the shrink,” Morgan said. “I’ve been busy.”
“For three months?” asked Merrimac.
“So?”
“You’re running out of time! Plan on abandoning your career?” Merrimac’s voice rose.
Morgan was silent.
Merrimac looked around the room. There were now barbells and weights scattered everywhere. The bookshelves were still empty—that hadn’t changed.
“Are you trying out for the Olympics?” Merrimac asked.
“I’m able to press over two twenty-five now.”
“I don’t care! You’re supposed to be in therapy! Is this”—Merrimac’s arm swept over the living room—“the prescribed treatment?”
“Ross, I don’t need you bitching me out. I’ve got things going on I need to take care of.”
“Like what, pray tell? Is this going to be your new normal? What are you planning on doing…coming back to work looking like a buffed Hippocrates?”
“Enough!” Morgan said.
Merrimac could tell by looking at his friend’s face that his attempt to be humorous backfired.
“I told you I’d see the psychiatrist, and I will.”
Both men were losing their patience.
“Look, Wes,” said Merrimac, “I know Caroline’s death…this whole thing’s pissed you off. It’s pissed me off. In fact, it’s pissed everybody off. It’s going take time.”
He put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. The muscles were thick from some serious physical training. “Will you do it for your friend…please? If you need longer, take it! You can teach when you come back. But please get help.”
“Fine.”
“You know what I’ve said before about that…”
“Ross! It’s time to go! I said I’d take care of it. I can look out for myself.”
Merrimac debated saying more but held back. There was nothing he could do. The demise of a successful physician’s career was a terrible thing to watch. Merrimac wanted to Baker Act him, lock him up in the psych ward and get his brain fixed, but Morgan didn’t sound suicidal. He was acting weird but not crazy. Merrimac would have to wait. That would be difficult. Wes was his friend.
“Can I check in with you maybe in a week?”
“I’ll be on it by then.”
“Good. I’ll call you.”
Morgan locked the door.
“One week. Shit…”
No more procrastination! He got his cell phone and called his attorney.
“Sell the townhouse,” Morgan told him. “Take the best offer you get within sixty days. I’ll send you the papers this afternoon.”
The man couldn’t talk him out of it.
“I’m also going to be sending you a cashier’s check in a few days. Please hold it in your trust account.”
“Wes…why are you doing this? Want to come in and talk for a while? Maybe have dinner and drinks?”
“I’m okay. Just simplifying. Life’s short. Got things I need to do.”
“I’ll call you when the town—”
“No, I’ll call you,” Morgan replied. “Don’t fret. If you need to get me, best to drop me a note.” He gave him a PO Box number and address.
“Wes…I know you’re not crazy.”
“No, I’m not…just pissed.”
Morgan waited in line at the post office to mail the documents. When the clerk called for the next customer, he didn’t realize quickly enough she was speaking to him and a voice behind said loudly, “Move, goatfuck.”
Morgan smiled. The insult was trivial, but a milestone nonetheless. His appearance was becoming more convincing.
His watch beeped and he glanced at it, thankful for the reminder. Pausing five times a day took effort, but eventually it would be ingrained in his head, as would everything else. Finishing with the clerk, he put his earbuds in, walked back to his car, and drove home.
He ran north that afternoon to Rogers Park. As he came back along the lake, he kept his eyes trained on the distant black silhouette of Lake Point Towers. He stopped once, staring east for several minutes, then continued running, his pace quickening until it was a near sprint. He wasn’t tired, wasn’t out of breath. He just kept going and
“For three months?” asked Merrimac.
“So?”
“You’re running out of time! Plan on abandoning your career?” Merrimac’s voice rose.
Morgan was silent.
Merrimac looked around the room. There were now barbells and weights scattered everywhere. The bookshelves were still empty—that hadn’t changed.
“Are you trying out for the Olympics?” Merrimac asked.
“I’m able to press over two twenty-five now.”
“I don’t care! You’re supposed to be in therapy! Is this”—Merrimac’s arm swept over the living room—“the prescribed treatment?”
“Ross, I don’t need you bitching me out. I’ve got things going on I need to take care of.”
“Like what, pray tell? Is this going to be your new normal? What are you planning on doing…coming back to work looking like a buffed Hippocrates?”
“Enough!” Morgan said.
Merrimac could tell by looking at his friend’s face that his attempt to be humorous backfired.
“I told you I’d see the psychiatrist, and I will.”
Both men were losing their patience.
“Look, Wes,” said Merrimac, “I know Caroline’s death…this whole thing’s pissed you off. It’s pissed me off. In fact, it’s pissed everybody off. It’s going take time.”
He put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. The muscles were thick from some serious physical training. “Will you do it for your friend…please? If you need longer, take it! You can teach when you come back. But please get help.”
“Fine.”
“You know what I’ve said before about that…”
“Ross! It’s time to go! I said I’d take care of it. I can look out for myself.”
Merrimac debated saying more but held back. There was nothing he could do. The demise of a successful physician’s career was a terrible thing to watch. Merrimac wanted to Baker Act him, lock him up in the psych ward and get his brain fixed, but Morgan didn’t sound suicidal. He was acting weird but not crazy. Merrimac would have to wait. That would be difficult. Wes was his friend.
“Can I check in with you maybe in a week?”
“I’ll be on it by then.”
“Good. I’ll call you.”
Morgan locked the door.
“One week. Shit…”
No more procrastination! He got his cell phone and called his attorney.
“Sell the townhouse,” Morgan told him. “Take the best offer you get within sixty days. I’ll send you the papers this afternoon.”
The man couldn’t talk him out of it.
“I’m also going to be sending you a cashier’s check in a few days. Please hold it in your trust account.”
“Wes…why are you doing this? Want to come in and talk for a while? Maybe have dinner and drinks?”
“I’m okay. Just simplifying. Life’s short. Got things I need to do.”
“I’ll call you when the town—”
“No, I’ll call you,” Morgan replied. “Don’t fret. If you need to get me, best to drop me a note.” He gave him a PO Box number and address.
“Wes…I know you’re not crazy.”
“No, I’m not…just pissed.”
Morgan waited in line at the post office to mail the documents. When the clerk called for the next customer, he didn’t realize quickly enough she was speaking to him and a voice behind said loudly, “Move, goatfuck.”
Morgan smiled. The insult was trivial, but a milestone nonetheless. His appearance was becoming more convincing.
His watch beeped and he glanced at it, thankful for the reminder. Pausing five times a day took effort, but eventually it would be ingrained in his head, as would everything else. Finishing with the clerk, he put his earbuds in, walked back to his car, and drove home.
He ran north that afternoon to Rogers Park. As he came back along the lake, he kept his eyes trained on the distant black silhouette of Lake Point Towers. He stopped once, staring east for several minutes, then continued running, his pace quickening until it was a near sprint. He wasn’t tired, wasn’t out of breath. He just kept going and