It occurred to me that there must be knock-on effects from this week’s surreal developments that hadn’t even dawned on me yet. Yesterday, for example, after hanging up with Will, I reflected that all my life I had blithely filled in medical forms claiming no family history of diabetes or heart disease. Whereas, for all I knew, all four of my biological grandparents had dropped dead from massive coronaries. I had no clue what my family medical history was.
I felt a stab of fury toward my parents. My adoptive parents, if that was the right term. By what right had they kept so much from me? How could they have thought I would not want to know? What made it worse was that I was closer to my parents than to anyone else in the world. They could both read me like a book. I had assumed the reverse was true as well.
Now I felt a shift. A fracturing. The decoupling of souls.
You think you know people when you grow up with them. When you believe they’ve been beside you your whole life. You know their voices, the curves of their hands, what makes them laugh. You know their hearts.
But it turns out you don’t know their thoughts. Not truly, not in full. All people have their secrets, and not just things they keep from you, but secrets about you. Things they hope you’ll never learn. You can share your home with someone, share all the silly, little details of life, share the soap, the sugar bowl, shoes—and you would never guess.
You think you know someone.
Then, at the age of thirty-seven, you grow up.
Nine
* * *
MONDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2013
I woke up hungry, which—considering I hadn’t eaten in four days—seemed a good sign.
My favorite breakfast is a ham-and-cheese croissant from Patisserie Poupon on Wisconsin Avenue. This pleasant spot is cramped but sunny, and the only place in Washington that produces croissants and baguettes that taste remotely the way they do in Paris. They also bake a bacon quiche that—trust me on this—will change your life. Amazing what a pastry chef unafraid to embrace obscene quantities of butter, salt, and pork can achieve. I suspect the same formula is at work in the croissant jambon fromage, which is why, for the sake of my thighs, I try to limit myself to stopping by no more than twice a week.
Patisserie Poupon is only a few minutes’ walk from my house. I could head there for a croissant and tea, swing back home for my suitcase, and still make it to the airport in plenty of time. When I got there, though, I was greeted with a locked door and a CLOSED ON MONDAYS sign. No, no, no. I always forgot this inconvenient detail. I pressed my nose against the glass and squinted, desperate enough to beg an off-duty employee to open up and sell me yesterday’s remnants. But the bakery was deserted, swept clean, chairs neatly stacked on tables, sunlight glinting off empty display cases. Not a croissant in sight.
Discouraged, I retraced my steps home. I would have to settle for a gluey bagel at the airport. More taste of cardboard. Although wasn’t there a café that sold decent prosciutto paninis, right after the security line? Which terminal was that again? I was trying to recall as I rounded the corner onto my block and spotted a man standing on my front step.
I stopped in my tracks.
It was Will Zartman. My doctor, leaning on my doorbell and looking agitated.
“Dr. Zartman? Is that you? What on earth are you doing here?” I glanced at my watch; it was not yet nine o’clock.
“Caroline! Hi. Hi there. I told you, call me Will.” He heaved a deep breath. “I thought I’d missed you.”
“You did, nearly. I’m just grabbing my bag. But why are you—”
“I got your message when I woke up. I’ve been trying to call. I must have tried you five times. Don’t you ever answer your phone?”
I considered this. I’d left my cell phone in the house, propped on top of my suitcase. I often wander out without it. Not out of forgetfulness, but because I spend too much time around teenage students who can’t conduct a five-minute, face-to-face conversation without twitching for their phones. I like my friends as much as the next person, but I don’t feel the need to tweet them my thoughts a dozen times a day. And anyone who needs to reach me can probably wait an hour or two. I don’t have the kind of job that demands urgent responses. So, no—on an early walk for my morning croissant, I don’t ever answer my phone.
“Why are you here? Is something wrong?”
“Is something wrong? You mean, aside from your experiencing a burning sensation in your neck, and the fact that an X-ray just confirmed there’s a bullet in there? I thought we’d agreed that you would see Marshall this week. The surgeon. You need to talk to him.”
“I will. As soon as I get back. I just need a couple of days.”
“No. Leaving town is a bad idea. That’s why I kept calling. You shouldn’t be traveling. I’m worried that you—”
“But why are you worried? A week ago you barely knew who I was, and now here you—”
“I knew who you were. Any man under the age of ninety and still in full possession of his faculties would notice who you were.”
I raised my eyebrows.
To my surprise, he did not blush or back down. Instead he leaned forward and gripped my right wrist. “Look, you need to take this seriously. A bullet rubbing against your spine is not something to mess around with.” He turned my arm over, studied it. “You’re not wearing your wrist guard.”
“It’s been feeling better.”
“No, I’ll bet it hasn’t.”
“Oh my God! I know whether my own wrist hurts. And anyway, whether it hurts or not is none of your—” I clamped my mouth shut. Whether my wrist hurt was of course precisely his business. “I’m going to be late,” I said, changing tack. “I promise I’ll go see your friend Marshall. Later this week, if you like. Now excuse me.”
I unlocked the door, plucked my phone and suitcase from the front hall, and pulled the door shut again.
Will was still standing there. “How are you getting to the airport?”
“Taxi. I’ll get one on M Street.”
“You’ll be lucky to catch one in rush hour.” He pulled out his phone, glanced at the time. “My first patient isn’t booked until ten. My car’s right here. I’ll drive you.”
“Across the river? To National Airport?” It wasn’t far, maybe twenty minutes’ drive. Still. “I’ll be fine.”