“Isabel, why don’t you begin by telling the group why you took all those pills.”
Isabel feels like her cheeks are on fire. Her stomach is in her throat and her throat is rapidly closing up. She hears a rushing sound in her ears.
I can’t believe this man I’ve never met wants me to talk about this personal thing in front of these people. Plus, he looks like Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Isabel stares at Larry’s Birkenstocks.
“I don’t really feel like talking about that right now,” she manages to say, fighting to keep her voice from cracking as she chokes back her tears.
“When do you think would be an easier time to talk about it, do you think?” Isabel knows Larry is asking a rhetorical question.
“I get your point, okay? I get it,” she says. “It’s just that I don’t really feel angry at the moment and I don’t have much to say.”
Why can’t you just move on, you big hippie.
“I know it’s tempting to retreat when you first get here, Isabel.” Larry sounds kinder. “It’s just that in the beginning, when everything is still pretty raw, pretty fresh, it’s usually a good time to talk about emotions in general, anger in particular.”
“I don’t feel like talking,” Isabel repeats herself, adding a tone of warning. “Just go on to someone else.” She clenches her jaw.
“Isabel, what are you so angry about?”
Goddammit.
“Isabel?”
Goddammit.
“Right now I suppose I have anger toward you, Larry.” Isabel tries to mimic the group leader’s controlled tone of voice.
“Why me?” Larry asks, a sardonic look on his face.
“For starters, where do you get off reading something from my personal medical file to this entire group?”
“This is group therapy, Isabel,” Larry soothes. “That’s what we do here. We talk about the tough stuff in front of one another.”
Isabel swallows hard.
A moment later, giving in to her exhaustion she says, in a whisper, “I couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Couldn’t do what?” Larry softly urges her on.
“I was on one of those Habitrail wheels they have in gerbil’s cages, you know?” she starts, looking back up at Larry. “I couldn’t keep running on the wheel. I couldn’t live anymore, disappointing so many people like I was.”
“Who? Who were you disappointing?”
Isabel pauses once more and then slowly begins bailing out the water that is sinking her.
“My marriage is over so I’m sure my husband’s disappointed with me. My parents have been disappointed in me for as long as I can remember, I screwed up majorly at work so I know my boss is disappointed in me…” She trails off, knowing she hasn’t scratched the surface.
“Keep going, Isabel. We’re listening.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Isabel turns her head from Larry to the empty chair. She stares at it for a long minute.
“For me that chair represents all that I expected of myself,” she says sadly. “I was supposed to be perfect.”
Nine
Isabel had been friends with Casey since the third grade. They were close in the way a rose befriends the stake that is meant to help it stand tall. As time passes stalk and stake become interchangeable: they take turns propping each other up, bending into each other with every gust of wind.
When Casey found a lump in her breast it was Isabel she called first.
“Will you come with me for the biopsy?”
“Of course.” Isabel stifled her tears and nodded into the phone.
“You’re crying, aren’t you?” Casey asked.
“No,” Isabel lied. “I think I have a cold.”
“You can’t cry. You’re not allowed to cry right now. I need you to be the strong one. If you cry I’m gonna start freaking out. And you’ve seen me freaking out. It ain’t pretty.”
“Okay, okay.” Isabel sobered up. “When’s the appointment?”
“Tuesday. I’ve got to be there at eight in the morning. I think they said it’d only be a couple of hours.”
“You’re staying in the hospital, right?”
“No. It’s outpatient. I’m going to need you to drive me home and put me to bed. They said I’d be really groggy.”
“Tuesday. No problem. I’ll be there with bells on. Where are you having it done, by the way? UCSF?”
“Yeah.”
“So, what’re you doing tonight? Want to go to a movie? Your pick, Lumpy.”
Casey laughed. “No, thanks. I think I’m just going to take a nice long hot bath until my fingers get all shriveled.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
* * *
“Isabel? I’m assuming you’re on your way. It’s 7:50. If you’re not on your way, you’re in big trouble. I think I just heard a car door slam. That’s probably you. Bye.”
* * *
“Okay, it’s 8:05. Where are you?”
* * *
“I’ve called a cab. I hope you were in an accident or something. That’s the only thing that’s going to keep me from killing you later.”
“After the crash of TWA Flight 800, the FAA intensified its scrutiny of center fuel tanks, not only in 747s but in other, older, aircraft with similar design. Then, an alarming discovery. On Sunday, Boeing notified the FAA that recent inspections had turned up a high degree of wear and tear on wiring in and around fuel tanks in three 737s. Now, airlines have a seven day deadline to inspect and replace wiring and conduits in certain pieces of equipment. Sixty days for others.”
—Isabel Murphy, KXTY, San Francisco.
“Okay, great job, guys,” Isabel said, rubbing her cold hands together. “I’m heading back to the station for the conference call.”
“Fine,” said Mike, her cameraman. “But you’ll have a lot of time to make it there. The conference call isn’t till tomorrow.”
“What’re you talking about? It’s always on Wednesdays. When did they change that?”
“Since today’s Tuesday they didn’t have to.”
“Today’s Tuesday?”
Oh, my God. Casey.
Ten
Casey was propped up in bed.
Isabel, shamed, buried her head in her hands. “Casey, I’m so sorry. Words can’t express how sorry I am. It’s just…”
“You got called to do a story,” Casey sighed. “I know the drill