But Inside I'm Screaming

  “What does that mean exactly? ‘Not like before’?”

  “Well, I don’t think about it like I did a few days ago. When I got here,” she continues the lie. “I mean, I can actually think about next week, whereas before I couldn’t see that far into the future. I figured I’d be dead by then.”

  Tell her. Tell her how you only buy single rolls of individually wrapped toilet paper. Buying in bulk would be a waste. Tell her.

  “So now you can see living? At least another week, or a few days or what?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. A few days…”

  Tell her.

  “What about Christmas?”

  “As in Christmas of this year?” Isabel knows where this is going and is confronted with the truth dilemma again.

  “Yep. The Christmas that comes in a few months. Can you picture yourself celebrating Christmas?”

  She’s got me.

  “No.”

  “You can’t picture Christmas?”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay, Isabel. You don’t have to feel crestfallen about that. You’ve only been here a short time. We don’t expect miracles. Patients aren’t expected to go from suicidal ideation to long-range planning in that short period of time. It’s okay.”

  Isabel begins to cry.

  “Can you tell me why you’re crying?”

  Through her tears Isabel’s voice cracks. “I want to get out of here.”

  “I hear this is highly upsetting to you,” Dr. Seidler says, trying to soothe her. “But as I told you yesterday, I am going to recommend to my colleagues that you stay with us a little while longer. That will help you in the long run.”

  Isabel can barely hear her. Her depression is floating away, disappearing like an airline tray neatly folding back into its cave underneath the armrest, patiently waiting to again emerge for the next flight. She has stopped crying.

  “Isabel? Isabel, what are you thinking right now?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just blank.”

  “Try. Try, if you can, to tell me what is on your mind right now. You’ve got a strange look on your face. You look scared.”

  “Huh? Oh. No, I’m not scared.”

  “What’s the first thing that pops into your mouth when I ask you to speak?”

  Isabel’s eyes settle directly on Dr. Seidler’s face. “There’s no way I’m living until next Christmas. No way.”

  “Why? Isabel? Stay with that thought…why? Can you hear me?”

  Isabel is already gone. In her mind she sees the truck speeding toward her. She hears the screech of the brakes, the truck’s tires locking up too late. She closes her eyes imagining the impact, the feel of the pavement beneath her bloody body, the relief.

  I refuse to be someone who’s in and out of institutions. I will not be Zelda Fitzgerald.

  “Isabel. Listen to me for just a minute.” Her therapist is trying to get her attention. “While you’re here we need to work on your coping skills. I see you get a little overwhelmed with life. We need to teach you how to deal with the stuff that’s thrown at you. That way you won’t need to dissociate yourself from it, like you seem to be doing right now.”

  “‘A little overwhelmed’?” Isabel snaps back and is crying again. “‘A little overwhelmed’? I’d say it’s a little more than that.”

  “Okay, tell me.”

  “Well, first of all, I have absolutely no control over my life and what I do with it. ANN has me on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. They’ll beep me at three in the morning and tell me to get to the airport and sometimes I don’t even know where I’m going until I call from the back of the taxi. I have to have a bag packed at all times so that I can just walk away from whatever I’m doing and go to work. I’m in the middle of getting divorced. I don’t even have time to go to couples counseling—not that that’s any big loss, though….”

  “Before you go any further,” the therapist interrupts Isabel, “let’s look at these things one at a time. You bring up some very good points. Let’s start with the divorce. What happened in your marriage?”

  Isabel softens and slumps into her chair.

  “My marriage?”

  “I think that might be a good starting point for us.”

  “Alex. That’s his name. Alex.” Isabel is sobbing again.

  “Tell me about Alex.”

  Twelve

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked as he slapped the paper cocktail napkin in front of Isabel.

  “A greyhound, please,” she answered while rifling through her purse for her cigarettes. “Actually, could you make that a double?”

  “No problem,” the bartender said. But he looked as if it were.

  “Where’s Stu, anyway? Tuesday’s not his night off.”

  “Yeah, well, it is tonight.” The bartender talked as he surveyed his cage of bottles. He tentatively picked one out, looked at the label and slid it back into its dusty cell. “He’s sick.”

  “Is it too late to change my mind and order a gin and tonic?” She knew it wasn’t, as the bartender was looking up “greyhound” in his bartender’s guide.

  “Nope,” he said, looking relieved. “That I can do.”

  Isabel took a long drag of her cigarette. “What’s your name?”

  “Alex.”

  “I’m Isabel.”

  “This is on the house,” he said as he delivered the drink. “For going easy on me with the order.”

  “Not necessary but thank you.” Because she had an audience she decided to sip not gulp her drink. “Slow night, huh.”

  “Kind of. I’m not complaining, though. I’m not used to bartending, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Isabel smiled. “I knew it.”

  “How’d you crack the code?” he asked.

  “Well—” she fiddled with the swizzle stick poking out of her drink “—first of all you aren’t studying a quartered-up section of the want ads. You must not have heard it’s required reading for all barkeeps.”

  Alex laughed.

