Who Would You Choose? Page 5

  “Oh, no. That won’t be necessary. I called my doctor and I’ll see her in the morning. I’ll be okay. Just need a good night’s sleep.” She stood up, a little tentatively, decided she was steady enough. “You’ve been great, Penny. I owe you a big thank you.”

  “I’m just so glad I was there. Jeez, you gave me such a scare, and all I thought was we couldn’t let something weird happen here, not when we’re here for Lady Fair. I mean, hell, I could just see the headlines. And the wagging tongues. It could turn so poisonous.” They began to walk together across the lobby. “Do you want me to ride home with you? Be sure you get there all in one piece?”

  “No. Actually, I’d rather you didn’t. But it’s all right to say something to my driver. Luke is reliable and he’ll keep an eye on me.” She raised a hand to stop Penny’s protest. “No. Really. I’ll be fine. Actually, I’d like you to go back to the party. Go back to work. The networking is important. Have a drink.” She smiled. “You have a story to do. And don’t forget to grab a goody bag before you leave.”

  Penny got her to the car where Luke had it ready at the curb. In a few words, Penny alerted Luke to what had happened. She leaned in to talk to Marge. “Take care. And I’d sure appreciate it if you call in the morning just to let me know you’re okay.”

  “Of course, Penny. And thanks again. You’ve been great.”

  * * * *

  Next morning, she was in the doctor’s office. Even without Dr. Diaz’s very thorough exam, including an EKG and the siphoning off of a lot of her blood, she knew what she was going to hear. She’d gotten back into her jeans, pulled on her white tee shirt and stepped, sockless, into her Manolo penny loafers. She left the examining room and went into Dr. Diaz’s office, where the doctor was waiting for her. She took her seat opposite the doctor, and waited for the verdict.

  For the last seven years Martine Diaz had been Marge’s personal physician, and by now, Marge was familiar with this room, its furnishings and its decor. Which were the usual, mostly: a large desk, a large executive chair and two “guest” chairs, a couple of file drawers against the wall, a credenza behind the desk topped with some medical journals, professional papers, some family pictures. And a great many plants, on the window sill, on top of the file drawers, a sense of many growing things. In the examination room she’d just left, Marge had long ago reviewed the diplomas and the certificates that told the story of a first-rate education, impressive honors, and glowing recommendations—Harvard undergrad, Phi Beta and summa cum laude, medical school at Columbia and residencies and fellowships at prestigious universities and hospitals around the country. Specialty boards’ certifications and attestations from several community organizations and official agencies—enough to choke a horse. This was a woman to respect and trust, and in these seven years, Marge had shared much of her most intimate information. She wondered how much she should tell her doctor now.

  Doctor Diaz turned away from her computer. “Well, Marge. We’ll have the lab results back soon and we’ll see what the blood tests tell us. But I don’t need a lab report to know you’ve been working yourself up to a collapse. You’ve lost twelve pounds since I saw you a couple of months ago, you’re not eating right, you give every ounce of your strength and energy to that magazine, sixteen, eighteen hours a day, and you’re not sleeping well. And now you’ve had a fainting episode. How long have I been telling you to ease up? I mean it, Marge. If you don’t get a rest, you’re looking for some real trouble. I’m giving you my most serious advice, and I hope the message is getting through. I know how hard it is for you to slack off a little, even when your doctor tells you you’re looking for trouble if you don’t.” She paused, leaned back in her chair, smiled a really friendly smile, and added, “But then, what do I know? I’ve just been doing this for twenty years.”

  Marge had to laugh. She realized she’d been fighting off the truth for months, so driven by her habits of hard work, she’d stopped taking care of herself.

  “I know I’ve been pushing really hard. But there’s so much to be done, and I’m at the center of everything at Lady Fair. People depend on me.”

