Suicide Med (25 page)

The sessions with Dr. Conlon are going really well. Even Marissa and Wendy are asking fewer stupid questions, and I feel like I actually know what I’m doing in anatomy lab. And Dr. Conlon notices the difference, which I have to admit, sort of makes me happy. We’ve been making such good progress with the material that we’ve even decided to take a break to go back over material from the previous exam. The only problem with that is that involves turning over the cadavers to get to the muscles in the back, which undoubtedly has creeped out a few of our classmates.

“Dr. Bingham,” he says to me in lab.
“What’s the terminal branch of the external carotid artery?”

I see Mason poised to shout out the answer the second I falter, but I’m not going to give him that chance.

“The superficial temporal artery,” I answer
, much to Mason’s surprise.

“Excellent,” he says, and he beams at me.

It’s weird how he acts like nothing ever happened between us. Like he’s just my anatomy professor and he’s just proud of me for studying hard and getting the right answers.

Dr. Conlon gave us an extra credit assignment to help give us a little more leeway to help us pass the
class. I complete the assignment a day before his deadline and head to his office after class to hand it in. I guess I’m being a bit of a suck up, but I want to show him that I’m actually trying. The fact that he cares so much makes me want to do well in the class.

When I get to his office, the door is open.
I hear voices coming from inside, recognizing Patrice Winters, the class psychologist. She’s always sending out these irritating touchy-feely emails, trying to make sure we don’t kill ourselves. If there’s another suicide this year, she’ll probably get fired.

“Thanks so much, Patrice,” Dr. Conlon is saying.
“These look delicious. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

“Is it?” Patrice replies.
“Well, please let me know if you like them.”

I watch
them for a moment and suddenly, my heart starts to pound. Oh my God, the two of them are hooking up! How did I not realize that before? It’s so painfully obvious.

And for some reason, the thought makes me feel a sharp jab of jealousy.

“Is there anything else you like?” Patrice asks him. “For next time I get motivated to bake?”

That’s when Dr. Conlon lifts his eyes and sees me standing in his doorway.
A smile lights his face. “Rachel! Come on in.”

Patrice, hovering in front o
f Dr. Conlon’s desk, looks like she wants to murder me. There’s a plate of home-baked cookies on his desk, presumably contributed by Patrice.

“Hello, Rachel,” she says.
She glances down at her watch. “I better go, Matt. I’ll talk to you later.”

Patrice stomps out of the office, slamming the door rather dramatically behind her.
Dr. Conlon hardly seems to notice. Men are so dumb about stuff like that.

“Are you dropping off the extra credit?” he asks me.

I’m clutching the papers in my hand. But instead of handing them over and getting the hell out, I say to him, “Are you hooking up with Patrice?”

Dr. Conlon’s blue eyes widen.
He looks so flustered that it’s actually sort of adorable.

“Rachel,” he stammers.
“That’s not really an appropriate question.”

“So you are then?” I press him.

“No!” he says sharply. “I’m not.” He adds, “Really.”

I feel relieved, but I can’t help but say,
“Have you been out on a date with her?”

“No,” he says.
He shakes his head. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

I snort.
“She doesn’t think of you as a friend. Trust me.”

“That’s not…” He picks up a piece of paper from his desk and starts making nervous little tears
in it. “You’re wrong. Patrice is just being nice.
Trust
me.”

“Do you like her?”

He just shakes his head. “Rachel, seriously. Not appropriate. You’re my student and we shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Well,” I say.
“There’s a lot of things we probably shouldn’t have done.”

I expect Dr. Conlon to get irritated with me, but instead, he smiles slightly.

“Yeah,” he says.
“That’s true.”

I swallow hard.

“Anyway,” he says. “Patrice isn’t interested in me. Believe me.”

“And if she were…?” I ask him.

He just shakes his head.

I look down at my hand, which is still clutching my extra credit assignment. The papers are getting all crumpled in my fist. I hold it out to him. “Here.”

As he takes the papers from me, his fingers brush against mine.
And I can tell from his face that he notices too.