  “Whoa! You’ve got Kennedy teeth,” she said.

  “Kennedy teeth?”

  “It’s like you have more in there than the rest of us. It’s really quite amazing. Open up, let me see them again.”

  Alex clamped his mouth shut.

  “Come on,” Isabel mock begged. “One quick peek.”

  Careful to cover his teeth with his lips, Alex shook his head and said, “Good Kennedy or bad Kennedy?”

  Isabel laughed. “What’s good Kennedy and what’s bad Kennedy?”

  “You know: JFK Jr. or Chappaquiddick?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m not falling into that trap….” Isabel took another sip of her drink.

  “What trap?”

  “If I say JFK Jr., you’d get a big head and then I’d have to spend the rest of the night breaking your spirit…”

  “Yeah, ‘cause my spirit is flying so high here behind the bar…”

  “…and if I said Chappaquiddick I’d have to spend the rest of the night hearing a laundry list of things that make you a swell guy…”

  “It’d be a short list since my only competition would be an adulterer who let his date drown…”

  “…so I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

  “And to think this all started because my dad’s a dentist….”

  “Aha! So you do have an unfair advantage over the rest of us, dentally speaking, I mean.”

  “You saw right through me.”

  There was a brief pause in the banter.

  “What do you do normally? I mean,” she laughed and corrected herself, “what do you normally do?”

  Isabel knew she was flirting, but she was sinking into her comfortable buzz and didn’t care.

  “I wait tables. How come I’ve never seen you here before? You I would have noticed.”

  “I don’t eat here. I just come for liquid nourishment.”

  “Always this late?”

  “I just got off
work. So, yeah. Always this late.”

  “We’re both night owls, then.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Excuse me.” Alex left to serve a couple who should not have been served. Isabel watched him put napkins in front of them.

  The drink was settling her stomach, filling it with warmth.

  “Sorry about that,” he said as he leaned back against the space of mahogany in front of Isabel. “Duty calls.”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Seriously.”

  Alex forced his smile into a frown. “Go ahead.”

  “How do you like your job?”

  “You mean tonight? Bartending? Or serving?”

  “Serving.”

  “It’s fine, I suppose,” he answered, and gave the question more thought. “I like the fact that I have complete control over my life. I don’t have to answer to anyone, really. I can make my own hours, more or less. Like I have the days to myself, I can do what I want, and then I can come in, serve and make a killing with tips. I think it helps that I’m not always going to be doing this.”

  “Why? What are you going to be doing? Could I get a refill while you answer?”

  “Sure.” He cleared away her empty glass. “Another double?”

  She paused as she decided whether the look he gave her was judgmental or just inquisitive. She decided it was inquisitive and she nodded.

  “I’m going to open my own place.”

  “Wow. That’s cool.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re thinking ‘Just what San Francisco needs, another restaurant.’ Don’t worry—I’m used to it. And I agree with you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “Yes, you were. But that’s okay. Because my place is going to be different.”

  “Seriously, I wasn’t even thinking that.”

  He leaned into her as he replaced her drink. “So…what were you thinking, then? That you wanted to go out to dinner with me? Saturday night?”

  Isabel smiled as she gulped.

  “That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it?”

  Isabel felt emboldened by the booze. “You hit the nail on the head.”

  “Meet here? Eight?”

  “Right again.”

  Alex smiled as he went to check on the couple a few seats away from Isabel.

  “Case, he’s so amazing,” Isabel said as she spread out the blanket for their picnic.

  “There’s a rock in the middle, pull the blanket your way,” Casey said. “Good. Okay. Back to Mr. Amazing. What’s so amazing about him?”

  “He’s so there. You know? He’s a little intense, but after my last two fiascos I think I can handle intense. He’s a great listener. He’s a hold-doors-open, walk-me-to-the-front-door, call-the-next-day kinda guy.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed. Michael hasn’t held a door open for me since…come to think of it I don’t think he’s ever held the door open for me. Wait! That’s not true. I carried lumber in from Home Depot. He held the door for me then. And they say chivalry’s dead.” Casey lifted the foil on one of the sandwiches and handed it to Isabel. “That’s yours. Pass me mine.”

  “I think he might be the one, Casey.” Isabel held her friend’s sandwich hostage so she could command her full attention.

  “Right now I’m the one…who’s about to have a hypoglycemic attack if I don’t get some food in my stomach.” She grabbed her sandwich, peeled the foil back and took a huge bite.

  “How on earth did you ever get Michael to marry you with eating habits like yours? Look at you. I didn’t think your mouth could hold that much food. Then again you do have quite a big mouth, missy.”

  “My big mouth is exactly what Michael likes the best about me, if you know what I mean,” Casey chortled in between bites.

  “Speaking of which,” she continued, “how’s the sex with the one?”

  Isabel took a dainty bite of her sandwich and looked away.

  “Oh, no.” Casey was watching her. “That bad, huh?”

