Chapter 6 #2
“No. No way. I can’t be your patient in this scenario. That’s like, a violation of something.” I decide. “We met at the library. You liked the book I was reading. And we hit it off from there.”
“What book?”
I pause. “I don’t know. I don’t read books like that.”
“No, no, this won’t work,” Dean agrees.
“Will they recognize me as Andy’s wife?” I say suddenly, as if that might blow our cover.
“Eliza didn’t. I highly doubt my Mother will. She’s not exactly a folk-rock fan.” Dean laughs, and I can’t help but smile at it. “You’re not the famous one.”
That remark elicits a laugh from me. “Last night says otherwise.”
“Let’s just say we—we met at the grocery store,” Dean decides. “We met at the grocery store reaching for the same box of cereal.”
“That’s the stupidest fucking story I’ve ever heard.” I laugh. “Let’s just say we met online. That’s where everyone meets people these days.”
“Is that where you meet people?” Dean asks me.
“I haven’t met anyone since Andy died,” I reveal.
“What about me?” He places a palm on his chest, as if he’s taken aback I didn’t consider him.
“Do you count?” I ask, my voice serious. “And besides, I met you at the pharmacy.”
“No. This isn’t real, and it isn’t for another couple of days.” Dean pushes up his glasses. It catches me off guard to realize I’m looking right at him, which I haven’t done at all this morning.
“You don’t count, then.”
“Madeline, I’m so sorry about last night. This whole situation was just fucked up.”
“No kidding.” I look away, embarrassed.
“I really consider you my friend now,” He’s acting like this is some big, some morally wrong confession. “You’re doing me a big favor.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, my spoon clattering in my bowl as I bump it with my wrist. I don’t really know how to react to this information, other than that I finally feel like I can look at him again without feeling like it’s illegal. “We’re even now.”
“We’re even, Dean agrees. “What are you going to do this afternoon?”
“I don’t know, check out the spa maybe,” I shrug. “I haven’t really planned anything.”
“Do you want to come into town with me?” Dean asks. I don’t really want to go anywhere with Dean quite yet, I’m getting nervous about tonight, but he’s hit my weak spot. He knows I’ll jump at the chance to browse a Walgreens.
“Andy’s tribute concert doesn’t start until 8 p.m., isn’t it a little early to go into town?” I ask. Tonight’s performance takes place at the only theater downtown.
“We’ll go explore the town, and then come back before dinnertime. You can rest up before the concert. Then we’ll go back. It’s not that far a drive,” Dean explains.
“Have they cleared the roads?” I ask. He’s right, it’s less than a ten-minute drive back into town and the snow stopped sometime in the middle of the night, and the sky is crystal clear.
“I think so,” He nods. “There’s a bookshop and cafe. And a record shop.” Dean suggests.
“Can we stop at the Walgreens?” I need some semblance of my normal pharmacy browsing routine.
“We can if that’s what you want,” He answers.
I nod. Although I am not low on any of my medications, I think seeing a familiar place will help calm my nerves. My watch says my heart rate is normal, but I feel incredibly antsy. “I would like that.”
“We’ll stop there first. I think it’s on the way,” Dean pats the table with his hands, dusting off any nonexistent crumbs and flakes.
“I have to get my coat,” I remember. “And my tote.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.” Dean replies.
I leave the table, placing my oatmeal bowl and tray on the directed counter, and I head back upstairs. This time around, I don’t fumble with the key. I know exactly where it is, in my jean’s front pocket.
I check the weather, and it’s an insanely chilly sixteen degrees outside so I make sure to put my hat on and wrap my scarf tightly.
I slide on my coat, and zip it up as far as I can go.
I feel a little bit like a child in a snowsuit because my jacket is so puffy and full overtop my sweater, but I’m sure I’ll be wishing I was in a real snow suit once I get outside.
I grab my tote bag that’s resting in the sole chair in the room, and I put it on my shoulder, except it immediately slides down.
As I head out the door, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror near the door.
My scarf is haphazardly thrown around my neck, and my hair is mostly hidden behind my hat.
“You got this, Madeline,” I tell the growing pit in my stomach. “You will not freak out. You will keep it together. You will not get sick.” I repeat to myself.
I meet Dean in the parlor, and we both walk silently to the lobby and front door. Something tells me there’s going to be a lot of silence on this trip. He holds the door open for me, and I step outside into the cold and sunshine.
The sunrays hit my face, and it’s blinding to stare at the snow.
