No big deal; nausea comes with the territory.
I wrote for a few hours and then I got too drunk to see straight. I'd hit a roadblock in The Surrogate. My protagonist was about to make love to the woman he spent half the novel chasing. I wanted to write a steamy sex scene, but the words weren't flowing.
The images weren't flowing.
Usually I could sit back, imagine a scene, and transcribe it. Not this time. I kept thinking about Hannah reading it. I wanted to write it for her.
I tried to reconnect with the passion we used to feel. In my car, in the field, in her room, in my bed. The images were sterile. Hands on skin, mouths locked.
Fuck. What was happening to me? And why was I having Pam feed my novel to Hannah anyway? There was no point. Three months had passed. Hannah and I were definitely over.
I could barely remember the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair.
She had become an idea.
I sent my story to Hannah the way people pray—casting my plea into the ether. A plea to be understood. Looking for the signs.
_____
I woke on the couch. At some point, I had changed into a pair of loose pajama pants. The cold bit at me and I let it. So much of my life now was dumb penitence.
After taking two shots and a Xanax, I called Mike.
Mike was still a decent psychiatrist, even if I didn't trust him. He set me up with meds before I flew out to New York. I called him from time to time. A thirty-minute call to Mike cost me a hundred bucks, but the money didn't matter.
"Hi Matthew. How are you doing?"
"Fine. You know, good. Is it a good time?"
"Yes, sure."
I heard a door close.
"Look, who transcribes your notes?" I said.
"Matthew, we've been over this. I—"
"No, I know. But Hannah's mom, she does that, you know? The transcription stuff. And I was thinking, if she types your notes..."
Mike was one of very few people who didn't cut me off when I rambled. Granted, my rambling worked in his monetary favor. I still appreciated it.
"You know, that would be bad for me," I said. I began to prowl through the cabin. Shadows pooled on the floor. I had no idea what time it was or even what day. I lost whole weeks to the rhythms of drunkenness. "There are things I want to say. But no one can know. It gets onto the internet and everywhere."
The Mike-Hannah's mother connection evaded me. I thought about it a lot. There was Hannah's mother and the medical records. There was Mike, my psychiatrist. They might be conversing, but how could I ever find out?
"I take our physician-patient privilege very seriously, Matthew. Also, as I have mentioned, I dictate my own notes with a voice recognition program."
"Ah, right. That's right. Do you make notes about these calls?"
"Yes, I make short notes about these calls. Let me ask you a question Matthew."
"Shoot."
"Are you taking the Zyprexa I prescribed?"
"No, not really. It makes me sleepy. I take the Xanax."
"I would like you to hold on the Xanax and try the Zyprexa. These fearful suspicions you're exhibiting should be—"
"Fine, whatever. I'll try that."
I smirked and rolled my eyes at Laurence. Classic. Mike was trying to accuse me of paranoia. He did that every time I got close to the truth.
"Anyway, Mike, I have a problem. Basically..." I bounced the ball of my foot against the wall. "I can't get my prick up." I laughed and resumed pacing.
"Okay, help me with specifics," Mike said. I was grateful for his clinical tone. "Are you having trouble sustaining erection, or achieving erection?"
"Achieving, I guess."
"How long has this been going on?"
"About three months. I don't know, maybe two. Since I left Denver."
"Have you attempted intercourse and found yourself unresponsive?"
I thought about the girl in the barn.