Dr. Fielding doesn’t respond. The central heating clears its throat, exhales.
“If I hadn’t done it, we’d still be together.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
I can feel his gaze on me like a weight.
“I helped someone yesterday,” I say. “A woman in Montana. A grandmother. She’s been inside for a month.”
He’s accustomed to these abrupt swerves—“synaptic leaps,” he calls them, even though we both know I’m willfully changing the subject. But I steam ahead, telling him about GrannyLizzie, how I shared my name with her.
“What made you do that?”
“I felt she was trying to connect.” Isn’t that what—yes, there it is: Isn’t that what Forster exhorted us to do? “Only connect”? Howards End—July’s official book club selection. “I wanted to help her. I wanted to be accessible.”
“That was an act of generosity,” he says.
“I suppose so.”
He shifts in his seat. “It sounds to me as though you’re getting to a place where you can meet others on their terms, not just your own.”
“That’s possible.”
“That’s progress.”
Punch has stolen into the room and is circling my feet, eyes on my lap. I hitch one leg beneath the other thigh.
“How is the physical therapy going?” Dr. Fielding asks.
I scan my legs and torso with my hand, like I’m presenting a prize on a game show. You too can win this disused thirty-eight-year-old body! “I’ve looked better.” And then, before he can correct me, I add, “I know it’s not a fitness program.”
He corrects me all the same: “It’s not only a fitness program.”
“No, I know.”
“Is it going well, then?”
“I’m healed. All better.”
He looks at me evenly.
“Really. My spine is fine, my ribs aren’t cracked. I don’t limp anymore.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“But I need a little exercise. And I like Bina.”
“She’s become a friend.”
“In a way,” I admit. “A friend I pay.”
“She’s coming on Wednesdays these days, is that right?”
“Usually.”
“Good,” he says, as though Wednesday is a day particularly suitable for aerobic activity. He’s never met Bina. I can’t picture them together; they don’t seem to occupy the same dimension.
It’s quitting time. I know this without consulting the clock hunched on the mantel, just as Dr. Fielding knows it—after years in practice, both of us can time fifty minutes almost to the second. “I want you to continue with the beta-blocker at the same dosage,” he says. “You’re on one-fifty Tofranil. We’ll increase it to two-fifty.” He frowns. “That’s based on what we’ve discussed today. It should help with your moods.”
“I get pretty blurry as is,” I remind him.
“Blurry?”
“Or bleary, I guess. Or both.”
“You mean your vision?”
“No, not my vision. It’s more . . .” We’ve discussed this—doesn’t he remember? Or have we discussed it? Blurry. Bleary. I could really use that drink. “Sometimes I’ve got too many thoughts at once. It’s like there’s a four-way intersection in my brain where everyone’s trying to go at the same time.” I chuckle, a bit uneasy.
Dr. Fielding knits his brow, then sighs. “Well, it’s not an exact science. As you know.”
“I do. I know.”
“You’re on quite a few different medications. We’ll adjust them one by one until we get it right.”
I nod. I know what this means. He thinks I’m getting worse. My chest tightens.
“Try the two-fifty and see how you feel. If it gets problematic, we can look at something to help you focus.”
“A nootropic?” Adderall. The number of times parents asked me whether Adderall would benefit their kids, the number of times I turned them down cold—and now I’m angling for it myself. Plus ça change.
“Let’s discuss it as and when,” he says. He slashes his pen across a prescription pad, peels away the top sheet, offers it to me. It twitches in his hand. Essential tremor or low blood sugar? Not, I hope, early-onset Parkinson’s. Not my place to ask, either. I take the paper.
“Thank you,” I say as he stands, smoothing his tie. “I’ll put this to good use.”
He nods. “Until next week, then.” He turns toward the door. “Anna?” Turning back.
“Yes?”
He nods again. “Please get that prescription filled.”
After Dr. Fielding leaves, I log the prescription request online. They’ll deliver by five p.m. That’s enough time for a glass. Or even deux.
Not just yet, though. First I drag the mouse to a neglected corner of the desktop, hesitantly double-click on an Excel spreadsheet: meds.xlsx.
Here I’ve detailed all the drugs I’m on, all the dosages, all the directions . . . all the ingredients in my pharma-cocktail. I stopped updating it back in August, I see.
Dr. Fielding is, as usual, correct: I’m on quite a few medications. I