!!!!!*****WORKING DRAFT*****!!!!!
Petyr spent August in Vermont with his sons, while I continued to cobble together a career. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I worked in Wellesley at the state mental health clinic. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I met with individual clients in my little office, slowly growing a reputation for taking on the most recalcitrant and rebellious teenage girls, brought in by mothers who were long past exasperation, and were now desperate, seeing me as the last stop for their daughters before a life on the street loomed. Mostly, I listened and agreed with the girls, until the routine built into trust, and the trust could seed a return to a stable life, if not to their families.
Thursday afternoon and evenings in the summer were free, no classes at the Institute until the start of the second year in September. Occasionally, I’d accompany psychiatric residents and psychology interns on their rounds, talking with the small groups afterwards about what we’d heard, what they’d learned, and where to look for help and information. This allowed me to append the title, “Clinical Instructor, Harvard Medical School”, to my business cards and stationary.
On his return, Petyr announced that a formal separation agreement had been signed, recognizing each of them as independent agents, allowing them free rein to openly date.
“So, I’m no longer alienating your affection?” I teased him.
Petyr smiled. “You seem less worried than I do about the risks we still might face. It’s true, she has no cause to sue you, according to my lawyer, but if we were to move in together, he says a judge might consider the timing of that suspicious, wondering when our…affair might actually have begun. It may be a man’s world still in business and education. But in divorce court, we do not get the benefit of the doubt.”
“Affair?” I challenged him. “Is that what this is? All I know is I’m no longer going to feel as if I’m, as if we’re sneaking around, hiding our affections.” I took a deep breath, and risked, “I love you Petyr. You’ve got to l know that, and we need to start acting like that, as if it really means something.”
“What should it mean, beyond what we’re doing now?” he asked.
“I have to be absolutely sure this is not some rebound thing, that we’re together for our future.”
“Sarah, whatever happened in the past, for either of us, that’s where it is, and should stay. Yes, I want a future with you, for us, however, wherever, whatever. How can I make you see that?”
“Well, there is that little saying, ‘in sickness and in health’,” I blurted out.
“Oh, come on, you know that’s not possible, not until…”
“I know, I know.”
“What might convince you?”
A sudden thought raced through my mind. “Another symbol, Petyr – maybe I should bring you home to mother, announce our intentions?”
He laughed then saw I was serious. “Well, taking off to go back there…can either of us afford that?”
That night, I called my mother. “How are you, Mom?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, sweetie. I’ve got so much to keep me busy now, finding a new place, packing up again, meeting with the ladies at the temple. I’ve even started reading again, novels. Found a book club – I like that, making up for what I missed all those years. What about you? You must be very busy?”
Suddenly, I felt very tired, thinking about all I did, the stress of Petyr’s hesitance, dad’s death. “I’m exhausted Mom. I sleep 8, 9 hours a night, only have energy to go to work, then flop down after dinner, can’t even read, watch TV.”
“Oh, anything I can do? Maybe I should come see you, help out a bit.” She paused. “You think it might be lingering from his passing. Sadness can make you tired, I’ve heard.”
“Maybe, I don’t know. But yes, could you come? You can help me tidy up, there are friends, new friends, I’d like you to meet? Can you?”
She agreed to come in early October, just before Yom Kippur. After the call, Petyr seemed pleased I’d gone ahead and invited her to Boston. I remembered my promise to him, to dig into that box from home, and try writing my story.
Not knowing how to start, I re-opened the diary for inspiration. Reading those first glimmerings of curiosity about, as Petyr called him, “that boy”, I envisioned writing a letter to Mike, a missive explaining myself at that time, trying to decipher what it all meant. Not knowing where he lived now – Tacoma was the only clue I had – proved a boon, as I didn’t imagine he’d ever actually be reading it. I simply needed a mental image of an audience to get started.
Even so, I found myself stumbling as I worked through those first few months in my diary, unable to write more than half a page at a time, before dropping my pen, feeling exhausted, a piercing pain between my eyes. I set it aside for a better time.
