Addiction by G. H. Ephron

the pavement, a Richard Thompson CD playing in my ears. The river was slate gray, not a ripple on it. Nothing more than a shadowy outline suggested that the Hancock Tower was on the Boston side of the river. Mist coated my face.
    I was barely a mile into my run, and already I felt steam rising off my body, stifling inside the heavy sweatshirt. Perspiration was dripping into my eyes. I wiped my arm across my forehead. Physical discomfort can be very reassuring, pinning you securely in the moment.
    That’s what I wanted. The physical present and nothing else. I tried to get there, to sync my strides to the beat of the music, to feel each foot hit the ground and the shock wave rise up my shin and then ripple from knee to hip. I pulled off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist, yearning for even five minutes when all I could think about was my body and the effort it took to keep going. I could hear Channing’s patient voice: “Talk to me. That way I’ll know you’re breathing.”
    But instead of anchoring me in the present, I found myself replaying the phone call I’d gotten last night from Drew. First, he’d asked about Olivia. His speech was slurred, one word slopping up
against the next. He’d probably been drinking. I told him she was stable but still sedated.
    He asked if I knew when Channing’s body might be released, so they could make plans for cremation and a memorial service. I had no idea, but I offered to call and find out what I could. The logistics of death are a wonderful thing—they provide a rhythm, a driving force for getting you through those first few horrendous days. They move the body and the brain forward when the spirit wants to roll over and surrender.
    â€œHow did she look?” Drew had asked. “Her face. Did she look frightened?”
    I didn’t want to turn my mind back, to remember, but I closed my eyes and tried. “No,” I could honestly say, “she seemed peaceful. At rest, even.”
    Drew gave an exhausted sigh. “Thank God for that at least.”
    I asked Drew if he’d eaten any dinner. He dismissed the question. The worst part, he said, was being alone. Even the housekeeper, overcome with grief, had gone home to her own family. “I’ll be all right,” Drew said. “I made up the bed in Channing’s study. She’s here, you know. Her books. Her papers. Her smell.” I could picture him, curled up like a little kid in a blanket on the sofa bed. “It’s my fault,” he said, and noisily blew his nose. “I’ve been having an affair.” He added quickly, “It meant nothing.”
    That was the problem with suicide. Everyone wanted to take credit. Shoulder the guilt. Daphne blamed herself for not paying attention. Olivia had said it was all her fault. Now Drew was doing the same. Survivors engage in an endless game of If-Only-I’d.
    â€œYou should see your doctor,” I said. “Don’t be stoic. Let him prescribe something to get you through the worst of this.”
    â€œI called. He can’t see me until day after tomorrow.”
    â€œTake it easy on the booze,” I said. “You’re depressed. Alcohol only makes you more so.”
    â€œIt’s all I have,” he said.
    Many psychiatrists have a bathroom cabinet full of samples
dropped off by generous pharmaceutical salespeople. But Channing wouldn’t. It was a side of medicine that infuriated her, another example of the incestuous relationship drug companies and physicians shared.
    Then I remembered—Daphne said Channing was taking Ativan. I described what the pills looked like. “I’m not a physician,” I said. “I can’t tell you to take them. But I can tell you that one or two twenty-five-milligram tablets will probably help, and the side effects are minimal, but don’t take one now. Wait until the morning, when you’ve slept it off.”
    This