LIBBY WAS AT WORK, striding the halls. She spent both the morning and afternoon with her patients, but today, instead of just asking about symptoms, focusing on the facts and numbers, she really talked to them. She took their hands. She asked about their families, their pets. She listened. “I know you’re busy, Doctor,” one patient said to her, but Libby waved her hand and pulled up a chair and sat down. “Tell me how you feel today,” Libby said. She listened to the patient talk about his symptoms, his life in general, even about his dog, and though nothing this patient said gave her any more medical information, he looked like he felt better when she left.
Libby had a new batch of nurses, and she saw how they hung back, how frightened of her many of them were. She looked for the one who seemed most intimidated, a slight blonde who stood at the edge of the group, her eyes to the floor. Libby singled her out and put her arm around her. “We’re all partners here,” she told her.
It wasn’t just the staff for whom she showed new care and concern. When one patient, a postpartum woman who had contracted a rare blood disease, told Libby she didn’t want to take the chemo Libby had prescribed, that in fact she had called the head of hematology at the Mayo Clinic, who had told her not to take it, Libby didn’t cut her short, the way she would have in the past. Instead, she sat by the patient’s bed and said, “Good. It’s good that you’re thinking about the care for your body.”
Libby usually allotted no more than ten minutes with a patient, but ever since she came back to work, the clock was forgotten. When a patient told Libby she didn’t want to go on blood thinners, not yet, Libby paused to reconsider. “Maybe we can compromise on this,” Libby said. She had other patients to attend to, but she sat, holding this patient’s hand, watching the beginning of a Lifetime movie with her.
“You’re a good doctor,” the woman said, and Libby felt herself blush. For the first time, she allowed herself to believe it might be true.
She still saw Dr. Sheep, once every two weeks. “You’re doing good,” he told her.
“Ah, the Dr. Sheep seal of approval,” she said, laughing. But she felt it, that goodness, coursing through her. She had changed and he had helped her do it.
She was friendlier to the other doctors, to the nurses, too, and one night Hank Fray, one of the cardiologists, actually asked her to come to dinner with a bunch of them, something that had never happened in the past.
Libby hesitated. She had planned to go home and take a bath, have some wine, and read a book. But this was a chance to change the perception others had of her and she didn’t want to blow it.
“I’d love it,” she said, so she and four others went to a pizza joint on Second Avenue and ordered three mini pizzas and wine. She learned new things about her colleagues, like the fact that Ed Harper, a cardiologist, was adopting a baby girl from China. She discovered that Emma Ronson, an obstetrician, used to raise and show St. Bernards. One by one, their pagers went off, and eventually Libby was the last one at the table. She thought she could still hear all the laughter. Why hadn’t she ever done this before? Smiling to herself, she thought how happy this was going to make Dr. Sheep, how he’d cheer her on so she’d do this again. Taking her time, she polished off the last slice and paid the whole bill. We have to do this again, someone had said. Yes, she thought. We do.
Libby also began to notice men in the hospital. She used to think she was attracted to only one type, the bad boys, the ones who would smash her heart into smithereens, but now she found herself attracted to men who were gentler, less brash, more attentive to the needs of those around them.
Gradually, Libby began to realize that Richie was growing smaller and smaller inside of her, that she was no longer living her life for him, constantly wondering what her brother would have done in the many cases she worked on. His life had been his and no one else’s, and it had ended. He was a kid when he died. She’d always carry him with her, but it was time now to let him go, time to live her life for herself.
That evening she went home and looked through her family’s photo albums. There they were, as kids, the two of them laughing, goofy, dressed as cowboys, Richie with an empty holster slung around his hips because their parents didn’t like guns. There they were with their parents, posed for holiday photos. Libby could still remember that awful red velvet dress, how starchy it felt. She had even saved their report cards. Libby needs to try harder and not socialize so much. Richie is a joy in the class.
What had happened had not been her fault. She knew that now. Just like she knew she would always love her brother and miss him. She took the photo albums and put them away. They would be there when she needed them.
AFTER WORK THE next day, Libby strolled out of the hospital, thinking she might actually take herself to a movie or call a friend. And suddenly, there was Simon, standing on the sidewalk.
His face was drawn. He had lost weight, too much now, and he looked older. The last time she had seen him, he was shouting at her, and she had deserved his anger. She had been sure she’d never see him again.
She slowly walked over to him. The ground shifted under her feet.
“You were right,” he said.
“About what?”
“I know you can’t forgive me, the way I yelled at you and blamed you. But you were right about not telling me that the record label reached out. I know that now. You were just getting to know me. How would you know what I might do?”
“It wasn’t my business to stop you from getting something you wanted so much,” Libby said, but Simon shook his head.
“I was an asshole and I needed to be an adult, to be here with Stella. You did what you thought was right. And I’m so sorry.”
He looked like he was pleading with her, and she thought about how much she had loved him. How maybe she still loved him.
“I wasn’t all about being right,” she said. “I wanted you to stay for me as well as for Stella. I was a terrible friend to her and I didn’t mean to be.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think,” Simon said. “I’m going to try to get a job teaching music. Do something for others instead of just myself. I can still write songs if I want. Maybe they’ll sell, maybe they won’t. That’s not important anymore. And I’m moving to a studio on the Upper West Side.”
“What?” Libby said. He was confusing her, throwing a lot of information at her at once, but the more he talked, the more she felt pulled toward him, and that made her afraid, because she knew that he was someone who was no longer hers.
“I don’t care anymore about being onstage or about having fame,” he said. “I don’t want a big life anymore. A small, happy life sounds wonderful. Just being with someone you care about. Just creating something.” He touched her hand, and she felt a flare of heat. “I don’t care about anything,” he said. “Except you.”
Libby started. “Simon,” she said, “what are you saying?”
“Do you think—you and me—maybe we can at least be friends again? See what happens?”
She grew quiet for a moment. She wanted to touch his face, to sit down with him and tell him everything that had happened to her since they had split apart, and she wanted to hear what had happened to him, learn about who he was now.
She put one hand against the side of his face, and then slowly she smiled. “Who knows?” she said.