Chapter 7 Nellie Today #3
And that’s when I remember that I’m wearing a threadbare, oversized Whitney Biennial T-shirt, which I cut at the neck and sleeves years ago, and a pair of black underwear. And that’s it. No bra. No pants.
For Christ’s sake. How will I survive any of this?
It’s too late to turn back now.
All business, Noah lays a tentative hand on my shoulder, carefully feeling around the joint and muscles. It’s the first time he has touched me in decades, and I have to hold my breath not to react to the sweep of his fingertips against my skin.
What is wrong with me? Have I suddenly developed a hormonal imbalance? That must be it. The plane travel has somehow thrown my body into a pubescent state of horniness.
But I will not respond. So, my ex-boyfriend who I despise—but who has remained insanely hot—is touching my body. No. Big. Deal.
I will an image of my pediatrician, Dr. Shapiro, into my mind to remind me that this is just a run-of-the-mill medical exam. Noah is just like Dr. Shapiro. Except three decades younger and with less ear and eyebrow hair.
I do not want to bone Dr. Shapiro. So, I will not want to bone Noah either. I am oh so well-adjusted.
He asks me to try to raise my arm. Lifts it carefully himself, and I flinch.
“So,” I say, eager to distract myself, “not a ball boy, huh?”
“Nope. Not a ball boy.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Like a real one?”
Noah smirks, still focused on examining my shoulder and upper arm. “Yes.”
“You went to medical school and everything?”
“Yup.”
“Not a correspondence one? Not for-profit? Somewhere good?”
“Johns Hopkins.”
I try not to act impressed. Even though I kind of am. “I think I’ve heard of that.”
He glances up at me with a small smile, then goes back to work. “Nothing gets past you.”
Noah was never academically inclined. I was the studious one. In school, he got away with the bare minimum. But I guess in the intervening years he turned that around. Applied all that dedication to baseball to something else.
Whatever. He still sucks.
“So, what, you’re like… a chiropractor?” I ask.
At that, he stops and looks up at me, indignant. “You think I’m a chiropractor?”
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a real job!”
“It’s a real job. It’s just not a real doctor.”
“Wow,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Someone’s a snob.”
Also, someone is defensive about their medical pedigree. Now I’ve got him where I want him:
“So, like, are you a physical therapist then?”
“No. I am not a physical therapist.”
“A veterinarian?”
“No. But in this moment, it feels like experience wrangling wild animals might be helpful—or at least sedating them.”
So funny. I smile sweetly through gritted teeth. “So, what then? You’re a personal trainer?”
He stops and looks up at me. “Do you actually think a personal trainer is a type of doctor?”
“No,” I say, adopting my most innocent expression. “But Damien said you work with sports teams. I know how flexible you are with the truth. So, I figured maybe you were using the word ‘doctor’ loosely.”
At this, he finally loses patience. “I’m a doctor. An actual doctor. Even if that’s hard for you to believe.” I’m getting under his skin, and I am loving it. Score one for Planet Nellie!
“Okay, got it,” I shrug. “So, like, an RN? I hear registered nurses can do almost everything a doctor can.”
“Nell!”
I am enjoying his indignation and the way my needling is making him flushed.
But also, my injury is currently in his hands, so it occurs to me that maybe I want him less frustrated and more focused.
Plus, something is gnawing at me about what he just said—how it would be hard for me to believe he made something of himself.
And it occurs to me that he mumbled something similar under his breath yesterday—about how I thought he was nothing.
I have believed a lot of things about Noah in my life, but that is definitely not one of them. On the contrary, for a long while, I thought he was everything.
Why would he think that?
“Okay,” I say. “I give. What kind of doctor are you really?”
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon,” he mutters.
A surgeon? A motherfucking surgeon? For professional sports teams? That’s what he’s been doing all this time in La La Land, while I thought he was working a thankless office job in the big-box-store-filled suburbs of some cloudy city?
But I guess it makes sense. At least a little bit. Because while the Noah I knew was mostly beloved for his athleticism and charm, he was secretly a gifted artist, too. That was the part of him I liked best, a part reserved mostly for me.
Different small motor skills.
In fact, though I didn’t get this T-shirt on an outing with him and instead as part of a thank-you gift after I worked on an editorial spread about the artists of the Whitney Biennial, I could have.
Because even as teenagers, we wandered museums and galleries together, sharing a love of aesthetics like so many 1950s milkshakes.
“How did that happen?” I finally blurt out with more force than I intend.
