Third Degree (15 page)

My heart pounds, my palms are sweaty. My fingers freeze over the keyboard of my laptop, listening to the silent house one more time. Logically, I know my mom is in bed for the night—it’s two in the morning—but the paranoia is above logic. And my mom was extremely concerned when I showed up at home yet again without much advance planning. Maybe she was just worried about hiding more evidence from me, like divorce papers and bills from lawyers, or maybe she’s sold the house already and didn’t want me to find out until my next trip home, when I walk through the door and strangers are all moved in. That seems to be their preferred method of communicating with their daughter lately. I push the anger from my thoughts and focus on the task at hand.

I could get in a lot of trouble for this.

I could also find the answers I need.

Or I could exit out of the secured system and go insane obsessing over my failures.

The cautious part of my brain shuts down and my hands fly over the keys, entering in my name, birth date, and social security number. The file pops up before there’s any chance of me changing my mind and now that it’s uploading before my eyes, I can’t turn away.

I scroll through a fairly recent exam and full panel of blood work I had done as a precaution after Justin the asshole decided to engage in sexual relations with another girl while engaging with me.

Finally, I land on the notes from Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D. It’s hard to take any of this
report seriously. She’s not even an M.D. But the more I read, the more my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Sentences jump out at me and play on repeat.

Displays tendency to project blame on others
.

Struggles to bond socially with peers
.

Emotional disconnect when discussing patients
.

Forms inappropriate and unhealthy sexual/romantic relationships, i.e., co-worker and college professor
.

Okay, that last item is technically true, but it sounds terrible when put in this context. Plus I thought answering that question honestly would have given me trust points or something. Besides, he wasn’t my professor at the time. I was his TA. That’s like co-workers, right? Except co-workers are apparently off-limits, too.

Adoptive father (also an M.D.) admits, after much prodding and through non-direct questioning, that the candidate struggles with any type of relationship
.

I stare openmouthed at the words in front of me. My dad betrayed me? I rub away the pain forming in my chest. How could he say that? Is it the opinion of a very well-known heart surgeon, or is it a dad worried about his child?

Adoptive father reports candidate’s family history of superior intelligence and mental illness—birth mother carried high academic accomplishments, master’s and Ph.D. by age twenty-two, diagnosed clinically depressed at age twenty-three. Displayed similar behavior patterns as the candidate—socially inept, etc
.

My fingers take over again and slam the laptop shut. Nausea rolls over me in giant waves, my skin itching at the thought of this genetic link. I hate psychology. I’ve never trusted it. It’s not an exact science and is often flooded with stupid, far-fetched theories. But I can’t deny a genetic link. I can’t deny that I appear to be on the same path as—

Stop!
Don’t think about it. Think about a way out of this hole that’s been dug by evolution.

But Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., might be right. I might be like my birth mother.

I squeeze my shaking hands and stand up, pacing my room. I shouldn’t have read that. I should have stayed in the dark. And it’s not like I’ve ever wanted to be this way. I don’t. Normal is so much easier. I don’t care what genetics say; I won’t be like her. I’ll refuse. I’ll fix myself.

The floor outside my door creaks, and I freeze in place. I stare at the knob, watching it twist, and then my mom’s head pokes through a tiny opening.

“Isabel,” she says, sighing with relief. “You’re awake. I heard noise, and I thought …”

She opens the door the rest of the way and steps inside my room. I take in her appearance, hair matted down and graying. My parents didn’t adopt me until they were in their forties, so they’re getting to that almost-old stage. My dad is fit and handsome still, but Mom looks tired and older, much older, like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

I glance at the laptop, at what I was reading, and then turn my attention to Mom. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep. There’s this assignment I’m working on for my literature course. It’s completely pointless, but I’d like to avoid scaring off another instructor.”

Mom gives me a sleepy smile. “That’s too bad. I thought maybe you were in here on a late-night phone call with a certain boy who happens to have a flip-flop addiction.…”

Another knot forms in my stomach at the thought of Marshall. “I don’t even have his number, Mom.”

