Chapter Three
Spending the next few days hiding out in my house, I spend a lot of time writing in my notebook. I jot down various things, not just negative thoughts but positive ones too. I write about my experience as a nurse in the third person. Writing it this way allows me some space from the raw emotion of the material I am writing about.
What started as haphazard, disjointed segments about a nurse named Leif grows into something else entirely. Freeing myself from constraints, I don’t stick to a timeline of my nursing career. An anecdote from nursing school may come to me and I’ll write about that. Later that night, another memory from last year strikes me so I write about that. It feels good to scribble out everything that I have inside me. All the happy, sad, devastating, uplifting moments in my ten-year nursing career.
In the mix of these anecdotes, I dutifully jot down negative thoughts about myself that jump into my brain. Like this one: Why did I run away from Baxter like a freak? Why am I a freak?
I cringe seeing his name written on the page: Baxter. His name conjures the image of his beautiful angled face and full sensual lips on mine. I groan covering his name with my hand.
After I ran away from his studio, Baxter texted me: Hope you are okay?
I didn’t answer.
The next day, he texted: I really enjoyed seeing you yesterday.
I didn’t answer.
Why? I don’t know why.
All I know is, Baxter terrifies me. He makes my stomach turn over on itself. He makes my palms sweat. If only I could just be drunk and rely on liquid courage, I just might be able to not run away from him like a crazy person. I might be able to answer his texts. I might be able to kiss him for more than ten seconds.
But wow! Those ten seconds were something else.
I show up to my next appointment with Betty dressed in a hoodie, a scarf wrapped around my neck and face, sunglasses, and a baseball hat despite the unseasonably warm weather. Charleston is a small town. I can’t risk running into him again in my current state.
She regards me curiously as I take off my incognito gear. “Are you coming down with something?”
As I unwind the scarf from my neck, I hold it up questioningly. “Oh this? No. I’m just hiding from someone.”
Betty leans forward concerned. “Do you feel safe at home?”
As a nurse, I was familiar with the domestic abuse screening questions Betty is surely trying to ask me. I exclaim, “Yes! I feel safe at home.” I wave my arms up and down like a referee. “It’s not like that. I’m not being abused. I’m just hiding from this guy.”
Betty’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. She pushes her red glasses up exasperated. I realize I’m not explaining myself properly. “Okay. It’s this really gorgeous, perfect guy, Baxter, who wants to do things like: go on dates with me and hang out. He’s also a really talented artist.”
Betty’s tense face relaxes. “He sounds wonderful. Why are you hiding from him?”
I put my hands behind my head and lean back looking up at the ceiling fan. “Well, I don’t know.” I search my mind for a reasonable excuse. It comes to me quickly.
Sitting back up, I say, “It’s because I’d like to take this time I have off to fully reflect. While recovering from compassion fatigue, it is best to not act irrationally. One of the don’ts in recovery is to not look for a new job, buy a new car, or have an affair.” I smile, proud of myself.
Betty nods. “I see you’ve done your assigned reading.” She speaks carefully, when she says, “But you wouldn’t be having an affair if you decided to spend time with this gentleman. You’re not married.”
I huff crossing my arms and considering how to counteract her statement.
Before I can think of anything, she continues, “I think it’s perfectly fine for you to not date this man while you are recovering if you want to focus on yourself for right now. That is an exceptional plan. However, you are not going to be in recovery forever. You will get through this. You might want to consider someone like Baxter in your life for the future."
Nodding agreeably, I say, "Of course! The future!"
Of course, my optimism is fake. I don't really want to think about the future. I can barely think about next week.
For the rest of the session, I share excerpts of my notebook writing. Betty makes a big show of saying what an engaging and talented writer I am. Instantly, the thought that she's just saying that because she feels sorry for me flies into my brain. Since it's a negative thought, I begrudgingly jot it down.
With my incognito get-up on, I lazily wend my way back to my house. From the sidewalk, I see a large, wrapped package on my porch. Climbing the steps cautiously, I also see a bouquet of beautiful yellow roses. I want to run away from the kindness laid out prominently on my porch, but I realize this is my house and I've got nowhere to go.
With a pounding heart, I take the package and the flowers inside. I sit at the kitchen table staring at the unopened package trying to guess what's inside. The package is about thirty by forty inches. The width is about four inches or so. Curiosity is eating me alive so I unwrap the package with shaking hands.
It's a painting. Pulling the wrapping all off, I realize what it is: me. Baxter captured the sparkle in my eyes that used to be there so long ago. The colors in the background are vibrant, giving my face a bright illuminating glow. My lips are gently curved into a berry color smile. I hardly recognize myself, not because it's avant-garde with notes of futurism and abstract art, but because I look happy.
Reaching for the card attached to the flowers, I know without a doubt who sent these gifts. The card says: Erik, I understand you are going through a difficult time in your life and may not be looking for a romantic relationship, but I am here to help and support you in any way I can. In the meantime, I hope we can be friends. —Baxter.