  “I understand, Marge. I really do. You’ve made yourself indispensable. But tell me, Marge,” she laughed a little, “who will they all depend on after you’ve collapsed? Have you ever seen how fast the desk gets cleaned out after some Mr. Big Shot drops dead of overwork? He gets one day of heartfelt praise before the next guy moves in, and Mr. Big Shot is yesterday’s news. I understand, your job is to run Lady Fair. And mine is to give you good medical care. And that includes good advice. And here’s my advice. Seriously. Really seriously, Marge, I advise you to take a medical leave of absence. I want you to give yourself at least six weeks. More, if possible. Get out of town. Go somewhere where no one knows you. Or cares who you are. Someplace where they don’t read Lady Fair. Or the New York Post gossip columns. Someplace pretty and quiet. No phones, no TV. Lie in the sun. Get a rest. Gain some weight. Drink piña coladas. Don’t come back until you can sleep at least eight hours every night for a week.” She paused, then turned and took a small framed picture from the credenza behind her. “Here. Look at this. Find yourself a place like this.”

  The picture looked tropical, Caribbean perhaps. Blue skies. Blue waters. Palm trees. In the distance, some simple cottages.

  “Where I was born,” the doctor said. “We take the kids back to the islands once a year, to see the grandparents. It’s a peaceful place. Good for the soul. I recommend you find a place like this. It doesn’t have to be tropical. But it has to be away from work.”

  Marge was surprised. Martine Diaz rarely shared personal information, though Marge knew she had a son and a daughter—their pictures were close by on the credenza, and over the years she had seen new photos being added as the kids grew. She figured they must be perhaps twelve and fifteen by now.

  Marge studied her doctor’s face. They weren’t friends, exactly, and yet she’d always felt something simpatico between them. After all, didn’t her doctor know her really well? Wasn’t her whole life history buried in that computer of hers? And now her doctor was giving her important advice about managing her life. Marge was not about to ignore the advice of such a woman.

  “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’ll take a few days, at least, to arrange things. I don’t want the media all over it. But I’ll figure out a way.”

  “What about your boyfriend? Jerry? Could he go with you?”

  Marge stiffened. And caught her breath. And didn’t say anything.

  And the doctor noticed.

  “Or is Jerry part of the problem? Is he what’s keeping you up at night?”

  Marge couldn’t decide. How much should she share with Dr. Diaz? How much was she ready to share? In a way, she owed it to the doctor and to herself to have no secrets from her if her health was involved. Before she could censor herself, she heard herself talking.

  “There’s someone else. Someone I knew years ago. In high school.”

  “Sam?”

  Marge’s jaw dropped.

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s in your record here.” She pointed to her computer. “At your first visit with me—seven years ago. You gave me a lot of background information and you mentioned him then, and there was something in your voice when you spoke about him. I wondered then if he’d show up again, come back into your life someday. Just a feeling I had.”

  This was not the first time Marge was impressed by Martine Diaz’s intelligence and sensitivity. “You’re very sharp, doctor. And you have an excellent memory.” She glanced at the open monitor. “But I don’t want you adding this to the record.” Dr. Diaz turned the monitor away, and Marge nodded her thanks. “Yes, you’re right. It’s Sam. And I don’t know if he’s back in my life or not. We ran into each other a few days ago.” And Marge went ahead and told her doctor about Sam’s reappearance. And the emotional confusion and st
orm he’d started. Finishing up with, “And I guess that’s what’s keeping me up at night. So it’s not Lady Fair. And I don’t know if getting out of town will help.”

  “Oh, Marge.” The doctor laughed. “It’s like chicken soup,” she said. “It couldn’t hurt.” She picked up a pen and her prescription pad, filled it out, and passed it across the desk to Marge.

  Marge took it, folded it up, and put into her bag. “I’ll check back with you in a few weeks,” Marge said. “I’ll let you know how I’m doing.” Dr. Diaz walked her to the door. “Thanks again, for seeing me on a Saturday.” And as she left, she added, “I’ll be in touch.”

