She did know better. Rebecca shivered.
“It sounds really dumb, but in some skewed corner of my mind, I guess I’d convinced myself that if I took enough pills I could, Idon’t know, maybe somehow restart my life. Like I’d restart my laptop.”
“You’re not my first patient to say that.”
She shot him a look, and he shrugged.
“A call for help, hm?”
“In retrospect, yes.” Rebecca looked him straight in the eyes.
He blinked, then smiled. “I like an honest patient.” He scooted his chair a bit closer. “Want to know my theory?”
She nodded.
“I think you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder brought about by the breakup of your relationship and the loss of your job, all fueled by what we psychiatrists like to call a deep depressive state.”
She sighed, sank into the pillows. Depression, indeed.
“I’ve never been depressed before.”
“It runs in the family,” Granny said quietly, and Rebecca glanced over, questions swirling.
“And you’ve had quite a whirlwind, Rebecca.” Dr. Carter’s eyes softened. “In, what, twenty-four hours, you lost everything you associated with your identity in one fell swoop. When the depression took root, you had nothing else to temper it, nothing else to help you cope. It was only a matter of time before you went looking for Plan B.”
Plan B in the form of a bottle of pills. Rebecca pressed her lips together, cheeks hot, warding off the tears.
All those years. All that time.
And now she had nothing.
And Peter was on top of the world.
Peter. Her “why” when he’d told her sounded pitiful even now. She remembered that “why,” remembered how badly it hurt, how physically rotten she felt, everywhere. It was a wheezy, plaintive “why,” raw and not remotely appealing. She’d almost made herselfsick hearing it come out of her mouth, but she’d said it, again and again.
“Why” was all she could manage. She’d hit him, then, and he’d let her. Hit him with a vengeance, with her whole body, like she did the punching bag at the gym. As if hitting him would wake him up, make him see. Make him realize how much she loved him, how much he loved her.
But he didn’t love her.
And the job. The job that had been everything. Gone, too. Weeks of going through the motions, fruitless job searches. That last interview, the one for the doe-eyed Ken doll with side-swept bangs and a fuzzy collar, he’d insinuated she was perhaps a smidge too old for the hustle. Old? Her?
Now she was empty. Stuck in this hospital bed with unwashed hair, her granny and Dr. Carter staring at her like she was glass, so fragile she might crack before their eyes.
Sniffing hard, she swiped at her cheeks. Thought about Ken doll and his dumb, patronizing smile. No. This is not how I’m going down.
“It’s not going to happen again,” she told them, looking first at Granny, then at Dr.Carter.
I’m going to make it on my own two feet. My own way. No pills, no pity party, no bones about it. I’ve got to.
Dr. Carter looked genuinely happy. “That’s the spirit. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He firmed his lips into a line as he scribbled something on a prescription pad. “We’ll try Prozac, for starters. Next is the support network.” He looked at Granny. “She’s going to need you, you know.”
Granny just nodded, squeezing Rebecca’s hand like she’d known that all along. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I mean, need you around the clock. Preferably far from here, where she won’t lapse into her old ways.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to speak, but Granny held up a hand. “Already on that.”
Rebecca blinked. “Granny?”
