Chapter Two
When I wake up, I’m still in my scrubs. My mouth is cottony and dry like I’ve been smoking cigarettes, which is something I only do when I’ve gotten trashed. Taking a deep breath, my lungs feel like I’ve run a marathon, which is something I would never do so I safely deduce I probably smoked a pack of cigarettes last night. I try to sit up but quickly realize that is a terrible, terrible mistake. My head throbs, making my teeth ache.
I lie back down and cover my face with my soft Egyptian cotton comforter. My adventures of the night before come back to me in snippets.
Baxter! Beautiful Baxter!
Carefully, I lift my head and look around.
No Baxter.
Then, I remember. At Lower Deck, I dove head first into getting sloppy drunk. Baxter walked me home like the perfect gentleman. He even walked me upstairs to my bed.
I shut my eyes tight, remembering how I tried to pull him into bed with me. With grubby paws, I attempted to paw at Baxter's crotch!
I clasp a hand around my mouth as I slowly remember what happened. Groaning, my hands fly up to my face. I rock back and forth under my comforter, mortified.
Perched on my bed, I tried yanking Baxter into my bed, but he denied me. “I think you’re superbly hot, but I don’t want to sleep with you when you’re drunk,” he’d said.
“I’m not drunk,” I slurred back, trying to tug down his pants.
Baxter backed away from me. “Rain check?”
“It’s not raining,” I mumbled.
That’s the last thing I remember saying to him.
I spottily remember Baxter saying he didn't want to sleep with me drunk, which confuses me, since this is the only way I've ever had sex before. My horrific hangover and spotty memory leaves me with little credible information to figure out if Baxter had been sincere.
Maybe he just didn't like me enough to have sex with me. Maybe he got a taste of what I was really like and ran the other way.
I pop my head up for air. Whatever the case, at least I got to hang out with a gorgeous guy, even if I can’t remember everything about it. Carefully, I crawl out of bed to my bathroom. Peeling out of my scrubs, a card falls onto the tile of my bathroom floor. Betty Wright, the compassion fatigue guru. In the shower, I sit down in the tub, letting the warm water splash down on my face. I feel like hell times five million.
Can I keep living my life like this? I've got to get my shit together.
Lucky for me, Betty happens to have a cancellation that afternoon. When I call, I am half hoping she is booked up for the next six months. Then I could say I, at least, tried.
After I showered and changed my clothes, I walk to her office on East Bay Street. Even though it is already October, Charleston is still stupidly humid. I feel comfortable in my shorts and t-shirt although the sunny day has done little to lift my spirits. I guzzled a gallon of water before I left, but my tongue still feels dry as a wool sock.
Betty's office feels nice and cozy as I would have guessed a therapist’s office would feel. The waiting room couch is a soothing pale green to match the cool blue wallpaper on the walls. I try to convince myself that I already feel better just by being here, but it isn't working. It's going to take a lot more than breezy pastels to change my outlook on life.
I'm still feeling pretty hungover when I sit down on Betty's fluffy, light yellow couch. Her office walls are blush pink with a flowered wallpaper border. I swing my legs around to put my feet up, but I realize I'm way too tall. "How do your patients lie down on this couch?"
Betty sits on a comfortable looking yellow chair facing me, smiling. "My patients generally don't lie down. They sit."
"Oh." I swing my legs back around and sit up. I laugh awkwardly. "This is my first time. Can't say that about a lot of things anymore." I laugh awkwardly again.
Betty smiles away my awkwardness. She's a tiny woman with wavy gray hair cropped at her ears. Thick, red-framed glasses sit on her face. She pushes them up with a finger and asks, "So, what can I do for you Erik?"
Smoothing my hand up and down the fluffy couch, I say plainly. "I got a touch of compassion fatigue. That's what they call it, right? Well, Wanda, my manager, says I have it."
Betty gives me an understanding nod. "Okay. Let's talk about that. How do you feel?"
I look away at the bookshelf lined neatly with books titled: Bring Compassion Back, Therapeutic Methods for Medical Professionals, Reclaim Your Life.
Not feeling the need to mince my words, I say, "I feel like shit. I feel like ten years have passed and I've got nothing to show for it. I'm overworked, tired, and I don't feel anything anymore."
Betty is nonplussed by my straightforward answer. "Tell me a little about your home life."
"I don't have one."
"Any interests?"
"Vodka soda."
"Okay. Anyone special in your life?"
Forming an "O" with my forefinger and thumb, I snap back, "Nope." I think about Baxter, who probably will never speak to me again now that he knows what a basket case I am. Plus, we just met. Plus, I don't even think we exchanged numbers. Instinctively, I pat my phone in my pocket, but I know I can't look now.
"Pets?"
"If I had any, they'd be dead by now."
Betty keeps smiling at me even though I'm being a difficult ass. "What are your goals, Erik?"
I sigh. "My goals were having a family, being a good nurse and being happy." I look out the window. "I've failed at all those things so far so... I don't have any goals anymore." I throw my hands up.