She shrugs. “Never mind, then, but you kids have a million different methods of staying up all night chatting besides using phones—email, Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr, or whatever it’s called.”

Maybe it’s not completely my fault that I’m out of touch with normal teenage society. “He’s my RA. It’s pretty much a big no-go zone. Besides, he’s nice and I’m not. He calls his sisters, did you know that? He calls them and they call him and he listens to them gripe about problems with third grade or whatever. Can you imagine Justin or—”

I clamp my mouth shut before the name Sam—Professor Townsend—has a chance to roll off my tongue. I have a feeling Mom always suspected something was going on between us, but she either didn’t want to accept it or didn’t want to be forced to tell my dad.

“Or who?” she prompts, eyebrows lifting.

“Or any other guy like Justin,” I say, faking exasperation. “You know interns and residents. They’re all alike—selfish vultures.”

“I have a feeling Justin’s not the monster you’ve made him out to be,” she says.

I sigh and flop onto my bed. “Maybe not.”

“You’ll go and see your dad in the morning?” she asks, though it sounds like the question is extremely difficult for her to speak aloud.

“In his new condo?” I snap, hating the unmanageable anger. “Or is he working tomorrow?”

She leans her head against the door frame and closes her eyes briefly, and I feel like the difficult twelve-year-old all over again. “You haven’t asked me anything. Why haven’t you asked me anything, Isabel?”

My jaw tenses, but I stare up at the ceiling and say the words I’ve been holding in for over a week now. “Did Dad cheat on you?”

“No,” she says right away, “he didn’t cheat on me. And I don’t know what happened. His work has always been a wedge between us, but when you joined him at the hospital for seventy hours a week and I was here all alone, the reality of his priorities finally set in. I guess I need more than he’s willing to offer.”

I stay focused on the ceiling as a couple of tears roll down the sides of my face. I’m so scared to ask her if I still belong to them like I have since I was five. Or am I becoming this person who’s related to a mentally ill woman, and the reality of that is too dark for them to stick it out together?

Looking at the report was punishment enough. I want to not know the answer for a little bit longer. I want to hide from my future for a little bit longer.

“I can’t see Dad,” I say, quickly forming a plan. A new goal. “I’m heading back to school in a few hours.”

I make the decision right then to do something that resembles trying. Really trying to belong this time. No excuses. No slipping into another Marshall Collins bubble and hiding from the rest of the university. No more running home scared. This isn’t going to be my home for much longer, and my parents are already worn thin having to deal with me and then their marriage issues on top of that. I need to figure this out on my own.

Chapter 12

@IsabelJenkinsMD:
Depression-related suicide is the 10th-leading cause of death in the U.S.

I come up the stairs to my floor, and before I even reach the top, I hear voices coming from Marshall’s room. My stomach flutters, realizing that I’m about to see him again, right now. It’s a weird mix of excitement, from remembering that hot kiss, and nerves, from remembering my abrupt departure and all the confessions.

My breath catches in my throat as I step in front of his doorway, but I plaster on a very neutral, friendly expression. Marshall jumps to his feet the second he sees me, abandoning his lounging position on the bed. There’s a broad-shouldered, big-muscled guy with dark, slightly curly hair standing in the room, sporting an NIU football jersey.

“I thought you were home for the weekend,” Marshall says, glancing at the other guy and then back at me.

“I came back early.” I shrug. “Got some things to take care of.”

The other guy does that eye-scanning thing that Marshall insists is him checking me out. A grin spreads slowly across his face. He moves toward and sticks a hand out. “I’m Jesse, Marsh’s older, more attractive, more awesome, and more financially stable brother.”

Before I can shake his hand, a pillow comes speeding across the room, smacking him in the side of the face.

“Aren’t you a little old to be hitting on college freshmen?” Marshall says.

Jesse. The oldest sibling, and the other person responsible for forcing a five-year-old to eat a peppercorn
. Marshall might be away from home right now, but it feels like his family is always around in some form or another.

