My meds are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator. I keep them there because the fridge reminds me to eat something when I take a pill. I don’t have time for a meal. I need to get the drug into my bloodstream and soon. Every muscle in my body aches, the kind of ache that throbs in time with your heartbeat, expands with every passing moment until it crosses over to bright, excruciating pain. Right now, I’m at the precipice between throbbing ache and excruciating pain. I need to get off the ledge.
I reach for the new vial of pills on the second shelf of the cupboard and spend a few precious seconds trying to twist off the childproof cap. My fingers will not cooperate. Press down and twist, Ruth. That’s all. Press down and twist. Finally, I manage to pop the lid, and I shake out two of the tablets, one for the dose I missed this morning and one for this evening’s dose, which I usually don’t take until after dinner. But I need it now.
I yank open the fridge and grab the carton of milk, and then I do something I have never done in my entire life. I put the pills on my tongue, then open the milk and drink from the cardboard lip of the carton. This act is so foreign to me that I end up spraying milk onto the Formica counter, but not before I swallow down the pills.
The relief is instantaneous. I know that my reaction is completely psychological—there is no way the drug can possibly go to work that quickly. But knowing that the medicine is traveling toward my stomach is enough. My brain sends the signal to my body that help is on the way, and slowly I feel all of my muscles uncoil.
I stand still for a few minutes, then put the milk carton back in the fridge and use a dish towel to wipe the errant milk from the counter. I grab a loaf of wheat bread and pull out a slice, then eat it greedily. I’m anxious to get the calories into my system, hoping the bread will stave off the nausea that sometimes comes when I don’t eat.
Walking with measured steps into the living room, I feel the push of the medication that might or might not have an actual, tangible effect on the pain. The drug is an antidepressant, which is ironic because I never thought of myself as depressed, not back then. The fact that my fibromyalgia reared its ugly, monstrous head the same month I found out I couldn’t conceive was something I compartmentalized and stripped of its importance. My doctor pointed the correlation out to me, and I remember shrugging my shoulders and telling her, in no uncertain terms, that regardless of the timing, my pain was very real, and was there something, anything, that might help?
I detest the woman I’ve become, the woman crippled by her physical challenges, who lives a solitary existence in a tiny apartment with no pets and no plants, whose sole joy is watching Dancing with the Stars every Monday night.
I was a teacher, a hundred years ago. My life had real purpose. I taught eighth grade and took pride in steering those awkward, self-loathing middle schoolers toward high school, giving them confidence to take their next steps toward adulthood. And then being a wife gave me purpose. And then I lost it. Right up until Jonah’s accident.
My stomach churns with the realization that I’ve felt more alive in this past month, when I’ve been holding my sister’s family together, than I have since Charlie left. My sister’s tragedy, the death of my beloved nephew, has actually made me more vibrant, more productive, more present. How awful I am. How sad and pathetic and awful I am.
I grab the stack of mail next to my purse and head for the couch. Before I sit down, there is a knock at my door. The sound is so unfamiliar to me I almost don’t recognize it. I set the mail on the coffee table, then cross to the door. I peer through the peephole and feel my chest tighten. On the other side of the door is my downstairs neighbor, Judd.
I open the door and stare at him.
“Hi, Ruth.” His eyes are kind, his closed-lipped smile genuine.
“Hi.”
“I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to give you this.” He hands me a small, folded piece of paper. “It’s my cell number. Just in case you ever need anything. Or you want to talk. Or . . . anything. I’m here.” No mention of a certain bottle of wine. He probably drank it already. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
“Thank you,” I say. Nothing more. I close the door slowly and stand unmoving until I hear his footsteps retreat to the elevator. I press my forehead against the door. The wood is cool against my skin.
After a moment, I push myself away from the door. I shuffle to my purse and tuck the piece of paper into a side pocket, then return to the couch. I take a deep breath and pick up the mail and begin to riffle through the envelopes. Bills mostly, and advertisements. But at the bottom of the stack is a smallish envelope, cream, with my ex-husband’s company address. First Judd, and now this.
My hands shake, not with pain this time, but with anticipation. My heart beats rapidly; I can feel my pulse pat pat pat in my temples. I know there will be no declaration of love or regret for what he’s done or entreaties for me to take him back. My curiosity is equal to my trepidation. Perhaps he wants to renegotiate the settlement; perhaps he thinks he’s being too generous, or his newish wife thinks he’s being too generous and has demanded that he cut back on my monthly payments.
Before I allow my thoughts to run away with themselves, I carefully open the envelope and pull out the handwritten note, unfold it, and gaze down at Charlie’s familiar writing. I smile to myself, remembering the first time I got a note from him, back when he was courting me. In this technological age, I was surprised that he had taken the time to write to me longhand instead of just sending me an e-mail or composing the note in a word-processing program and printing it up. He’d grinned and told me he was old-fashioned, that printouts and e-mails seemed so impersonal. Handwritten notes were the only way he communicated with people he cared about. I remember how my face grew warm at his words as I realized that he was talking about me. He cared about me.
During the divorce, I received only e-mails and texts, as though he was making a point. I don’t care about you anymore, Ruth.
But now this, this note card. He still cares?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, just read it.
He begins with Dear Ruthie, and I swallow hard at his addressing me with the nickname he, and no one else, used. I keep reading.
I know this letter is long overdue. I just wanted to let you know that I have been thinking about you these last several weeks and that you are in my prayers, for whatever that’s worth. I’m not sure that God hears me anymore, based on my behavior, but he might when the prayers are for you. I was saddened to learn about Jonah, and I regret that I was unable to attend the services, although I’m not sure how you would have felt about me being there.