One year after my divorce, I ran into my ex-husband in the pediatric wing of the hospital where I worked. He proudly introduced the one-year-old son he had with my former best friend, expecting me to fall apart in front of everyone. Instead, I smiled and quietly said, Really? Five minutes later, my attorney stepped off the elevator—and the sound of a baby bottle hitting the floor was the first crack in the life they thought they had stolen from me.
A year since Rhett Mallory walked out.
And there he was in the middle of the paediatric corridor at Thornhill like a man who had bought the flooring, one hand on a changing bag and the other on a buggy, wearing the smile he gets when he thinks he has won something.
Next to him: Yvie.
My best friend of eleven years. The one who used to sit in my kitchen and tell me he would come round.
She was holding a bottle and her hands were not steady, and she was fussing with a blanket over a little boy with pale hair who was trying to get hold of a stuffed giraffe.
I had my coat on. The badge says Dr P. Sandell**. I had a tablet full of clinic letters under my arm and a meeting in twelve minutes and absolutely no intention of stopping.**
And then he saw me.
"Well," he said, at a volume chosen for the waiting area. "Look who it is."
Four or five people looked up.
"Hello, Rhett."
He looked disappointed that it came out level.
For eleven years that man ran on reactions. Tears, shouting, the silent treatment — anything he could put in his pocket and bring out later as proof that I was not well.
Medicine teaches you the opposite. You keep your hands still while a family comes apart in front of you.
He glanced at the badge. "Still working too much?"
I nearly laughed, because that accusation has outlived the marriage.
"I like my job."