  In the car, as Luke drove her home, she took the prescription from her bag, unfolded it, and read:

  6 weeks minimum medical leave of absence

  7-8 hours of sleep every night—lights out by 10:30

  3 full meals every day (plus snacks, as desired)

  increase body fat by 10 pounds

  1 glass red wine every day.

  male company (only as desired)

  zero work-related activity

  and call me when you get back

  Chapter Seven

  She didn’t tell Jerry where she was going.

  “The doctor wants me to really get away, cut all ties for a couple of months. Just sit in the sun and sleep and not think about anything.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Jerry said. “You have been working too hard, I agree with the doc, and I’ll be tied up with the case, in court every day, so it’s just as well. I won’t even have time to miss you. Go. Go, have a good rest. Just let me know when you’re coming back.”

  His paperwork and his strategy sessions with co-counsel were distracting him and Marge saw that he really wasn’t going to miss her. Just as well for her to be gone.

  She also didn’t tell him that Bridey had agreed to go along for the first few days, mainly just to help her wind down. She was glad of that because she didn’t feel ready to be totally alone—not just yet. She needed a confidante.

  “I know what you need,” Bridey had said. “You need to start with a quiet week up at our place in Truro, up on the Cape. The summer people are gone now and you can sit on the deck and drink margaritas all day, and listen to the sound of the surf at night. It’s a great place to push everything else out of your head—just watch the sea gulls and pick what’s left of the blueberries. And the grapes are just coming into season now. I’ll go with you, and we can talk girl talk.”

  “Oh, jeez, Bridey. You are the best. I know how much you really don’t like to be away from your kids. If I weren’t feeling so ragged, I’d never let you do this. But at least for the first few days, it really will help me not to be alone. And you’re sure it’s okay with Mack?”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s a Navy man; he can handle anything. And it won’t hurt me the least bit to spend a few days in the sun.”

  “You’re a peach, Bridey. You really are. I’ll just pack a few things, and I’m ready to go. I already alerted the senior staff.”

  “How did they take it?”

  “I told them what a great job we’d done on the big issue they’d just put out, and told them I’ve decided to reward myself with a few weeks’ vacation. Didn’t say a word about ‘medical’ leave. What a gossip storm that would start! Gena Shaw’s been an assistant editor long enough. She’s ready to take over for a few weeks, and I advised her to put this new girl, Penny Lightly, to work. Bright girl, shows real talent and potential. I left them only an emergency call service number so I can be reached if they really need to but not to call me directly. I made it sound like I’m giving myself a few weeks of major fun, and I don’t want anyone to spoil my good time.”

  “They’ll be fine. You’ve trained them well.”

  “I hope so. I’ll have my phone and Jerry can be in touch if he needs to, but he promised to let me have a real escape. And now I’m going to go and pack a bag.”

  “You won’t need much.”

  “I know. I really do know how to pack light.”

  “I know, Marge. If there’s one thing you know how to do, it’s how to have the right clothes. Even when the right clothes are just a swimsuit and a towel.”

  “I’ll stay there for a few days after you leave just to be alone to think, and then decide what I’m going to do. Then I’ll come back to New York to pack up a few things, and then I’ll be really gone. No one will see me till I’m ready to come home.”

  Chapter Eight

  “I got the margaritas part right.” Marge took a sip. “That’s for sure. And the sun and surf are perfect too. And out there,” she waved an arm toward the blue Atlantic stretching forever ahead of her, “out there, there’s just the right number of sea gulls flying around.” She sighed a huge sigh of contentment. “And I don’t have to go blueberry-picking if I don’t want to. I’m all sun screened and visored and totally comfy. I don’t have to move from this spot, do I?”

  Bridey laughed. “No, of course not. You don’t have to move for four days. But after that, if you want to eat, you’re going to have to get up and feed yourself.”

  “I know. You go back to New York on Tuesday, and from then on, I’m on my own.”

  Marge closed her eyes behind her big Givenchy sunglasses, took another sip of her margarita and sighed. There was a bowl of pretzels next to her; she took one and nibbled on it. It went well with the lime-y saltiness of the margarita. “If my doctor hadn’t ordered me to gain weight, I could just lie here and not move till I totally wasted away.”

