal old wounds. Maybe it’ll feel more concrete once I see him face to face.
In the meantime, I sit at one of the monitors, resolved to get my charting done. Today, I was in the outpatient unit, which is a strange notion in a hospital. I mean, all the patients are here, but we treat some of them as if we were a clinic. It’s my least favorite week to work here because I need to discharge a bunch of patients who have varying degrees of willingness to leave.
At baseline, I’m confrontation-avoidant. And this is a week that always involves some form of opposition: either the patients don’t want to leave, or they want to leave right now, the insurance companies want to argue and review everything I want to prescribe, and the families and consultants want to speak to me ten minutes ago. The entire process leaves me twitchy with raw nerves. I remind myself to keep the perspective that it’s always worse for the patients. Even so, no matter what I do, at least twelve different scenarios will pop up that involve someone being upset with me, no matter how hard I try, and I can’t stand it.
Finishing my notes, I look at my list to make sure I haven’t missed anything.
I did have some wins today. I love the actual medicine part of my job. Solving a mystery behind the symptoms is rewarding when I can do it. Even though the answer is not always the best news, I enjoy figuring out what’s going on—the more complex, the more intrigued I become. I’ve helped people who were in pain feel better; I’ve helped bring peace of mind to others who were worried something was serious when it wasn’t. I’ve been able to be honest and helpful to others who thought it wasn’t going to be something bad when, in fact, it was. I have had to tell people what they didn’t want to hear, but I’ve done it in a way that’s clear and with a plan for what comes next.
