Errands
Dear House;
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. When I forced you to take me on a date I thought I was breeching some emotional gap for you. I thought I could fill in your empty spaces. But it's been months and all I find is that I'm feeling more and that you seem emptier. This isn't good for either of us.
You, and Wilson too, believe that I become too involved with my patients. Perhaps I'm too involved with everyone. Every day I work, I'm absorbing pain, absorbing guilt. I want to do more, and all I do is drain myself.
After losing so many, I find that I can't lose the one last person who matters. Me. So I'm leaving. I'm leaving the hospital. I'm leaving New Jersey. But mostly I'm leaving you. I can't heal you. Not until I heal myself.
Cameron re-read the letter. It was full of self-pity, but today that's what she wanted to convey. He should pity her. He had messed with her mind, toyed with her emotions and in general dicked her around. Enough. It was Saturday. It was autumn. Brown leaves fell from the trees in the hot sunshine of the last week of September.
She addressed the envelope and debated whether to use her address labels; the ones she got from the humane society when she sent them a donation. The idea of adhering a winsome kitten at the top, left-hand corner of her letter amused her briefly. She decided to simply write her address. It was only after she had signed and sealed the letter, did she notice that she didn't have any stamps.
She got up from the kitchen table and stretched. Walking slowly down the bare walls of the hallway. In her house, growing up, the hallway was a gallery of photographs. Yellow, sepia, black and white, garish color photographs of smiles and hairstyles frozen in time.
The shower was hot and strong, pelting her as she scrubbed. Impossible to wash away the feeling. Fresh start, fresh smelling and yet the odor of death all about her. All fresh starts begin with death. Death of hope if nothing else.
She quickly blew her hair dry and slipped on an old sundress. Sunglasses protected her from the light and from the pitying looks of the curious. Why did such a pretty girl have such sad eyes?
It was a short walk to the high street. Convenient. A brief pause at the drugstore, perhaps after the post office she would stop in and buy all the things that could change her. Hair color, make-up, bubble bath and perfume. Shift the sight and smell of herself. Anything was better than what she was today.
It was a few minutes before noon and the line was full of people who were pushing the envelope of the Saturday hours. Cameron studied the four-color posters dangling by fishing line from the ceiling. Happy home-business owners extolling the virtues of Express Mail. She turned her attention to the sign itemizing the things one couldn't send in the mail. Gasoline. You'd think it would go without saying, yet, apparently, it didn't.
People wearily shifted bulky boxes from one hip to the other, or balanced them on the counter containing the postal forms. Customs forms for international packages strewn on the floor.
Cameron decided to use the self-service machines. She preferred the commemorative stamps; the ones with flowers, fruit or birds on them. But they only sold those over the counter, and there was no way she was standing in line just for that. How many things were sacrificed for expedience? She'd satisfy herself with American flags. What did it matter? They were stamps.
After the machine dispensed the stamps, she held the carnet in her hands. Three folds, seven dollars and forty cents. Twenty opportunities to… To what? She thought about the resumes she'd send out, change of address forms, all the other things associated with starting over. She thought about packing up her apartment, thought about being the new girl at a new job. It was too much. Her shoulders sagged. She took the letter and tore it into pieces and threw it in the can by the door.
She slid the stamps into her wallet and walked back onto the sidewalk. Perhaps a magazine and a cup of coffee, then she could plan the rest of her day.