"I want you to focus on not saying or thinking any negative thoughts about yourself."
"Then you might need to put me in an induced coma," I say frankly.
Betty presses on with her kind smile. She reaches into a set of drawers next to her. "I want you to write down all your negative thoughts when you have them. We are going to work on changing the way you view yourself."
I take the notebook. "I'm probably going to need more than one notebook."
Betty refuses to laugh at my self-deprecating jokes even though they are clearly hilarious! She just gives me a reassuring nod. "Actually, I want you to use the notebook to air out all your feelings: negative and positive. Use it as a tool to self-reflect."
I leave Betty's office ambivalent. It's only our first session, but I can't think of any other solution but to quit being a nurse and give up on my mission in life to help people. I walk to City Lights Coffee with the plan to brainstorm what other jobs I could possibly do besides nursing.
Sitting at a table next to the window, I begin my great brainstorming session. I write, "Things I can do besides nursing." Sipping on my Americano, I stare at the blank sheet. When nothing comes to me, I look out the window. A crossing guard helps little kids cross the street.
That's it! I can be a crossing guard. I write down "crossing guard." Looking back at the crossing guard, who is an ancient-looking man with a full white beard, I realize that I can't be a thirty-one-year-old crossing guard. That's certainly a fun job to do in retirement but not now. With a sigh, I cross "crossing guard" out.
The kids scamper along the sidewalk laughing. I could be a teacher! I write "teacher" down. Placing my hands back behind my head, I sigh and throw the pen down. Phew! There was at least one thing I could see myself doing besides being a nurse. That was a lot of work.
Suddenly, I hear a voice behind me. "Need some company?" I turn around and almost fall back in my chair. It's Baxter.
He slides into the chair across from me. "Hi. How are you feeling?"
Embarrassed, I fiddle with my pen. "Hungover but making it. You?"
He laughs. "Never been better." He cradles his coffee in his hands.
I cover my face with my hands. "How drunk was I?" I open two fingers so I can peek out with one eye.
Baxter nods his head. "Pretty drunk."
Throwing my head down on the table, I groan. "Sorry. Bad first impression."
Baxter takes my hand. "Nope. You were stressed. I've had days like that." He taps his finger on the notebook. "What are you working on?"
Raising my head, I thumb the notebook's pages. "My next great novel."
"Really? That's great!"
I shake my head. "No, I was kidding. My therapist says to use this notebook to self-reflect."
Baxter nods. "An even better idea." He taps the notebook again. "I could see you using that charming wit of yours to write a blog." His eyes light up. "A blog about nursing. To help other burnt out nurses!"
I shake my head vehemently. "No one wants to hear what I have to say." Thwacking myself in the head, I groan. I pick up my pen and write that negative thought down.
Looking at what I wrote, Baxter laughs. "What are you doing?"
"My therapist said I have to write down every negative thought I have about myself."
Baxter's eyes look to the side, thoughtfully. "She should have given you another notebook."
I laugh. "That's what I said!"
Baxter looks at me sincerely. "What I meant was, you say a lot of negative things about yourself."
Looking down into my Americano, I mumble, "I know."
Baxter grabs my hand again. "You wanna get out of here?"
I point to the air between us. "Together?"
"Yes, together!" He pulls my hand up as he stands. "Come on! I wanna show you something."
Sheepishly, I stand. He points at my notebook. "You can bring the notebook."
"Okay," I groan. I'm apprehensive hanging out with Baxter without being at least a little tipsy. "Can we stop for an adult beverage beforehand?"
Baxter gives me a look. "No. I want to show you something, and I want you to be completely unencumbered by alcohol."
I let Baxter lead the way. We walk to Chapel Street and turn into React Studios. "I rent studio space here," Baxter explains. Inside, he unlocks a door to a room and flips on the lights.
The ceilings are expansively high. Canvas paintings with brilliantly bright colors hang from the wall. One painting is an amalgam of geometric shapes intersecting each other in a swirl with two blue, piercing eyes looking out. Another is a depiction of a woman's face peering out from an upside-down heart.
All the paintings are like this: a pastiche of modern and post-modern and the constructed and deconstructed lain side by side. They are breathtaking.
I turn to Baxter. "All of these are magnificent."
In the middle of the room, I reach to lift a sheet off a painting, but Baxter stops me. "That one isn't ready yet."
As if burned, I pull back my hand quickly. "Oh. I'm sorry." Baxter takes both of my hands in his. He is slightly taller than I am, forcing me to gaze up at his kind brown eyes. He places a soft hand on my chin and strokes my cheek. Sending currents of electricity down my body, he kisses my lips gently. My legs feel numb. My heart beats out of my chest.
When he embraces me tighter, kissing me more passionately, I feel claustrophobic. I push my hands back on his strong, solid chest. "I'm sorry. I can't." Shaking and terrified, I run out of the studio. When I get to my house, I run a finger over my lips that are still on fire from the kiss.