“We’ll stop there first. I think it’s on the way,” Dean pats the table with his hands, dusting off any nonexistent crumbs and flakes.
“I have to get my coat,” I remember. “And my tote.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.” Dean replies.
I leave the table, placing my oatmeal bowl and tray on the directed counter, and I head back upstairs. This time around, I don’t fumble with the key. I know exactly where it is, in my jean’s front pocket.
I check the weather, and it’s an insanely chilly sixteen degrees outside so I make sure to put my hat on and wrap my scarf tightly. I slide on my coat, and zip it up as far as I can go. I feel a little bit like a child in a snowsuit because my jacket is so puffy and full overtop my sweater, but I’m sure I’ll be wishing I was in a real snow suit once I get outside.
I grab my tote bag that’s resting in the sole chair in the room, and I put it on my shoulder, except it immediately slides down. As I head out the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror near the door. My scarf is haphazardly thrown around my neck, and my hair is mostly hidden behind my hat.
“You got this, Madeline,” I tell the growing pit in my stomach. “You will not freak out. You will keep it together. You will not get sick.” I repeat to myself.
I meet Dean in the parlor, and we both walk silently to the lobby and front door. Something tells me there’s going to be a lot of silence on this trip. He holds the door open for me, and I step outside into the cold and sunshine.
The sunrays hit my face, and it’s blinding to stare at the snow. We walk down the now completely shoveled path towards the parking lot, where the minivan is still covered in snow. Dean uses his arms to wipe off the driver’s side passenger door, and sure enough, there’s a snow brush tucked away. I wait patiently while he starts to brush the windows and doors.
“Here, turn the car on.” He tosses me the keys, which land at my feet in a flurry of snow. It feels like he’s finally starting to trust me with things.
“Yes,” I say, picking up the keys with my bare hands. I open the driver’s side door with a finger, careful not to get my hand covered in ice and snow, and plop into the front seat, my tote bag almost getting caught in the door. I place it on the passenger side seat.
I turn the car on while Dean cleans the windshield. His cheeks are already pink from the windchill, and I’m thankful to be in the car. I hastily climb over the center console and into my seat so by the time Dean gets in the car I’m buckled up and ready to go.
“Thanks for doing that,” I thank him.
“You could have helped,” Dean sniffles, wiping his nose on his coat sleeve.
“Next time,” I resolve.
“It better not snow again,” He coughs, and pulls the minivan into reverse, smoothly exiting the parking lot.
The drive to the Walgreens is maybe five minutes at the most. In fact, there’s not even a stoplight. The town looks magical covered in snow. The oil lamps and fire hydrants are capped with ice, people out walking about with their coats and hats. Dean looks particularly straight out of a Hallmark movie with his beanie cap and coat.
Shops line the picture-perfect main street— a deli, a consignment shop, a coffee shop and a bank. There are a few people braving the weather, I guess it is the middle of the week, but they’re all bundled up and I can’t get a good look at anyone. I watch a woman and her young son enter the bank, a man exiting the deli, they’re all part of this picture-perfect postcard town.
Dean pulls up in front of the Walgreens, which doesn’t even look like a regular Walgreens because it’s in the form of a cute little house and puts the van in park.
“I’ll wait here. Go get what you need.”
“Okay,” I start shifting and unbuckling my seatbelt.
When I open the door, the wind is fierce and it blows snow up in my face. I climb over a giant ice block on the curb, and scurry inside. I’m welcomed by familiar fluorescent lights and identical aisles. My happy place. I bolt down aisle six, and immediately spot what I’m looking for on the shelf. Middle row, towards the left. I grab the jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen and make a beeline for the self-checkout. A bag of twizzlers catches my eye—I do need to replenish my snacks.
I check out, tapping my debit card quickly and sanitizing my hands on the way out. I climb into the passenger seat, goods intact. I toss the bottle of ibuprofen in my bag and leave the twizzlers on the seat.
“You really are a hypochondriac, aren’t you?” Dean gestures to my massive bottle of ibuprofen. “You just bought ibuprofen last week. There’s no way you’re through the other bottle.”
“Actually, they’re calling it health or illness anxiety these days,” I correct him matter of factly, ignoring his snide comment. “You should know that. You’re the doctor.” I say snootily, reminiscing about how he corrected me the other night.
“I just…can’t imagine this being me. It’s so different from how I am," he says. “How does this happen?”
I grimace at him. I’ve talked this over with my therapist and psychiatrist about a hundred times. “It’s a control thing,” I remark, shaking my bottle of ibuprofen.
“A control thing?”
“After Andy died, I felt out of control. He was gone, my life was spiraling, and there was nothing I could do about it. My griefwas never ending. I needed something I could control related to the experience. My health was one thing.”
“You can only control it to a certain extent,” Dean says. “Some things just happen.”