  “I think…it’s just…well, I think we’re both so nervous,” Isabel said. “It’s kind of like when you get a haircut and you don’t like the way they’ve blown it dry at the salon? You know the cut’s good, it’ll look fine, you just need to work on the styling at home.”

  “Cut the bullshit. It’s either good or bad. And I’m guessing from this salon simile that it’s bad.”

  “The jury’s out. And for the record, I disagree. It’s not just black or white, good or bad. There’s plenty of gray-area sex out there. You just don’t realize it because you and Mr. Macho have such raging hormones.”

  “Don’t underestimate raging hormones. Raging hormones are what keep me from becoming a single mother. If I leave you with nothing else, know this—if the sex ain’t good, he ain’t the one. Trust me. The sex’s gotta be good if he’s going to go the distance. By the way, does The One have a name or should I just hold up my index finger every time I refer to him?”

  “Alex. His name’s Alex.”

  Thirteen

  “Isabel? It’s Alex. If you’re there, pick up. Isabel? Okay, well, call me when you get in. We’re still on for tonight, right? I got reservations for us at that new place you mentioned last week. I’ll pick you up at seven, okay? Okay. Well, I can’t wait to see you. I’ve been thinking about you all week. Call me.”

  What’s wrong with me? He’s a great guy, but I just wish he’d leave me alone.

  “Isabel, this is your father. I, ahem, ah, want to apologize for what I said the other night. Perhaps I did have a bit too much to drink. I may not understand what you do for a living but that does—”

  “Isabel, this is your father. I, ahem, ah, want to apologize for what I said the other night. Perhaps I did have a bit too much to drink. I may not understand what you do for a living but that does—”

  “Isabel, this is your father. I, ahem, ah, want to apologize for what I said the other night. Perhaps I did have a bit too much to drink. I may not understand what you do for a living but that does—”

  Isabel replayed the message countless times, wondering what her father would have said if her answering machine hadn’t cut him off.

  A bit too much to drink.

  She winced at the thought of her father back off the wagon. She had thought her father would have been proud of her dogged reporting, of her dedication to this, her first network job. She had been unprepared for his disdain. Television was bullshit, he had said. Cars are tangible. Everyone wants to see the new lines. Dealers from all over the world were lined up to meet with him, he had slurred.

  She had not taken a shower in four days. The boxers and T-shirt she wore to bed had started to smell because she hadn’t changed out of them for two days.

  She had lost her appetite and all her energy. Her shades were drawn and her heart was closing up. She lay in bed listening to Alex leave yet another message on her machine—his voice booming throughout her tiny San Francisco apartment like a foam life preserver a drowning man can’t quite reach.

  I’m so tired. There’s no way I’m going out tonight.

  “Isabel? Hi, it’s me, Alex. Um, should I be paranoid, here? If you don’t want to see me again just tell me and I won’t keep bothering you. It’s just, well, I just thought we really hit it off. Tell me if I’m wrong. Your answering machine is probably going to cut me off—and that’s probably a good thing since I’m sounding like a real loser here. I’d like to see you again when you feel better. Call me whenever. Bye.”

  “Isabel? Hi. It’s Alex. I promise I’m not a stalker, but I just thought I’d call you again. Listen, I have tickets to the Giants game this weekend. If you’re feeling better, wanna go? You can’t live in San Francisco and not go to a Giants game. It’s just not allowed. Okay. Well, call me when you get this message. Bye.”

  “Hi! It’s Alex and I got your message. I wa
s just calling—hello? Oh. I thought I heard you pick up. Anyway, I was glad to get your message. I’d love to get together tonight. You know that. I mean it’s not like I haven’t called you practically every day for the past three weeks or something. Okay. So. Call me when you get this message and we can talk about where to go and what time. Hey, Isabel? Thanks for calling me back. Bye.”

  “I just don’t know, Alex.” Isabel couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “What? What don’t you know?” His pleading tone depressed Isabel even more. “You love me. I love you. Why not get married?”

  “It’s just so soon,” Isabel ventured. “We’ve only been dating six months. And I don’t even know where I’m going to be working. I’m just coming out of this funk—”

  “Aw, man! Not the ‘my life has no purpose’ speech again. I’ll tell you what your purpose is, it’s to be with me. I’m your purpose.”

  They were married six months later.

  Fourteen

  “Amid partisan squabbling on the hill, Inauguration Day seemed the perfect opportunity to mend fences. At a congressional luncheon, House Speaker Newt Gingrich presented the president and the vice president with flags flown in their honor over the Capitol Dome. The president is wasting no time getting back to business. He’s scheduled to meet with the Democratic National Committee on this first day of his second term. After fifteen balls stretching into the early morning hours, it looks like it’ll be another long day for President Clinton.”

  Isabel Murphy, ANN News, Capitol Hill.

  “Alex, I told you—” Isabel held her head in her hands “—I’m exhausted. You knew I wouldn’t have any time with you. I told you—I’m here to cover the inauguration.”

  “The inauguration’s over, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he said as he smoothed out his sport coat and carefully hung it in the hotel closet. “You don’t have to be back in New York until tomorrow.”