  Bridey did her best eye-roll. “You’re supposed to rest, not die.”

  Marge laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll eat. And I’ll sleep. And maybe I’ll swim a little. I might go into Provincetown, take a walk around the shops.”

  “Only if you promise not to look for Lady Fair stories. Or buy clothes for work. Or interview anyone.”

  “Or think about anyone.”

  They were both quiet for a long minute. Then Bridey said, “That’s like saying ‘don’t think about elephants.’”

  “I know.”

  Another long silence between them, while the gulls flew by, and the surf broke on the shore, and the sun moved just a tiny bit over from the east.

  It was again Bridey who spoke first. “Are you thinking about Sam?”

  “Of course.”

  “In a nice way?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Whatever happened between you two?”

  Marge pursed her lips, thoughtfully. She turned her face away. She loved Bridey, and she trusted her. But—

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Not now.”

  “Did Sam do something?”

  “No! Oh, no! My God! No. Sam didn’t do anything. You knew him, Bridey. He was always a good guy.”

  “Okay, Marge. Okay. I won’t pry.” She stood up. “I won’t go poking around into your personal memories.” She picked up her bag and a big oilcloth tote bag. “The cupboard is bare and I need to stock up. I’m going to drive down to Wellfleet and get some groceries. Want to come along?”

  “No, thanks. I want to just lie here and think about elephants for a while. But take your cell phone. I might change my mind and decide to meet you there. We could get a coffee, maybe take a look at some of the local galleries.”

  “Good idea. I won’t hurry back. I want to take another look at some Chinese bowls I saw at one of the gift shops. Take your time.”

  “I’m not running any marathons. I’ll just snooze here while you’re gone.”

  Bridey tied the ribbons of her big sun hat under her chin, slung the straps of the handbag and tote bag over her shoulders, and was gone.

  * * * *

  The sun was glorious. The steady roll of the surf was like a mama murmuring a lullaby. Marge had finished her drink half an hour ago, the tequila buzz had
n’t yet worn off, and she thought about sleep. Maybe she could get a couple of hours lying here on the deck.

  She hadn’t told Bridey, but when they arrived last night, the place was so cool and quiet, and she was so exhausted, she’d thought she’d be having her first good night’s rest in many weeks. But it hadn’t worked out that way. The rhythmic pounding of the surf, louder it seemed in the night, was no longer a lullaby. Now it seemed to be a drum roll, commanding and portentous. The dark opened its arms to her and instead of carrying her off to dreamland, it trapped her in memories, memories that paraded, as though on a stage, the curtain of the years parted and there was Sam in a spotlight she couldn’t turn off. Sam Packard, who’d been the most popular, the most charismatic boy in the school. And her own silly self, way back then, back when she was a freshman, and Sam who was a senior—imagine! A senior! She’d been so impressed with herself. All the girls were in awe. She’d been in awe herself. Yes, Bridey was right—she’d been goofy about him. Goofy, back then.

  But now?

  But now, he’d appeared now out of nowhere, there in the corridor at the courthouse, and she remembered everything, his voice, his eyes, and how it had been, way back then.

  When they were both so young.

  So she tossed all night, trying to push the memories back into their hiding place. And when the first light of morning whitened the curtains at the window, she knew she’d been through still another sleepless night. Her hands felt quivery and there was an ominous feeling of unsteadiness inside her chest as though something—a screw?—was coming loose. This had been happening for several weeks, but Dr. Diaz’s tests and the lab results said she was not in danger. Not yet. And she’d learned that an hour or so of sleep would restore her to feeling normal. She was thankful at least that she was, indeed, on a vacation, and facing another day would not mean shepherding staff and content and advertisers through another issue. For the weeks ahead, at least, no one needed her, she needed no one, nothing needed to be attended to, and she refused to think about Gena Shaw and Penny Lightly and whether or not they’d be able to handle everything properly.