Page 54 of Free to Breathe
Idon’t keep an office at the mansion because frankly, kitchens and electronics don’t mix well. Cassidy prints out everything I need to know and tacks it up in my kitchen. Recipes are kept under lock and key on laminated sheets of paper in the same cupboard as my knives. If that’s not a deterrent, I don’t know what is. The only items I keep in there out of necessity are my mounted voice-activated speakers that operate my Spotify playlist, and the phone which sits in a corner.
As a result, it isn’t until I’m at home that I get a chance to pull up my company email and calendar to see what was added to it by my efficient sister. Sitting with a glass of wine, I take a large mouthful before opening the message from Bryan.
To: Freeman, Corinna
From: Moser, Bryan MD
RE: Upcoming Appointments
Dear Miss Freeman.
Attached you will find the schedule of your upcoming appointments. I trust the dates and times are agreeable amidst your busy schedule. Should you have any difficulties, please contact Dr. Braddock’s secretary, as I was forced to deal with yours earlier.
Cordially,
Dr. Moser.
I spew my wine everywhere. Men and their fragile egos. I hope it has nothing to do with their dick size, or Bryan’s got to have some massive problems getting laid. I use the napkin I brought over with my wine to wipe off the screen of my laptop. Even though I know Cassidy’s meticulously entered in my appointments, I want to get an idea of what I’m facing over the upcoming months.
Opening the attachment, I’m not surprised at my physical getting moved earlier. I make a mental note to switch primary care doctors eventually. I want no association with anyone or anything having to do with Jack O’Brien’s practice. Continuing my perusal, I see blood work. Ugh, another series of MRIs, and one takes two hours? Now that my family knows, they can just drug my ass for those.
Then I pause. A psychologist? Why the hell do I need to talk with some quack? After Phil, Cass, and Em ensured Ali, Holly, and I weren’t permanently scarred by what happened to us, I no longer felt the need to bare my soul to someone outside of my immediate family. What the hell are they trying to learn? Whether or not some mental deprivation caused my brain tumor?
Snagging my phone up, I quickly pound out a text to Bryan.
I just saw the schedule. Why on earth do I need to see some shrink to have you operate on my head?
The little dots move, pause, then finally his text comes through.
This is after regular business hours, Ms. Freeman. Please contact my secretary with any questions about your schedule.
And those two simple lines put me over the edge.Five years of emotional support, and I’m supposed to trust my life to you because you get into a snit? What if there’s a blade in your hand after we have a spat in pre-op?I hit Send. I’m so done.
Furiously, I keep writing, ignoring the bubbles below my message.Fine. Then I’ll coordinate my cancelation of all procedures. If this is your attitude because of the one time in five years I couldn’t drop everything to do something you wanted me to, well you and your magical hands can go whack off together.
Hitting Send, I toss my phone aside. Shoving my computer off my lap, I grab my glass of wine and toast myself. “To you, Cori. To the end of your life, however long it is. Live it the way you want to.”
Tipping the glass back to my lips, I guzzle the wine even as my phone buzzes next to me.
I ignore it. Instead, I get up and grab the bottle from the kitchen. Making my way up to my room, I decide it’s as good a night as any for laundry.
* * *
“What the helldo you mean you might not have the surgery?” Em explodes at me. I’m lying on her chaise, taking a break after having just dropped off the grapefruit cake and cinnamon buns for the bridal brunch.
Mugsy, her ancient rescue dog, whines at her tone, scooting back toward me. I shush him and rub his velvety soft ears. “You heard me. I’m not saying I’ll never have the surgery.” I shrug. “Just not with a doctor whose ego is as fragile as Wordsworth china, or whatever that blue and white crap is.”
“It’s Wedgewood. And you know all doctors have egos,” Em counters.
I nod to acknowledge her point. “However, when you’re used to a certain level of treatment from your doctor, and the dynamic changes in less than twelve hours because you didn’t jump when they asked you to, you really need to consider if you’re with the right surgeon.” Tipping my head back, I whisper, “My life is going into his hands, Em. I have to trust him explicitly. If I can’t, what happens?”
Em opens her mouth to argue and then closes it. “I have nothing to come back with. Absolutely nothing. You’re right. If you’re no longer comfortable with your doctor, and this isn’t critical, then let’s find someone else.”
I roll to my side and curl into a ball facing my sister. “Exactly.” Something else has been on my mind. “Em, would you say you, Holly, and I go on the same amount of dates?”
Em sits down across from me and grabs one of her sketchbooks. “About that.”
“Why is it that I’m the only one branded a slut?” It’s not meant to insult my sisters. I’m trying to figure out the thoughts of others. The things Colby said are rancid in my gut. I still can’t think of him without wanting to go back to my kitchen for more therapy.
