SEPTEMBER
Stacy cracked open the bedroom door. She stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds inside the darkness. She heard nothing but deep breathing. She pushed the door open wider moving it quickly to avoid prolonging the squeak in the hinges . The beam of light from the hallway led the way across the hardwood floor to the far wall, and she followed it across the room.
She opened the closet door quickly and stepped inside before turning on the light. Her navy pumps were waiting in their usual spot on the shelves and she grabbed them, switching the light back off before she reached for the door knob.
She had taken to laying out her clothes in the spare room so she wouldn't disturb Greg on the days he didn't have any early appointments and could sleep in, but had forgotten the shoes the night before. Greg had crashed on the couch after PT yesterday afternoon, turning down dinner even when she made up a plate and brought it to him.
She had been getting her clothes ready before bed, double checking what she had in the spare room. Some of the staples in her wardrobe had already moved there permanently -- her favorite black suit, the cream-colored blazer, her Donna Karan red silk blouse -- since she wore them frequently. Besides, she had told Greg when she sorted through her closet one weekend, it would finally free up enough space for his things, so they wouldn't be jammed into one small corner any more.
"You always say I don't leave you enough room," she said. "Now you'll have room."
"In case you haven't noticed, the condition of my suits hasn't been a prime concern of mine lately," he said, and sulked off into the living room. She heard him slam down his crutches on the floor and the TV come on a moment later.
Last night, though, her nighttime ritual had been interrupted when she heard Greg in the kitchen, cupboards and drawers opening and closing, the beep of the microwave. She left him on his own until she heard a crash. She rushed in to find him trying to manipulate his crutches along with a broom. There was broken glass and a spreading spill of either water or 7-Up on the floor.
"Let me," she said, and grabbed for the broom. He didn't let go.
"I've got it," he said.
Stacy pulled harder. "Greg, let me handle this. You get out of here before you slip and hurt yourself."
Greg let go of the broom, but didn't back away. "I'm not going to fall."
Stacy scooped the broken glass into the dustpan and spread paper towels on the spill. "Greg just ..." She ran out of words and instead kneeled down to begin cleaning up the liquid, feeling the stickiness of a sugary blend. Soda then. Great. She tossed the paper towels into the trash and went into the pantry for the mop.
Greg hadn't moved. "Just go and let me clean this up," Stacy said. He stared at her for a moment longer, then moved off into the living room.
Stacy had mopped up the spill and cleaned the floor. Greg ignored her as she passed through the living room, and she slammed the bedroom door closed behind her, forgetting about the things she had been prepping in the other room. She had been nearly asleep when he finally came to bed hours later, making his way in the dark to his side of the bed.
Now it was early morning and she was the one moving through the dark. Stacy paused before heading back into the hall, watching the mound of blankets in the bed for any sign as to whether Greg was awake or not. She swore that once, not too long ago, she could tell when he was faking sleep. Lately she wasn't so certain. Either she had lost her edge, or he had increased his skill at it to avoid unwanted questions.
This morning, she thought maybe he was still asleep. She walked quietly back across the floor, opened the door quickly once again and stepped out into the hall.
She stood for just a few seconds there -- her shoes in one hand, her other hand on the door knob. There was still no sound from the bedroom.
Stacy walked across the hall to the spare room. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed the shoes on the floor. She reached for a pair of pantyhose and began pulling them up, then cursed as she spotted a run in them and pulled them back off. She walked over to the dresser and grabbed a new pair from the drawer and sat down again. She smiled a little when she remembered how Greg had once tried to work out the math that would show once and for all whether she was better off buying nylons that wouldn't snag as easily but were expensive, or ones that were more prone to run, but she could buy cheaply in bulk.
"I don't care what the numbers say," she had told him. "I like the feel of these better, and I can afford it."
Now she finished putting on the new pair and stepped into her shoes. Stacy stood and checked her hair and makeup in the mirror before she opened the jewelry box. The box had been one of the first items she moved into the spare room. It was small, but easily held the few pieces she wore regularly. She looked through it in search of the silver and emerald earrings Greg had given her for her birthday two years ago.
Stacy spotted them next to her mother's crucifix. She picked up the necklace and looked at it. She was not religious, and hadn't been in a church except for weddings and funerals since she'd left home. It had been at least 10 years since even her mother had given up on trying to guilt her back into attending services.
