Tormentor Mine

the girls?” Marsha asks, approaching my locker. She’s already changed out of her nurse’s scrubs and put on a sexy dress. With her bright red lipstick and flamboyant blond curls, she looks like an older version of Marilyn Monroe and likes to party just as much.
“No, thank you. I can’t.” I soften my refusal with a smile. “It’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course you are. You’re always exhausted these days.”
“Work will do that to you.”
“Yeah, if you work ninety hours a week. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to work yourself to death. You’re no longer a resident, you know? You don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”
I sigh and pick up my bag. “Someone has to be on call.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be you all the time. It’s Friday night, and you’ve worked every weekend for the past month, plus all those nightshifts. I know you’re the newest doctor in your practice and all that, but—”
“I don’t mind the nightshifts,” I interrupt, walking over to the mirror. The mascara I put on this morning has left dark smudges under my eyes, and I use a wet paper towel to wipe them away. It doesn’t improve my haggard appearance much, but I suppose it doesn’t matter, since I’m heading straight home.
“Right, because you don’t sleep,” Marsha says, coming to stand behind me, and I brace myself, knowing she’s about to get on her favorite topic. Though she has a good fifteen years on me, Marsha is my best friend at the hospital, and she’s been increasingly vocal about her concerns.
“Marsha, please. I’m too tired for this,” I say, pulling my unruly waves into a ponytail. I don’t need a lecture to know I’m running myself ragged. My hazel eyes look red and bleary in the mirror, and I feel like I’m sixty instead of twenty-eight.
“Yeah, because you’re overworked and sleep-deprived.” She folds her arms across her chest. “I know you need a distraction after George and all, but—”
“But nothing.” Spinning around, I glare at her. “I don’t want to talk about George.”
“Sara…” Her forehead furrows. “You have to stop punishing yourself for that. It wasn’t your fault. He chose to get behind the wheel; it was his decision.”
My throat closes, and my eyes prickle. To my horror, I realize I’m on the verge of crying, and I turn away in an effort to control myself. Only there’s nowhere to turn; the mirror is in front of me, and it reflects everything I’m feeling.
“I’m sorry, hon. I’m an insensitive ass. I shouldn’t have said that.” Marsha looks genuinely regretful as she reaches over and squeezes my arm lightly.
I take a deep breath and turn around to face her again. I am exhausted, which doesn’t help the emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
“It’s all right.” I force a smile to my lips. “It’s no big deal. You should get going; the girls are probably waiting for you.” And I have to get home before I break down and cry in public, which would be the height of humiliation.
“All right, hon.” Marsha smiles back at me, but I see the pity lurking in her gaze. “You just get some sleep this weekend, okay? Promise me you’ll do that.”
“Yes, I will—Mom.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I get the hint. I’ll see you Monday.” She walks out of the locker room, and I wait a minute before following her to avoid running into her group of girlfriends in the elevators.
I’ve had about as much pity as I can handle.
As I enter the hospital parking lot, I check my phone out of habit, and my heart skips a beat when I see a text from a blocked number.
Stopping, I swipe across the screen with an unsteady finger.
All is well, but have to postpone this weekend’s visit, the message says. Scheduling conflict.
My breath whooshes out in relief, and right away, the familiar guilt bites at me. I shouldn’t feel relieved. These visits should be something I want to do, instead of an unpleasant obligation. Only I can’t help the way I feel. Every time I visit George, it brings back memories of that night, and I don’t sleep for days afterward.
If Marsha thinks I’m sleep-deprived now, she should see me after one of those visits.
Slipping the phone back into my bag, I approach my car. It’s a Toyota Camry, the same one I’ve had for the past five years. Now that I’ve paid off my med school loans and accumulated some savings, I can afford better, but I don’t see the point.
George was the one into cars, not me.
The pain grabs at me, familiar and sharp, and I know it’s because of that text. Well, that and the conversation with Marsha. Lately, I’ve had days when I don’t think about the accident at all, going about my routine without the crushing pressure of guilt, but today is not one of those days.
He was an adult, I remind myself, repeating what everyone always says. It was his decision to get behind the wheel that day.
Rationally, I know the truth of those words, but no matter how often I hear them, they don’t sink in. My mind is stuck on a loop, replaying that evening over and over again, and as hard as I try, I can’t stop the ugly reel from spinning.
Enough, Sara. Concentrate on the road.
Taking a steadying breath, I pull out of the parking lot and head toward my house. It’s about a forty-minute drive from the hospital, which is about forty minutes too long right now. My stomach is beginning to cramp, and I realize part of the reason I’m so emotional today is that I’m about to start my period. As an OB-GYN, I know better than anyone how powerful the effect of hormones can be, and when PMS is combined with long hours and reminders about George… Well, it’s a miracle I’m not a blubbering mess already.
Yes, that’s it.