A Curve in the Road(51)

“Hi. Is this Abbie?”

It’s Nathan’s voice, which comes as a surprise. “Yes. Hi, Nathan. How are you doing?”

“I’m good. How about you?”

I walk along the boards, past the plexiglass barrier, to the lobby. “Well, you know . . . as good as can be expected.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Yeah. I thought about you over Christmas. I wanted to call you, actually, just to see how you were doing, because I know what it can be like, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t have intruded. I would have liked to talk to you because you’ve been where I’m at right now, and sometimes it feels like Crazy Town.”

He chuckles. “I know the feeling. You can call me anytime, you know. You have my cell number.”

“I do, and thank you. I appreciate that.” I take a deep breath. “I’m just glad the holidays are over.” Moving to a chair in the lobby, I sit down.

“So how’s Zack getting along?” Nathan asks.

“Pretty well. Better than me, but I suppose he isn’t working with all the information I have, so it’s more of a normal grieving process for him. As for me, I still feel like I’m being tossed around inside a washing machine.” I stop talking and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t call to hear me whining about my life.”

“Actually, that’s exactly why I called.”

I laugh, and he pauses. “So you haven’t told Zack anything.”

“No. I’ve talked to him about the drunk driving because the whole world heard about that, and I told him about Alan’s cancer diagnosis but not about the affair, and I’m still not sure I ever will tell him. At least he has a good support system at school. The teachers and his coaches have been terrific.”

“That’s good to hear. Are you back at work now?”

“Yes, and it’s been good for me to get back into a routine, to have a reason to get up in the mornings.”

“It definitely helps. Just remember what I said. It will get easier. I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Beyond the doors to the rink, a whistle blows, and the music blasts through the speaker system.

“Are you listening to ‘We Will Rock You?’” Nathan asks.

“Yeah. I’m at a hockey rink. Zack’s playing tonight.”

“What’s the score?”

“Three to one right now. They’re winning.”

“Good stuff,” Nathan says. “I’ll root for him.”

A few high school girls enter the community center through the main doors. It’s below freezing outside with fresh snow on the ground, but they’re wearing short skirts and ballerina flats with no socks on their feet. I watch them giggle and check their phones as they push through the inside doors to the rink.

“So you’re probably wondering why I’m calling?” Nathan asks.

“Aside from your interest in high school hockey?”

He chuckles. “Yeah. I wanted to check and see how Winston was doing. Before Christmas, you mentioned that his incision looked good, but I’d still like to see him for a final follow-up appointment, just to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Of course. Zack and I go to my mom’s place for dinner most Sundays. Are you open on weekends?”

“Not usually, but I’ll make an exception if that’s the only time you’re in town. Are you coming this Sunday?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, struggling to remember my call schedule for the week. I’m pretty sure Sunday is open.

“Yes, that’ll work,” I say.

“Great,” he replies. “What time is good for you?”

“How about late afternoon?”

He takes a moment to check his schedule as well, then suggests I come by at four thirty.

I thank him again, end the call, and return to the game.

Late on Saturday afternoon—following a long night in the OR with a complicated hernia case—I take a nap on the sofa in the living room. I’ve just drifted off when I’m awakened by the sound of a key in the front door.

Zack walks in, but I’m so tired I don’t bother to move or get up. I continue to lie there, stretched out on my stomach with my arms wrapped around the sofa pillow.

Zack goes straight to the kitchen to get something to eat. He’s not gentle with the microwave door, which he slams shut, and then I hear the beep of the buttons and the hum of the machine when he presses start. He sets a plate down on the granite countertop with a noisy clink that echoes off the ceiling. Everything seems amplified, especially the chip bag he rips open with a vengeance. I can hear him crunching loudly.

I want to tell him to be quiet, but I let it go because I just want to keep sleeping.

He eats standing up in the kitchen, and I hear him speak softly on his cell phone to someone.

“Yeah, she’s asleep on the couch . . . no, she still hasn’t cleaned out the closet yet . . . I don’t know . . . I think she’s nuts. She won’t talk about him, and she won’t say why she hates him so much . . . he’s dead, and he can’t defend himself . . . sometimes I just want to shake her because she won’t move on. I can’t wait to get out of here in the fall. I swear to God I won’t look back.”