He looks at me like I am a full moron. “Magic,” he deadpans.
“Magic,” I repeat, because I don’t know what else to say. The truth is, though I won’t admit it now, I am truly curious about his trajectory. After all, last time I saw him, he had a dramatically different vision for his future.
In another universe, at another time, I would have told him how proud I am of him. How amazed I am, but also not at all surprised. How I knew his future would be boundless, no matter what happened to his original dream.
But I can’t say any of that now.
How can you miss someone and hate them at the same time? Is the person I miss even in front of me—in the body of this man, this surgeon—or does he no longer exist?
Emotional tornadoes may be swirling through my head, flattening everything in their path, but Noah is the picture of calm. He looks up at me, all professionalism. “Well, you know what the problem is here. I imagine this flares up somewhat regularly.”
I sigh. Answer him earnestly. “Actually, I’ve managed it pretty successfully for years with Pilates and stretching, warm baths, arnica. It’s only gotten bad like this a couple times before and not for a while.”
“Have you done anything different lately?”
“I mean, I moved recently. To a new apartment. So I probably put strain on it then.”
He nods like, that would do it. “With your… fiancé?”
Is it me or did he choke on that word? I do my own noncommittal cough-nod-headshake hybrid.
Because, sure. My fiancé relocated at the same time as I did. Just not to the same address. But I’m not about to tell Noah that we broke up any more than I’d lay that news on my best friend’s doorstep during her un-wedding do-over.
“Obviously, lifting heavy boxes might have triggered it,” Noah is saying. “Or trying to yank a gigantic suitcase one-handed off a baggage carousel like a maniac. Also, excess stress can tighten the muscles, which makes your body more susceptible to strain.”
Excess stress? Who’s been under excess stress?
Noah’s hands are still on me. And just the word body on his lips sends shudders through me. Shudders of revulsion, I tell myself. But even I’m not convinced.
A breeze whispers past. My T-shirt suddenly seems so thin.
He takes one last look at my shoulder, then slides his palm down the inside of my arm to my wrist, turning it over in his hand so that it’s face up.
I am praying I don’t have obvious goose bumps.
“Also, carpal tunnel doesn’t help because the muscles radiate through.
So, if you’re doing a lot of design and layout work at the computer or even answering a bunch of emails, that can exacerbate the issue. ”
Design work. Layout. Like he knows what I do.
And soon, when the news breaks about the magazine, I guess he’ll know that I don’t have a job too.
He drops my hand. And, right away, to my chagrin, I miss the contact.
“I’m hopeful that there’s not a tear. But if the pain doesn’t improve in a few days, you may need an MRI to confirm. In the meantime, I can prescribe you an anti-inflammatory and send it to the pharmacy in town to pick up today,” he is saying. “And a painkiller if that would help.”
As much as I hate accepting help, especially from him, I have to admit that it’s convenient to have a doctor in the house—or suite, as the case may be.
“Do you have ibuprofen to take for now?” he asks.
I nod. “Thank you,” I manage. It pains me to say it almost as much as it pains me to move.
Noah stands up, so I am overcome by his shadow. It feels nice and cool outside of the sun.
He glances at my mug on the side table. Raises his eyebrows at me like, you must have really wanted to avoid me if you settled for tea.
My caffeine addiction dates way back.
“If you want actual coffee, I made some—iced actually like we both like. If you still take it that way. There’s plenty in the kitchenette. I’m going to go get dressed.”
I shrug, like I could take it or leave it. But the truth is, I will definitely take it. I am now in his debt, both for the coffee and the medical consultation, and it’s the worst.
Who is this man, so much like and also unlike the boy I knew?
Noah was always good like this, I remind myself, though sometimes it’s hard to remember through the fog of so many years—a narrative rewritten countless times and finally cemented. But is memory truth?
One thing is for sure: We were always good. Until we weren’t.
Him being caring, thoughtful, that was never the problem. Until it was.
As he walks away, I try not to watch him. His muscular back, the slope of his shoulders, his tight…
At the French doors to his room, he stops and looks back, and I glance quickly away like I’ve been studying my nails and not his ass.
There’s a glimmer in his eye. Like he knows.
“Nice T-shirt,” he says, then disappears inside. A minute later, “Pack the Pipe” starts to play from his room.
Was that sarcasm? An acknowledgment of our shared history? A nod to the fact that my shirt is totally transparent?
I’d ask what he meant. But there are too many whys.