Despite their difference in opinion on organized religion, though, Stacy still could admire the work that went into her mother's piece -- the detail of the cross, the human face, even the crown of thorns visible on his bowed head. Her mother had given it to her shortly after Stacy had been accepted to Yale, following in her father's footsteps, into his alma mater, and into his profession. It had come from Greece, the same islands Anna's grandparents had lived in once upon a time.
"You are your father's daughter," Anna had said when she pressed the crucifix into Stacy's hand. "But you're mine as well. I want you to remember that."
"As if you'd ever let me forget," Stacy had said.
Stacy looked down at the necklace now in her hand. Anna would probably sympathize with Greg's newest avoidance tactics. She was good enough at it herself. Heck, she could probably teach him some new angles.
There was a lot to admire in Anna Adams, but she also had one personality quirk that annoyed Stacy above all others: the need to take off whenever things seemed to get rough. Oh she was great at stirring up issues. She loved to drop her emotional bombs, but once the collateral damage started racking up from those explosions, she was long gone.
Stacy looked up from the necklace at the closed bedroom door across the hallway, then at her own collection of clothes that seemed to be growing in the spare room. She put the necklace back in the jewelry box and pulled out the earrings. She shook her head. This was different. She and Greg were just making adjustments. No one was going anywhere.
Except to the office.
Things had piled up during the time she took off from work to help Greg. Stacy had intended to still work from home a few days a week , but the paperwork seemed overwhelming. And once she was back in her own office, she found it easier to concentrate. At home, there were too many distractions. She'd barely start on a document, then hear Greg moving around and get up to check on him. Even when he was quiet -- watching television or sleeping -- her mind wandered.
At her office, she could focus on actual work. There was no one there to worry about, no one to interrupt her. She started going in earlier to get a jump on the day, then began leaving later just to finish up the last few tasks.
The paperwork was back under control now, but Stacy still was going in early most days, taking advantage of the quiet before the hospital's halls began filling with patients and doctors.
She checked herself in the mirror one last time, then turned off the light and went out into the living room. The first hints of dawn were visible through the open curtains as she passed through and into kitchen.
She straightened up the newspaper on the table into one pile, then took her coffee mug over to the sink to dump the last few drops and rinse it out.
As she turned out the lights, she could see the red power light still glowing on the coffee maker. She fought the urge to turn it off, knowing it would automatically shut itself off in another hour. If Greg woke before that, the coffee would still be hot and ready for him.
Greg had complained when she turned it off when she first returned to work, saying he could always drink it when he got up.
"But you hate old coffee. You always make a fresh pot," Stacy said. She wondered if there was something else prompting his complaint. "Honey, are you worried you won't be able to ..."
"I'm perfectly capable of making a damn pot of coffee," Greg said. "And I'm not that picky. I just don't see a reason why we should make two pots in the morning just because I'm ... sleeping in."
"Not picky? You spent weeks researching the right pot to get one that would brew at just the right temperature. We had to special order it."
"Maybe I like old, warmed up coffee now."
"Since when?"
"Since I decided to drink it that way, OK? Is that all right with you?"
Stacy had walked out of the room shaking her head and hadn't bothered with turning off the coffee maker since then.
Stupid arguments, she thought and grabbed her bag on her way out the door. Stupid fights. She stepped out into the main hallway and locked the door behind her.
The fact that they had spent the last three months arguing shouldn't have surprised her. They had quarreled from the day they met.
Stacy had heard all the stories about Greg even before she laid eyes on him, with various people she respected describing him as everything from a pure genius to a raving lunatic. She expected to be underwhelmed when they finally did meet. She had known plenty of overachievers -- had lived with them, worked with them, partied with them. Few ever lived up to the hype.
Greg did -- both the good and the bad.
They finally met when he broke into her office. She had come back from lunch to find the door open and someone sitting in her chair, calmly going through her desk drawers.
"Is there any reason I shouldn't call security?" Stacy didn't step into the room, instead staying safely at the doorway.
"Not really," he said and closed the bottom right drawer before turning to her. "It might be kind of fun to hear you explain why it is you leave everything unlocked. It's practically a signed invitation to anyone with a nefarious scheme in mind."
"As opposed to whatever scheme you've got planned."
"I don't scheme. Waste of energy. I prefer efficiency -- like when I'm told I have to come down and sign some thingy, but there's no one here. Now I could sit and wait -- but you know how precious a doctor's time is. All those billable hours, gone. Or I could have come back, but you know, things sometimes slip my mind."
"So instead you break in."
"See? I knew you'd understand."
Stacy felt like she spent their first date on the witness stand, being grilled by every attorney she'd ever met.
