Leave Me

“Because I certainly wasn’t watchful before. I didn’t even know I was having a heart attack,” she said. “I thought it was bad Chinese food.”

He blew on his tea. Maribeth could smell the bergamot. Earl Grey. “That’s not uncommon.”

“Really? So everyone blames the Kung Pao chicken?”

“Sweet and sour pork gets a worse rap.”

“If you eat sweet and sour pork, it’s your own fault.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Read the fine print. It’s in the menu.”

He laughed.

The ensuing rush felt not unlike finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket. It had been such a long time since she’d made someone laugh.

“If it makes you feel better,” Dr. Grant went on, “women in particular often mistake heart attacks for intestinal gas.”

“No sentence with the phrase ‘intestinal gas’ will ever make me feel better,” she said.

He laughed again. And Maribeth remembered. She used to be funny. At work, she’d been known for her wit, at least until she started at Frap and one too many of her comments had landed with a thud. She recalled one staff meeting early on, discussing some vein-bulgingly thin actress who’d bragged in the cover story about her penchant for “eating like a pig,” and Maribeth had remarked something about how this must be the mystical air-eating pig, cousin to the flying one. Elizabeth had offered a tight smile, but not her usual guffaw. The rest of the editors had looked horrified.

As Dr. Grant laughed, Maribeth did, too. It hurt, but only a little.

“How about this,” Dr. Grant said. “Heart disease with an onset in the midforties and no other risk factors is most likely a result of familial hyperlipidemia. You probably inherited this. So cut the Kung Pao chicken a little slack.”

It was just like one of her jokes at Frap. Thud. It deadened the room.

“I only say that because if it’s hereditary . . .” He reached for her file, opened to her family history. Registered that it was blank. “Huh.”

“I’m adopted,” she said, trying so very hard to make it sound casual. “So even if I wanted to blame my mother, I can’t.”

“Or your father. Heart disease doesn’t discriminate.”

“How progressive of it.” She stopped. “Progressive. Ha. Get it?”

This time, no one laughed.

“You know nothing of your biological family?” he asked.

“No.” There was a sour taste on her tongue. How had they gotten here? From quips about Chinese food to this?

“Have you thought to look?” He held up his hands as if to fend off an attack. “I don’t mean to get personal but you’re not the first patient who has found themselves in such a situation. A health crisis is often a catalyst for seeking more information.”

“I’ve had enough drama. I’m not interested in digging up any more.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not my business,” he said.

“No,” she said testily. “It’s not.”

IT WAS A lie, of course.

Not the part about not wanting drama. But the part about not looking. The day before she had gone to the library and finally worked up the nerve to go online, not to check e-mail but to search BurghBirthParents.org, a site she had discovered when the twins were born. She had not gotten any further than the homepage, full of testimonials from adoptees and birth parents who had been reunited. But she suspected she would. Why else had she come here?

21

Maribeth had not seen much of her neighbors since the disastrous trip to the supermarket. When they’d all met up at the checkout line Todd had frowned at her sad basket of surrender goods. “You could’ve got that at the ShurSave.”

At the Asian grocery store, she had elected to remain in the car. She did not want to risk another panic attack. It was only after Todd and Sunita had left her there that she realized how provincial—or worse, racist—she might seem. On the ride home, they spoke among themselves, while Maribeth sat silent in the backseat. She had not made a good first impression.

But then she received a text from Todd, saying he would have the car again Wednesday and did she want to go shopping.

Yes! she texted back. This time, she would be prepared. At the library, she had looked at a few cookbooks. She now knew what she should be eating. Fish. Lean meats. Tofu. Beans. Pasta. Eggs (whites only). Leafy greens and rich-colored berries. And nonfat yogurt.

They met at five. “You can sit up front. Sunny’s at a movie with ‘friends,’ ” Todd said, making air quotes.

As they drove, Todd was silent, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers.

“Everything okay?” Maribeth asked.

“Fine,” he said. “She gave me a list but I told her we wouldn’t go to the Asian store, not if she’s going to flake. I’m not her errand boy.” He snorted. “She thinks she’s learning to cook but, oh, god, I’d rather eat dirt.”

“I see,” Maribeth said.

“The only thing she does worse than cooking is cleaning. You should see her room. It’s a disaster.” He made a hard right onto Liberty. “I’m only living with her as a favor to her parents.”

“Really?” Maribeth said.

“Her dad got transferred to India last year and he wanted Sunny to live in the dorms but she refused. So I was the compromise. Her family’s known me forever and I might be a guy but I’m gay so I’m safe. Now I’m stuck with her.”