“Maybe,” he admits, still staring at me. “But I have a feeling this girl is wise beyond her years. I bet you prefer older, more experienced men, right?”

I lean against the door frame, sizing him up. He has the same dark, barely curly hair as Marshall, but he’s more intense and with hard lines, whereas Marshall has that sexy yet still boyish look to him. Jesse is stocky and Marsh is tall and lean.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty-five.”

“Definitely not too old,” I answer.

Marshall’s mouth drops open, but it only takes him a second to pull it together. He walks
over to Jesse and starts shoving him out the door. “Time for you to go.”

Jesse laughs but doesn’t object. “Since you won’t sit with me at the game, I’m knocking you out and dragging you to that party later.” He turns to me. “You should come, too. Bring that roommate of yours. She’s a wild little thing.”

So he knows Kelsey. And he knows that Kelsey is my roommate …

Before Jesse is out of sight, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bag of something green. “Almost forgot. Got a present for you, little bro.” He tosses the bag to Marshall, who catches it but shoots a glare at his brother.

“Way to be discreet, Jess.”

He shrugs and points a finger at me. “I’ll see you later.”

“He’s mostly talk,” Marshall says as soon as Jesse is gone. “He’s also kind of the party animal in the family. But I’ve never seen him hook up with girls seven years younger, so don’t get any ideas about him being a creep or anything.”

“Seven years isn’t a big deal.” My gaze travels to the bag in his hand. I step inside the room, shut the door, and lunge forward, snatching the bag before he can stop me. I hold it up to the light, examining the contents. “This is pretty decent quality. I’ve seen a lot worse in the ER, for sure.” I lower the bag and hold it behind my back. “What are you doing with illegal narcotics in a dorm room? You’re a fucking RA, Marshall!”

“Would you lower your voice, please?” he hisses and then before I can react, he’s got the bag in his hands and then tosses it into his top drawer. “Might I remind you this is real college—a time of experimentation?”

“Aren’t you worried about your lungs?”

“Not particularly.” He turns me around to face the door and opens it, pushing me into the hallway and following behind.

The two guys in the room next to mine, Evan and Yoshi, come into the hall and stand there like they’re waiting for someone.

“Ready?” Marshall says to them before turning to me. “We’re going to the game if you want to come.”

“I thought you told your brother you weren’t going.”

“I told him I wasn’t using one of his tickets.” He shrugs. “Figured I’d sit in the student section.”

I suppress a groan, remembering the eyelash-batting blond girl from anatomy class and her invitation. Well, at least this will allow me to meet some new people and not be caught in another Marshall bubble. “All right, I’ll go.”

Both Yoshi and Evan put a great deal of effort into hiding their disappointment, but I don’t miss the look and the eye roll that happens between them. Whatever. Now I’m that much
more determined to not be weird today.

“Are you guys going to the party later with Marshall’s brother?” I ask to make conversation.

Evan and Yoshi both give Marshall intriguing looks as we all head for the stairs and outside. “Don’t know … Marsh, are we invited or is this a big-kid party?” Evan asks.

“Jesse invited me,” I put in, “and I’m the same age as you guys.”

Marshall lets out a sigh. “Fine, you can all go, but I’m not responsible for getting you back here or anything that requires disrobing, mopping, carrying, facilitating, or … well, you get the point.”

It’s nearly a mile walk to the stadium, and right away I get the sense that Marshall is putting more and more distance between the other guys and us. Eventually he says, “What do you mean, seven years isn’t a big deal?”

I laugh. “You’re really hung up on this, aren’t you?”

He scratches the back of his head and keeps his gaze trained on his shoes. “I’m just thinking about what you said yesterday regarding on-call rooms … and then the seven-year thing …”

“The on-call room activity involved a twenty-two-year-old intern, so four years’ difference,” I say.

“Wait, there’s another one like you? A teenage doctor?” He lowers his voice on that last part.

I snort back a laugh. “Not even close. He didn’t graduate from med school until he was twenty-one.”

“What an idiot.” Marshall shakes his head. “So … seven years isn’t a big deal? Is that coming from personal experience?”