Page 122 of Broken Dream
Jason
Can my life get more fucked up?
I spend the rest of my Sunday drinking bourbon and feeling sorry for myself until I pass out on my couch.
I awaken to my phone buzzing.
“Yeah?” I say, not bothering to look to see who it is.
“Jason, hi. It’s Louisa.”
My heart lurches as I check the time. Eight a.m. Damn. It’s Monday morning. “Hey. What’s up?” My voice sounds groggy.
“I wanted to find out how your meeting with Dr. Steel went.”
I sigh. “It sucked.”
She pauses. “I…was afraid it might not go well. Dr. Steel is a tough cookie, but she knows her stuff.”
“So you agree with her, then?”
“I agree she knows her stuff. I know that she wouldn’t come to a conclusion without thinking it through rationally, weighing all the variables. What exactly did she say?”
“She didn’t say no to the surgery.” I rub at my forehead. “But she does recommend postponing it until I get some therapy. But I really don’t want to go back to therapy, Louisa. It cost me everything I had left.”
No response for a moment. Until?—
“I may have a solution.”
My heart lurches again. “Don’t fuck with me, Louisa. Don’t give me more false hope. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’m not fucking with you. There’s a state-of-the-art surgical center in Switzerland where Gita first performed the surgery with an excellent outcome. She thinks she can get you in there.”
I don’t respond for a second, my heart pounding. Part of me wants to get angry, to tell her to go to hell, that I don’t want any more false hopes. But the other part—the part that sees the opportunity, the glimmer of hope—can’t just push it away.
“You should know up front that this wouldn’t be cheap,” Louisa continues.
“There’s always a catch,” I say. “But I have money, Louisa. And what I don’t have, I’ll get.”
“You’ll have to stay local during rehabilitation. You’d have to take a sabbatical from your teaching.”
I’m ready to agree now, but that’s not what Louisa wants to hear. She wants to make sure I know what I’m agreeing to, that I’m not jumping in headfirst when the best psychiatrist in Colorado just told me to take more time.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally say, my voice hoarse with raw emotion.
“You do that,” Louisa says. “Gita and I are in your corner, and so is Peter.”
“Peter said that?”
“Not in so many words, but this psychiatric assessment wasn’t his idea. It was the board’s.”
Of course it was.
“I understand. I’ll be in touch.”
“Good. Enjoy the rest of the weekend.”
The weekend is pretty much over, and I spent it being psychoanalyzed.
