Page 130 of Doctorshipped
When the begging continued to fall on deaf ears, I raged. I’m a self-controlled man. Even in my angriest moments, I’ve always withdrawn from the source of my anger, adding another layer of concrete to the walls around my heart, and stewing until I could be reasonable and calm. For better or worse, prior to that day with Margot, I had always turned inward with my anger.
I never raged in my life before she ignited a level of fury in me I couldn’t contain. I would never physically harm another person. But, what came out were words I wish I could retract now. I called her a coward, evil, selfish, and self-seeking. I told her she wasn’t capable of love.
I didn’t consider her and what she had endured. She had been the one with the diagnosis, but somehow, with this declaration, I forgot Margot’s suffering. All I could see was the damage she was doing to me and to our daughter.
At the time, Margot’s need to make sense of things after all she’d lived through didn’t factor into my thinking. Maybe if I had thought of her needs, she would have left an opening. Maybe she would have ended up in Bali and realized how wrong she had been. Maybe on the flight to her first stop in New York City, she would have had a change of heart and returned to us.
Margot detonated the first bomb. I annihilated everything left of us and any hope of restoration with my reaction.
At the end of that conversation we couldn’t even look one another in the eye. I fled to Dad’s, and I cried. It was the third time I had cried in all my adult years—unless you count the tears of joy during my daughter’s birth.
I cried when we received Margot’s diagnosis. I cried watching her suffer through chemo, and I cried after her announcement that day, and our mutual destruction of the life we had built so far together.
Dad went to our house and walked Margot through telling Fiona. How he did that, I’ll never know. He seemed even angrier than I was, but he managed to step in and come alongside my daughter when all I could do was fall apart.
We didn’t go home for a week. Dad brought clothes, toothbrushes, and all the essentials back to his place so I didn’t have to ever face Margot again. I’ll never know what Margot said, what Dad said, or how the rest of that day played out.
My dad simply told me, “There are things you don’t need to know. What you need to do is build your life forward. Heal from the past and make a future you’re proud of.”
Margot filed for divorce. I didn’t contest.
I didwhat Dad advised me to do. I let Margot go. I knew her well enough to know her mind was unequivocally set. And if there had been a shred of possibility she might have had a change of heart, my outburst had ensured her certainty.
I spent the next year throwing myself into two things: parenting Fiona through her grief, and continuing to grow my medical practice by being the best physician I could be. I declined all opportunities to speak or attend functions, opting to send checks to charities rather than attending galas I used to attend with Margot on my arm.
Fiona’s hockey and her special learning needs became my focus outside work hours. I let Fiona cry, scream, and say whatever she wanted so she could heal. She saw a counselor for a time. Dad told me to get my own therapist, but, stubborn man that I am, I refused. I’d go to joint sessions for Fiona when her counselor deemed my presence necessary. But, I dealt with my grief in my own way. I muscled through and I made myself some promises—one being that I would never open my heart to another woman again. I would devote my life to my patients, and to Fiona.
My resilient daughter came to a point one day that blew me away. I will always be in awe of her for this one sentence. It represented wisdom beyond her years, and it marked the turning point in our life post-Margot.
I was tucking her into bed one night, and she looked up at me and simply said, “Daddy, Mom’s missing out. We’re awesome. She should have seen that.”
I almost cried my fourth set of adult tears sitting on the edge of Fiona’s bedside, brushing her hair back from her forehead as I kissed her goodnight. Those would have been tears of joy. My daughter wouldn’t spend her life riddled with resentment. She was going to be fine. And if she was, I was.
When the opportunity to come to Bordeaux arose, I talked it over with Dad. We both decided there were too many ghosts in St. Louis—too much holding me and Fiona back from a future free of painful memories. So, we moved to Bordeaux. I gave up my thriving practice to come to a place where men set themselves on fire with flame throwing yard equipment, and then bring squirrel stew as a thank you.
A place where I unexpectedly met the love of my life.
Margot sits quietly watching me across the kitchen table. I haven’t met her eyes since we sat down. She quietly sips her water, probably waiting for me to process everything.
Memories flood me. I’m surprised I haven’t passed out from the shock of her arrival.
And she’s here for Fiona. What does that even mean?
39
JAYME
Istopped by the flower mart on my way over to Grant’s to pick up some castoffs and make an arrangement for his kitchen table. Fiona loved the last time we did that together. I’ll take her again, but, since I’m stopping in early, I thought I’d surprise her. She’ll be delighted when she comes home to a bouquet of fall blooms.
I park my car out front of Grant’s house, behind a car I don’t recognize. Maybe Grant had an emergency patient. He had texted me earlier this morning telling me the afternoon was left wide open for us. We flirted a bit over text, which only made it harder for me to wait the next few hours to get here. Grabbing the bouquet from my passenger seat, I walk up the walkway and open the front door.
“Hello?”
No one answers at first. Usually if Grant’s in with a patient, he’ll holler out to me from inside his office and I’ll wait in the waiting room across the hall until he’s finished. I am a little earlier than I said I’d be. I don’t mind waiting.
I hear voices in the kitchen, so I walk in that direction.
Grant’s facing me, sitting at the table. A woman sits in a chair adjacent to him. I’ve never seen her before, but something stirs in my gut. She’s tall, I gather that, even from her seated position. Elegance defines her features and posture. Her eyes. They remind me of someone I know, but I can’t place who it is. This woman’s simultaneously stunning and severe, the kind of woman you’d expect to encounter at the head of a boardroom, and then see running a 10K over the weekend.
