Maybe You Should Talk to Someon - Lori Gottlieb Page 0,68

did. But she also wanted to work at Trader Joe’s, and it became a kind of obsession. So she applied for a job there, and on the day that she learned she was tumor-free, she was offered a Saturday-morning shift.

In my office, Julie got out her cell phone and played both phone messages for me: one from her oncologist, one from a manager at Trader Joe’s. She was grinning as if she’d won not just any lottery, but the Powerball of all Powerballs.

“I told them yes,” she said after the Trader Joe’s message ended. She explained that nobody knew if the tumors would come back, and she didn’t want to just add things to her bucket list; she wanted to cross things off too.

“You have to pare it down,” she said, “or else it’s just a useless exercise in what could have been.”

So here I am, standing in the market, and I’m not sure which checkout line to choose. I knew, of course, that Julie had started working at Trader Joe’s, but I had no idea it was this Trader Joe’s.

She hasn’t seen me yet, and I can’t help but watch her from afar. She rings the bell for a bagger, gets a child some stickers, laughs with a customer over something I can’t hear. She’s like the Queen of Cashiers, the party everyone wants to be at. People seem to know her and, not surprisingly, she’s incredibly efficient, moving the line along quickly. I feel my eyes get wet and the next thing I know my son calls out, “Mom, over here!” and I see that he has negotiated his way into Julie’s line.

I hesitate. After all, Julie might feel awkward ringing up her therapist. And, truth be told, I might feel awkward too. She knows so little about me that even displaying the contents of my shopping cart feels somehow too revealing. But mostly, I’m thinking about how Julie talks about the sadness she experiences whenever she sees her friends’ kids while she and her husband are trying to find a way to become parents themselves. What will it be like for her to see me with my son?

“Over here!” I reply, gesturing for Zach to move to a different line.

“But this one’s shorter!” he yells back, and of course it is, because Julie’s so goddamned efficient, and that’s when Julie looks over at my son and then follows his gaze to me.

Busted.

I smile. She smiles. I start to head to the other line, but Julie says, “Hey, lady, listen to the boy. This line’s shorter!” I join Zach in Julie’s line.

I try not to stare as we wait our turn, but I can’t help it. I’m watching the real-life version of the vision she described in her therapy session—her dream literally come true. When Zach and I get to the register, Julie banters with us as she does with her other customers.

“Joe’s O’s,” she says to my son. “A good breakfast.”

“They’re for my mom,” he answers. “No offense, but I like Cheerios better.”

Julie looks around to make sure nobody’s in earshot, gives him a sly wink, and whispers, “Don’t tell anyone, but me too.”

They spend the rest of the time discussing the merits of the various chocolate bars my son selected. When we’re all bagged up and rolling our cart away, Zach examines the stickers from Julie.

“I like that lady,” he says.

“I do too,” I say.

It isn’t until half an hour later, as I’m unpacking the bags in my kitchen, that I see something scrawled on my credit card receipt.

I’m pregnant! it says.

24

Hello, Family

Chart note, Rita:

Patient is a divorced woman who presents with depression. Expresses regret over what she believes to be “bad choices” and a life poorly lived. Reports that if her life doesn’t improve in one year, she plans to “end it.”

“I have something to show you,” Rita says.

In the hallway between the waiting room and my office, she hands me her cell phone. Rita has never handed me her phone before, much less begun speaking to me before we’re settled in my office with the door closed, so I’m surprised by the gesture. She indicates that I should take a look.

On her screen is a profile from the dating app called Bumble. Rita recently started using Bumble because, unlike more hookup-oriented apps like Tinder (“Revolting!” she said), Bumble allows only women to contact men. Coincidentally, my friend Jen had just seen an article about it and forwarded it to me with the message For