"Lame," he said after she'd told him she had entered law school to emulate her father. "More like it was an attempt to get Daddy to notice you at all. Same college? Same law school? Tell me, did he even notice when you were hired out of law school to work for the White House Counsel's office? Or did he just have his secretary send you a card?"
She was still figuring out how to respond when he continued. "Was Daddy disappointed that you worked in the Clinton administration, when he had the Kennedy White House on his CV? I'm sure he found it a bit of a letdown."
She didn't know which bothered her more -- the fact that he was more on target than she wanted to admit, or that he already knew more about her family than friends she'd known for years.
When she saw the envelope from him in the interoffice mail three days later, she nearly tossed it out without looking at it. Inside were two tickets to a performance of Mahler's Resurrection Symphony in Philadelphia she faintly recalled mentioning in passing. The note inside mentioned she should use them so that she could actually enjoy herself the next time she went out.
"Why did you send me these?" Stacy asked when she found Greg at his apartment that night.
"Peace offering," he said. "How did you find where I live?"
"Personnel records," she said and pushed past him into the room. "What makes you think I'd ever want to go anywhere with you again?"
"See, it's more efficient to break the rules," he said. "And I believe I didn't order you to bring me with you."
"I'm the hospital's attorney. I have a right to access those records. And if you didn't expect me to invite you, then why send two?"
"But does that right extend to personal use of those records solely to badger your dates? And if I really wanted to be sneaky I would have just shown up unannounced in the seat next to you. This way you have a choice."
"This isn't badgering," Stacy protested. "This is ... I don't know what it is, but I'm not going to bring you."
"I don't expect you to. It's been my experience that most women don't stick around for a second date with me."
"Then why give them to me?"
Greg shrugged. "I was hoping you were different."
They spent the first weeks after she moved in feeling their way around each other. Polite conversations, requests, kind words. Everything was new and different, filled with promise and adventure.
Now it seemed like they were going through that mating ritual all over again, but rather than new and different, everything felt altered and foreign, tense and anxious.
Rather than kind words, it was arguments and fights. They seemed to clash now, when they used to meld into one single unit.
And they seemed to fight about everything. About what to watch on TV, about whether to turn the TV on at all. About what to eat, or whether Greg wanted to ignore everything she put on his plate. About whether he'd be ready in time for Stacy to pick him up during lunch so he wouldn't be late for therapy or whether he'd done his exercises at home that day.
The one thing they didn't fight about was the one subject she was afraid to bring up: his surgery -- the one he didn't want and that she had approved. She had expected him to yell at her when he first woke up. Then thought maybe he was saving his energy until the next time he saw her. Then she thought that maybe he was just waiting until they were alone.
But he hadn't said anything. Instead he would just look at her. Everything wordless and everything exposed in his eyes. He would wake up, feel the pain, reach for his pills and stare at her.
He'd force himself across the room and onto the couch after PT, his foot seeming to drag a little more after the hours of forced effort, and look up at her before raising his leg up onto the cushions.
Stacy found herself at the hospital, unable to remember any of the details of the drive there. She shook her head to try and clear it, then headed in through the main entrance and up to her office.
-------------
Three hours into the day, Stacy picked up her water glass and noticed it was empty again. She didn't recall finishing it off, but then she had managed to work her way through more than five pages of notations for a revised brief since she arrived at her office. She checked her watch. Time enough for a break.
She saved the document on her laptop, then closed the cover and set the computer aside on the corner of her desk. She picked up the phone and hit the first saved number.
One ring. Two.
"Hello?" She could hear the faint sounds of something in the background. Probably the TV.
"Hi honey, how's it's going?"
"Did you know Rice-A-Roni costs $1.39 now?"
"I can't say that crossed my mind, no."
"When I was a kid and watched 'Price Is Right' with my Mom, it was only 33 cents."
"When you were a kid, dinosaurs still roamed the earth." She could hear the volume lowered on the television from Greg's end of the line.
"Watch it. You're older than me."
"By six weeks," she said and smiled. "Besides, I have a more youthful outlook."
"Then why do you always tell me to stop acting like a 2-year-old?"
"Because it'd be both illegal and immoral to sleep with a 2-year-old, and I wouldn't want you to ruin my stellar reputation."
"All this concern about your reputation, what about ..." he stopped in mid sentence and she could hear him catch his breath.
"Honey?" He didn't answer. "Greg? Honey?"
"I'm OK." The words sounded strained, forced.
"No you're not. What's wrong?" Stacy wondered if she should take an early lunch. She quickly considered what she'd need if she needed to work from home for the rest of the day.
