As Darcy had cried uncontrollably, her face buried in Rita’s neck, it had dawned on Rita how selfish she’d been over the years. No, not just selfish. Weak. Weak because she’d let it all happen, had let it come to this.
She would fix it, Rita had decided. She was a surgeon, goddammit. She’d been trained to fix things. Worse things than this. She might not have been there for Darcy before, but she could sure as hell fix her now. She’d resolved, right there in the doorway, to double down, reprioritize, to excise from her life, with surgical precision, all the nonessentials, the selfish and weak things, and focus on Darcy.
And then she’d jettisoned, like ballast tossed from a hot-air balloon, all of her other serious personal relationships.
Spencer.
God, breaking up with him had hurt so much.
Harder still was not telling him why. That had been her decision, not Darcy’s. She was a private person who in her mind organized life into compartments: Darcy in one, Spencer in another; Darcy unaware of Spencer’s existence, and Spencer only vaguely of Darcy’s. Explaining Darcy’s sudden appearance to Spencer would have smashed this orderly arrangement. Besides, Spencer would have insisted on helping Rita, because helping people was his nature. Fixing Darcy was something she’d needed to do on her own.
When, a few days later, she’d broken up with him with some canned speech about there not being room in her life for a serious relationship—
(His eyes. God. So sad.)
(Like a big, hurt puppy. Like she’d kicked a puppy.)
—it had killed her.
She supposed she’d come across as an ice-cold bitch, the stereotype of the driven professional woman without the time or inclination to settle down with a proper man and play house. Fine. Maybe she really was a ruthless bitch. In which case Spencer deserved better anyway.
You don’t believe that, Rita. You never have.
When she’d told Chase she’d be taking some time off, having accumulated over the years enough unused vacation to practically retire, he’d squinted at her from across the expanse of his desk, considering her silently for several moments before saying in his smooth baritone: Don’t worry. We’ll keep the lights on for you. Do whatever it is you need to do. He’d never pressed her for more information.
“Dr. Wu? Can you hear me?” Finney said.
Darcy had agreed to cut out the pills, and the wine she’d needed to bring her down from them, but flatly refused to enter therapy. Rita had shrugged and let it go. The two of them had eased into a sedate routine, Rita indulging in the small luxuries she’d denied herself since … well, pretty much ever. Sleeping. Sunbathing. Long brunches. Hikes. Day spas. Reality TV. Movies.
They’d talked about everything, and nothing. Mom. Dad. Gram. Darcy’s boyfriends. Spencer. Rita’s career. Darcy’s fears and failures. Weeks passed. Darcy gained weight, cut down to a quarter of a pack a day, and started to take long walks for exercise. She began to talk about writing again, and of transferring to State, or maybe the University of San Diego.
Then, just as Rita had been getting ready to head back to work, and Darcy was perusing college catalogs, a call came from the friend in Portland, inviting Darcy for the weekend. Darcy, who had no money, asked Rita for some.
Just enough for the plane ticket, Ree. And some food.
Rita had hesitated, her instincts nudging her to keep Darcy close for a bit longer. But it was just a weekend, after all. What could a weekend hurt?
She’d given Darcy the money.
A weekend in Portland had stretched into a week. A week into two, two weeks into two months. And then …
Rita was alone again.
That was when the drinking had started.
With Darcy gone, she’d considered going back to Spencer, who’d continued to pursue her like a lovesick teenager, but rejected the idea. It wasn’t pride. She’d had no pride left to swallow.
That was when the drinking had started.
No. She didn’t deserve Spencer. Besides, Spencer was a luxury she couldn’t afford: When Darcy came back again—
(If she came back, she’d worried.)
—she wouldn’t have room for both in her life.
Darcy had not come back. Not then.
That was when the drinking had started.
Portland didn’t work out. But Darcy had met a boy there—
(Simon? Steve? Something that started with S.)
—who’d convinced her to go with him to Seattle. She and S-something had moved in together. Darcy had landed a waitressing job, but during infrequent calls had asked for money: to help, she said—
(Pay for the partying.)
—find time to write a novel.
(In between the partying.)
“Dr Wu?” Finney said.
Rita closed her eyes …
SEBASTIAN
Sebastian was feeling—
(guilty)
—crappy.
That lady. The patient. She hadn’t deserved that. No one deserved that.
It was one thing to have planned the whole thing out on paper and to imagine how it was part of a bigger picture, a grander plan. But to have actually seen it play out, with the scalpel, and the blood …
But guilt was unprofessional.
As for Wu: It was a wonder she wasn’t a raving lunatic by now. Or dead.
When did I become one of the bad guys?