Mom arrived on the 7th, taking a cab from Logan out to my place in Somerville. I greeted her at the door with a prolonged hug, while Petyr stood awkwardly just inside, smiling, not knowing where to look. As we pulled apart, Mom noticed him and said, “Hello. I’m F Stein – Janie – Sarah’s – mother.” She looked back at me questioningly.
I ushered her inside, taking her coat while Petyr picked up her suitcase, a valise with several decals plastered along the side – “France”, “GB”, “Israel”.
“Mom, this is Petyr. Dr. Petyr Cohen. He and I … he’s at the Institute, an analyst. I met him last year.”
“So glad to meet you, Dr. Cohen. How are you?” Mother sparkled as she eyed him up and down.
“Mrs. Stein, Sarah has told me so much about you, your family.” His smiled dropped as he went on, “I am so sorry, was so sorry, to hear of your husband’s passing. How are you doing?”
Mom smiled wanly, “Always a fraught question, coming from an analyst.” Petyr gave a polite chuckle while she went on. “Actually, I feel a bit relieved. Sad, of course, devastated. In shock for a few months after. Now, I see it as his final gift to me, the gift of time, and perspective, about what is real, what is valuable, in life.”
“And that is…?” he asked.
“Time, Dr. Cohen. Time and love.”
We spent next day, Yom Kippur, with Petyr quizzing mom about my childhood, my brothers and sister, and finally gently, about my father. She learned about his cultured upbringing in Switzerland, his parents’ disappearance in the Holocaust, and, finally, his sons and his pending divorce. After sunset, mom and I went into the kitchen, working on dinner, while Petyr left for his place, to catch up on the work he’d left idle on this Day of Atonement.
“Sweetie, he’s so charming, so precise. I notice he spent the night here…”
I knew this was not a comment, so I answered, “Mom, I’m…we’re in love.”
“Love?”
“I know, it never makes sense, does it? All I know is, it’s there, I feel it, I need it, and he does too.”
“Are you sure? He’s not just reacting to his wife leaving?”
“All I can go by is what he says, what he does. I can’t know what’s in his mind, can I? Not for sure, not with anyone, can we?”
“That’s true, that’s true. And you’ve always known your own mind, Janie, never let anyone tell you what to do. I trust you, that’s one reason why I’ve always been so proud of you.” She stepped back, collected herself a bit, and said, “One other thing, sweetie. How are you feeling?”
“About Petyr? I told you…”
“No. I mean, you look so pale. We did nothing today, just sat around, and still, you’re sighing so much, rubbing your forehead, you seem so tired. Are you working too much? I know how you drive yourself.”
“I am tired. I thought it was maybe a delayed reaction to Dad, or maybe all the newness, Petyr, growing my practice…”
“Have you lost weight? I can’t tell, it’s been five months, you look thinner. I really think…”
Exasperated, I knew she wouldn’t let this go. “OK, mom, OK. I promise I will see a doctor, get checked out. All right?”
The earliest appointment I could get with my my family doctor at HCHP was not until early November. Stepping into the small exam room, he seemed distracted. When he learned I was on the med school faculty, he unloaded with a brief diatribe against the increasing workload. I finally got his attention directed to my problem, and he quickly went through a history. Upon learning of my weight loss, and lack of a period for two months, he said, “Hmm…do you think you might be pregnant?”
“I’ve been taking pills.”
“Well, we should check anyway. A urine test for that, maybe some iron pills and a B12 shot. If you’re not pregnant, and you’re still feeling like this after the shot, let me know, we’ll look further.”
While waiting at the pharmacy to get my pills, I saw Stephanie Seacrist bustling by, her white coat flowing behind her as she sped towards Women’s. She stopped abruptly when she saw me, did a double take, and said, “Sarah, hi!” She frowned, then sat down next to me, resting her hand on mine. “I’ve gotta get to L&D. Delivery. But, listen, you look so pale. What’s going on, can I ask?”
I quickly filled her in, and she blurted out, “B12 shot? No CBC? Really?” She pulled out a prescription pad, wrote quickly, ripped off the page and handed it to me. “Go to the lab, get this blood work. I’ll call you this afternoon with the results. OK? Please!” Then she jumped up, off to bring another life into this world, I presumed.
Bewildered, I looked down at her scribbles, hoping they would translate into some answers.
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