I suck on the inside of my cheeks, staring at the table because I don't want to look at her.
“I called my pain doc but I didn't get a callback right away and it was three in the morning. I got into the shower with the water on scalding and it helped for a second, but pretty soon the pain was back. I tried cutting the underside of my bicep with a razor blade just as a distraction. It didn't work, so I called the doctor again and when I didn't get him, or one of my friends, I took another Dilaudid. Which didn't work...so then I took another one. Remember this was the top-off dose. One for an emergency, in case the regular dose wasn't working. So I took...three or four. I guess I passed out. I don't know. But the friend I had called couldn't get me when she tried to call me back, so she called my doctors, and when no one could get me a few of them came over.”
The friend was Lizzy, and she still won't talk about that night. I look down, remembering how upset she was, and when I look up Merri is a few steps closer. Her eyes are wide, concerned, like it's not the past but happening right now. “What happened?” she murmurs.
I look her in the eye. “I almost died.” A morose laugh escapes my lips. “Again.
“After that I said no more Dilaudid. I had to find a way to tolerate it without. Something that wouldn't fuck me up every day and make it impossible to live.” I shrug. “So I tried a bunch of different shit, and in the end, I learned to meditate.”
Merri is frowning, shaking her head like she's protesting something unfair. “But that didn't work.”
I frown back. “What do you mean it didn't work?”
“The other day. Yesterday. You were still in so much pain.”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. But you don't see me trying to jump out any windows or light my hair on fire.”
Her lips pull together and her eyes shimmer with tears. “No, Evan,” she says thickly, “but is that the only goal?”
I blink at her. I'm so shocked by her reaction that I don't know what to say. “It only happens every few weeks.”
Her eyes widen, spilling a tear down her cheek. “And that's it? There's nothing they can do for you?”
“It might get better over time.”
“Could you try another surgery?”
“I don't think so. I don't know of a doctor who could do things differently than mine did.”
“Have you looked?”
I stand up, drumming my fingers on the table as my left arm hangs beside me: Illustration A. “No. I mean, what does it matter? It's pain, not cancer.”
“It's your quality of life. Evan, that's everything.”
My name's not Evan. I have to press my lips tightly shut to keep from saying it. With her eyes wet and her face all pinched up, it's like it's her pain and not mine. I've never felt like such a fucking fraud.
Just then, she strides to me and throws her arms around my neck.
22
Merri
I PULL AWAY from him, and I can feel myself blushing. There should be another word for this. One that more resembles burning.
With my hands dangling at my sides where they belong, I glance up at him, feeling like the old-school, mid-twentieth century definition of the histrionic woman.
I mean, it's not like we're good friends or anything. What logical reason do I have to be this worked up over Evan's quality of life?
I get the nerve to peek at him, and I confirm I'm right: He looks edgy. Uncomfortable. Like I've crossed a line.
He shifts his feet, like he wants to step away, but instead of doing that, he looks into my eyes for a few long seconds. The depth of his stare actually makes me shiver; I get the feeling he's trying to find something there. I'm doing the same thing, but whatever I see in the depths of his blue eyes feels nameless.
A second later, he thumbs a tear off my cheek, his perfect lips pressing together in a sad, resigned kind of look. “Don't cry for me, Meredith. I'm doing fine.”
I nod, feeling a glow all over my body because I'm standing so close to him.
I want to touch him. For this reason, I make myself take a small step back, tilting my head up more to meet his eyes. “I'm sorry for going all emo on you.”
The grave look on his face slips, and for a second I see something else—something vulnerable in his beautiful features. It's gone the next second, replaced by something stoic and untouchable.
I back away a little more and he lifts his hand, like he wants to touch me. Instead he just holds it there, palm out: the classic symbol meaning ‘stop’.