"It's OK." His voice was stronger now. "It's better."
Stacy could hear his breathing even out and the faint movements of him shifting position on the couch. "Did you take your pills this morning?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Greg?"
"I took what I needed."
Right then. This again. "Honey, you know the Vicodin works better if you stick to a regular schedule."
"You may not realize this, but I do know what I'm doing."
"Look, I'm just ..."
"Trying to tell me what to do again."
"No I'm not," she protested. "I just hate to see you in pain."
"Too late for that, isn't it."
Stacy didn't know what to say to that. She closed her eyes and listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.
"I don't want to fight," she finally said.
"At least we can agree on that."
They were both quiet again. Stacy took a breath and held it for a moment. She picked up her pen. "I just wanted to let you know that things are kind of crazy around here this morning," she said. "I don't think I'll be able to take a break and stop by at lunch."
"I think I can manage to fend for myself," he said. "You going to be working late too?"
"I don't know. Maybe." She wondered if he knew that her work load had finally eased up. It wouldn't surprise her if he did, but he hadn't called her on the lie.
"OK," he said. "I'll try to stick around here in case you need to reach me later."
"OK," she said. "And I'll be here if you need me. I love you."
Stacy sensed a slight pause before Greg replied. "Love you too," he said. She could hear the TV volume pick up again just before he hung up. She put the handset back into the cradle and stared at the phone for a moment, the black plastic, the gray number pad, the blinking red light signaling a waiting voice mail. She turned away from the phone and stood, grabbing her blazer.
She pulled one cigarette from the pack she kept stashed in the back of the center drawer, hidden under some envelopes. She put it in her pocket and grabbed a book of matches from another drawer. She had thought about buying a disposable lighter the last time she bought a pack at the nearby Wawa, but didn't. She kept telling herself that the cigarettes were just a temporary thing. A stress reliever. Investing in even a cheap lighter felt too permanent.
Stacy made a quick stop in the bathroom before she headed back down the hall and outside. The roof was a popular smoking break site for the orderlies and residents, the entrance near the ER favored by the attendings and nurses who didn't care who saw them flout the health warnings on every pack.
When she had time, Stacy would walk out along the winding path next to the hospital where there were benches hidden among the trees and she could sneak a smoke with no one seeing her. This time she went out a side entrance and around to the loading docks at the back of the hospital, where the only ones who might see her were either delivery truck drivers or maintenance crew workers who might know her face, but not her name.
-------------
Stacy had lunch at her desk, flipping idly through a magazine as she ate her soup.
She set it aside when a knock came at the door shortly before 1 p.m. "Come in," she called.
The door cracked open and James poked his head in. "Hey," he said. "You got a second? Greg said you were working through lunch, but I was thinking if you could take a break ..."
"Come on in, I'm good for now." Stacy waved him in. "I'm just waiting for a call." She wondered when she'd gotten so comfortable lying to people she cared about.
"I can come back," he offered.
"No, no. Have a seat." She swallowed the last of the soup as he sat, then tossed the container into the trash. "When did you talk to Greg?"
"A few minutes ago. I didn't see you around the cafeteria at your normal time, and I thought maybe you'd gone to have lunch with him."
Stacy leaned back in her chair. "Have I become that predictable?"
James smiled. "Don't worry. I'll keep your secret." He handed her a cream-colored envelope before settling into his chair. "It's from Julie. She wanted to thank you again for dinner on Saturday."
"Greg didn't scare her off?"
"Not yet."
"It's early," Stacy said. "And he was on his best behavior."
"You'll have to tell her that. She accused me of making it all up."
"I'm surprised you'd want to even consider risking exposing your dates to Greg so early in your relationship," she said.
James shrugged. "I'm thinking of using him as an early warning system: the House test."
Stacy looked him over. "Please don't tell me you're thinking you need to get his approval of your dates."
"God no," James shook his head. "If I were to wait until he approves of anyone, I might as well consider converting and joining the priesthood." He shuddered a bit. "I just figure that any woman that doesn't dump me after meeting my best friend may be a keeper."
Stacy had been surprised when James asked about bringing a date with him to dinner on Saturday. Julie had been a surprise too. She came from enough money that she could have had an easy life, but instead took advantage of her personal financial security to take on work as a speech therapist for a handful of poor rural and urban school districts that otherwise would not have been able to afford to bring one on staff.
Stacy had already nursed James through two tough divorces. Maybe someone like Julie could finally deal with the fact that getting involved with him would mean committing to a man whose first commitment would always be to medicine.
