Leave Me

But there was something a little off about him; she could tell. It should make her wary—malpractice, probably—but, oddly, it was kind of reassuring. He couldn’t be so godlike now. Not if he, too, was damaged goods.

She decided then. He would be her doctor. Not because he was the only one who’d see her, but because she chose him.

She made an appointment for the following Monday.

16

Maribeth began to sort things out. She asked Mr. Giulio where the nearest library was (in Lawrenceville) and figured out which bus would get her there. The library would have computers, which would have Google, which would help her navigate everything else.

She also thought she might write an e-mail to the twins at the library. What she would tell them, she had no idea. How did one explain what she had done? How did one not explain?

The library was about a mile away from her apartment, down a steep hill and up a smaller one. This had been another surprise about Pittsburgh, how hilly, mountainous really, it was. It made things challenging for a cardiac post-op patient. As Maribeth rode the bus, she thought that perhaps when she could make the walk round-trip, that would be a sign that she was better. Maybe then she could go home. Maybe that was what she would tell Oscar and Liv. Children liked adults to be definitive. You could have three cookies. You could watch one episode of Phineas and Ferb.

But when she got to the library, something stopped her from even going near the bank of computers, even though there were several empty terminals. She had already broken the most important promise a mother makes—not to leave. She could not break any more. She could not tell them when she was coming back because she had no idea when that would be.

Instead, she walked to the periodicals section, planning to read a newspaper or something edifying to make good use of her free time. The library had copies of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and the New York Times on a wooden table, and several magazines, including an old issue of Frap.

It was from last August. Inside, there was a feature on celebrities who were vocal antivaccination advocates, an article that she and Elizabeth had argued over in the conference room in front of the entire senior staff.

Maribeth had felt the article, at least in the form it had been in at the time, was too fawning. If they wanted to run a piece on celebrities advocating against vaccinations, she’d insisted, it needed to be critical. It needed to be a serious piece of journalism for a change. “This is a public health issue,” she’d told Elizabeth.

“Be that as it may, we need to keep our tone respectful,” Elizabeth had responded.

“What does that even mean?” Maribeth had asked.

Not for the first time since coming to work at Frap, she’d felt as if she didn’t really know Elizabeth, even though they’d been best friends and confidantes since almost the moment they’d met, more than two decades ago, in that very building, in fact, in a bathroom two floors below the conference room where they now were arguing.

Maribeth had just been starting out in her career, and was not off to a particularly promising start. The day she met Elizabeth, Maribeth had been hiding in a bathroom stall, crying. She had just gotten off the phone with her former college roommate Courtney, who had told her that Jason had a new girlfriend. She and Jason had broken up—by mutual agreement—after more than two years together. But that had only been three weeks ago. The speed at which she’d been replaced, it had kneecapped her.

She’d been sobbing in that bathroom stall as quietly as she could, which apparently was not all that quiet, because she heard someone say, “You can tell me it’s not my business, but are you okay in there?”

Maribeth opened the door. There was Elizabeth, brushing her teeth at one of the sinks.

“I’m fine,” Maribeth had said, not fine at all.

Elizabeth wet two paper towels and held them out to the side. Like a cagey dog coming in for a treat, Maribeth approached the sink.

“You know, we just ran a profile of a woman who put a hit on her philandering husband,” Elizabeth said, delicately spitting out toothpaste. She spoke to Maribeth’s reflection, in deference, perhaps, to the fact that they didn’t really know each other. Maribeth had been working as an editorial floater at the magazine where Elizabeth held a staff position. “She’s doing ten years at San Quentin,” Elizabeth continued, “so I’m not sure it’s worth it in the end, but all I’m saying is it can be done.”

Maribeth immediately went from crying to laughing. “He’s not a philanderer, just a shithead.”

Now Elizabeth laughed, too. “That’s the spirit.”

“Really, I broke it off. It just wasn’t working with the long-distance.”

Elizabeth smiled, as if what Maribeth said had pleased her. “Then perhaps instead of crying, I might suggest a cocktail. I know a bartender who’s generous with free cosmos. I’m Elizabeth, by the way.”

“I’m Maribeth.”

“Two Beths.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess we are.”

They’d gone for drinks that night. And many nights thereafter. Until she and Jason got back together ten years later—and maybe even after that—Elizabeth had been Maribeth’s person. And Maribeth Elizabeth’s. And yet in that conference room, she had seemed like another out-of-touch sycophantic editor-in-chief, someone Maribeth didn’t know, someone Maribeth wouldn’t know, ordering Maribeth to make an article about nonvaccinating celebrities “respectful.”

“Are you kidding?” Maribeth had fumed. “These people are idiots.”