We walk down the now completely shoveled path towards the parking lot, where the minivan is still covered in snow.
Dean uses his arms to wipe off the driver’s side passenger door, and sure enough, there’s a snow brush tucked away.
I wait patiently while he starts to brush the windows and doors.
“Here, turn the car on.” He tosses me the keys, which land at my feet in a flurry of snow. It feels like he’s finally starting to trust me with things.
“Yes,” I say, picking up the keys with my bare hands. I open the driver’s side door with a finger, careful not to get my hand covered in ice and snow, and plop into the front seat, my tote bag almost getting caught in the door. I place it on the passenger side seat.
I turn the car on while Dean cleans the windshield. His cheeks are already pink from the windchill, and I’m thankful to be in the car. I hastily climb over the center console and into my seat so by the time Dean gets in the car I’m buckled up and ready to go.
“Thanks for doing that,” I thank him.
“You could have helped,” Dean sniffles, wiping his nose on his coat sleeve.
“Next time,” I resolve.
“It better not snow again,” He coughs, and pulls the minivan into reverse, smoothly exiting the parking lot.
The drive to the Walgreens is maybe five minutes at the most. In fact, there’s not even a stoplight.
The town looks magical covered in snow. The oil lamps and fire hydrants are capped with ice, people out walking about with their coats and hats.
Dean looks particularly straight out of a Hallmark movie with his beanie cap and coat.
Shops line the picture-perfect main street— a deli, a consignment shop, a coffee shop and a bank.
There are a few people braving the weather, I guess it is the middle of the week, but they’re all bundled up and I can’t get a good look at anyone.
I watch a woman and her young son enter the bank, a man exiting the deli, they’re all part of this picture-perfect postcard town.
Dean pulls up in front of the Walgreens, which doesn’t even look like a regular Walgreens because it’s in the form of a cute little house and puts the van in park.
“I’ll wait here. Go get what you need.”
“Okay,” I start shifting and unbuckling my seatbelt.
When I open the door, the wind is fierce and it blows snow up in my face.
I climb over a giant ice block on the curb, and scurry inside.
I’m welcomed by familiar fluorescent lights and identical aisles.
My happy place. I bolt down aisle six, and immediately spot what I’m looking for on the shelf.
Middle row, towards the left. I grab the jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen and make a beeline for the self-checkout.
A bag of twizzlers catches my eye—I do need to replenish my snacks.
I check out, tapping my debit card quickly and sanitizing my hands on the way out. I climb into the passenger seat, goods intact. I toss the bottle of ibuprofen in my bag and leave the twizzlers on the seat.
“You really are a hypochondriac, aren’t you?” Dean gestures to my massive bottle of ibuprofen. “You just bought ibuprofen last week. There’s no way you’re through the other bottle.”
“Actually, they’re calling it health or illness anxiety these days,” I correct him matter of factly, ignoring his snide comment. “You should know that. You’re the doctor.” I say snootily, reminiscing about how he corrected me the other night.
“I just…can’t imagine this being me. It’s so different from how I am," he says. “How does this happen?”
I grimace at him. I’ve talked this over with my therapist and psychiatrist about a hundred times. “It’s a control thing,” I remark, shaking my bottle of ibuprofen.
“A control thing?”
“After Andy died, I felt out of control. He was gone, my life was spiraling, and there was nothing I could do about it. My grief was never ending. I needed something I could control related to the experience. My health was one thing.”
“You can only control it to a certain extent,” Dean says. “Some things just happen.”
“I know that. Hence the anxiety and panic attacks about being sick, dummy.” I rip open the bag of twizzlers and start chewing on one. “Andy’s death was beyond anyone’s control.”
“And you’re worried you’re next.”
“Yeah,” I finish my twizzler and offer the package to Dean, who takes one. “You should
consider being a therapist.” I snicker at the expense of my own joke.
“I’ll think about it,” Dean returns my smile, before he turns off the hazard lights and
pulls back onto the road. “Let’s check out this record shop.”
“Do you collect them?” I ask, wondering why Dean could be interested in records.
“I do, yeah.” Dean says. “I got into them a few years ago when my sister gifted me a turntable.”
“Oh, yeah. Your sister.”
“Yep. She’s the baby of the family. Seventeen. Sierra.”
“Will I meet her at this family get together?”
“You might if you’re unlucky. She’s annoying,” Dean laughs. “I don’t think she’ll be there. She’s usually out with her friends, shoplifting. It’s why my mother thinks I’m such a loner.”