In truth, it had been Greg doing the nursing. Stacy hadn't known James well before his first divorce. It was only in the lonely months after his first wife split -- when he kept showing up at home with Greg at the end of a long day to relax over drinks and lousy movies -- that he became a fixture in both of their lives.
On the day his second marriage entered its final free fall, he showed up at their doorstep. Stacy had encouraged him to open up, though he never did -- at least to her.
"Of course he's not going to go all emotional on you," Greg had said. "Here's a news flash for you, Stace: Wilson is a guy."
"So what, he doesn't feel the same things a woman does?"
"This isn't some Mars or Venus thing, for God's sake, it's just that guys have a different way of dealing with things -- or not dealing with things, whatever." He pulled two beers out of the fridge.
"But he'll talk to you, because you're a guy."
"If he talks to me, it'll be because I'm his friend. And a guy. And I have alcohol." He headed back out toward their perches in front of the TV and Playstation where he and James had spent the past few hours. while she floated between her desk in the spare room and the kitchen. "Trust me on this. I'm a guy too."
Stacy paused in her memories, considering what Greg had said. She looked over at James as he sat across the desk from her.
"You OK?" he asked.
"Sorry," she said. "Just lost in thought, I guess."
"I really need to let you get back to your work." James stood, turned toward the door.
"No, James, wait a minute. I was thinking." She paused, wondering how to bring up the topic., then decided to plunge right in. "I'm worried about Greg."
James sat down again. "Something new or an old issue?"
"Like we need more issues on the table," she muttered, and he smiled. "The pain isn't going to get any better, is it?"
James blew out a breath and shook his head. "I don't think so, no." He looked her in the eye. "And I'm pretty sure he knows that too."
Stacy stared down at the notes spread across her desk. "He hates taking the pills." She ran her fingers across the raised letterhead on one of the papers. "I think he hates feeling like they're in control. He won't stick to a schedule. He waits to take anything until the pain gets really bad, then by the time he does take them, it's like they can barely put a dent into it."
She was surprised and frustrated to feel tears rise again. She used to think of herself as a rock, never shaken -- at least not in public. Now she seemed incapable of keeping any emotions under control. She took a deep breath and wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. She looked up to see James standing there, handing her a tissue.
"It's another adjustment he's got to learn how to make," he said. "And we both know how he hates having to change for anyone or anything."
"I was thinking you could talk to him, get him to be smart." Stacy wiped her eyes and James leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed over his chest.
"It's not that simple, Stacy," he said. "Pain management is a tricky thing. Everybody's got to find what works for him. Greg's got to have time to work that out for himself."
"But you could get him to see sense, get him to be smarter about it."
James shook his head. "Stacy, I don't ..."
"Please, James. I hate seeing him in pain and he won't listen to me. He fights everything I tell him, even when he knows it's for his own good." She looked away from James, down at the corner of the desk , the tears surfacing again. "It's like we keep having just one damn argument, over and over again, ever since the surgery."
"Stacy," James leaned down to her, his hand on her shoulder. "He still loves you. He's not blaming you for what happened."
"That's what you keep saying."
"And what does Greg say?"
"Nothing. He won't talk about it, and every time I try to, it's the same old story. He shuts down. He leaves the room. He changes the subject." She turned to James, his face slightly below hers now. "Does he talk to you about it?"
"It hasn't come up." He leaned back against the desk once more.
"Not even in passing?"
James shrugged. "We've been ... busy."
"New video games?"
"And he's trying to talk me into betting on how quickly the Yankees will clinch the pennant." He smiled as Stacy chuckled in spite of herself.
"He hates the Yankees."
"But he loves a good bet," James said. "Or any bet."
Stacy chuckled again and dried her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to go all weepy on you."
"Don't worry about it. You going to be OK?"
Stacy shrugged. "I guess so. I should let you get back to work. And I guess I should do some myself too."
"I know it seems like forever, but it's only been a few months," James said. "We just need to give him a little longer to adjust and trust that he knows what he's doing." He pushed himself away from the desk and squeezed her shoulder again. She laid her hand on top of his for a moment. "You're both going to make it. I know you will."
She took her hand down and he gave one more squeeze before he walked across the room again. He paused at the door and looked back her way. "I tell you what. I promise I'll keep an eye on his meds for you. Don't worry. I'll step in if he needs something different than what he's been getting."
Stacy nodded. "Thanks. You're a good friend, James."
"So are you. Both of you."
He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him, the latch clicking into place, leaving Stacy sitting alone in the quiet.