_____

About half the tutoring sessions with Dr. Conlon take place in the lab and about half are in his office.
Today we’re having an evening session in his office, even though it’s Friday night. If I had a social life, I’d be pretty irritated. But luckily, I don’t. And neither does Dr. Conlon, obviously.

When I arrive, I see all three chairs in front of Dr. Conlon’s desk are empty.
I raise my eyebrows at him and he says, “Wendy and Marissa both couldn’t make it.”

“Oh?”

He nods. “Wendy was sick and Marissa was… uh, I don’t remember what excuse she made up.”

I smirk at him.
“Yeah, Friday night is not ideal for most people.”

“Clearly,” he acknowledges.
He smiles at me. “Thanks for showing up.”

“No problem,” I say.
“I have no life either.” Dr. Conlon’s face flushes and I feel suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say you had no life.”

“No,” he says.
“That’s pretty accurate.”

I force a smile.
“Maybe you should ask out Patrice.”

I don’t know why I said that.
I don’t want him to ask out Patrice. I hate Patrice. She doesn’t deserve someone like him. I’m relieved when he just shakes his head.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“Something about anatomy?” he asks hopefully.

I shake my head.

“Maybe you better not then,” he says. He adds, “Not that I can stop you.”

He’s right.

“I have to know.
Were there other students that you’ve… you know…”

His eyes widen.
“No! God, no! I’d never…” He stops mid-sentence, realizing what he was about to say. “What I mean is… that thing between you and me, that’s not… in character for me. I’m not that type of person.”

He looks so embarrassed that I have no choice but to believe him.

“Okay,” I say.
“So why did you do it?”

He drops his face into his hands and rubs his temples.

“I’m only human, Rachel.”
He sighs. “I meant to turn you away, but then… I just…” He raises his eyes. “I really wanted to be with you. And I knew I could. I’m sure that sounds bad, but…”

His ears are bright red
. I want to get up and give him a hug. But that probably wouldn’t be appropriate.

“Maybe we should get started,” he says.

Today’s lesson is about the Circle of Willis, but I’m actually having a lot of trouble focusing. It’s just me and Dr. Conlon in the office, and I pull my chair up alongside him so I don’t have to read upside down, so the whole thing just feels so
intimate
. And he smells nice. Maybe it’s his aftershave. I wonder how he gets the stench of formaldehyde off him.

“You’re really getting the hang of this,” he says.

“Well, it’s my only option for passing, isn’t it?” I say. I mean it as a joke, but my voice comes out a little choked.

Dr. Conlon smiles crookedly.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to have to put you through
that other thing
again, huh?”

I squeeze my hands into fists, which are somehow really sweaty.
“Well, it wasn’t…” I swallow hard. “It wasn’t
so
bad.”

“A rave review,” Dr. Conlon chuckles darkly.

I look down at my hands.

“Actually,” I say.
“It was pretty good.
Really
good.”

There.
I said it.

When I dare to look up again, Dr. Conlon is just staring at me.
He gets my meaning loud and clear.

“I’m not going to change your grade, you know,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

We stare at each other for a full minute.
Then he slowly leans forward and starts kissing me. It’s just as good as I remembered it—his tongue moving gently against mine, the stubble on his cheek grazing mine, his fingers sliding along the edge of jaw, past my ear, into my hair. I don’t want him to stop, but he does stop. I see the troubled expression on his face.

“This probably isn’t a good idea,” he says, his eyes intently on mine.

“Probably not,” I agree.

And then he kisses me again.

Dr. Conlon (who I am now apparently calling “Matt”) sets down some ground rules for our little relationship. Obviously, we don’t want to get caught, so we decide that we should maintain a purely academic relationship on hospital grounds. And we definitely can’t meet in public or at my dorm, so that pretty much just leaves Matt’s house.

“What did you do in the past?” he asks me.
“You know, with the other professors that you, um…”

“It never really got this far,” I admit.
“It was usually a one or two-time thing.”

“Oh yeah?”
Matt asks, and he looks pleased.

I decide not to share the fact that all those
other men were completely repulsive to me.

So I end up driving to Matt’s house, which is about ten miles from campus—far enough that the risk of some student or staff member driving by his house and seeing my car there is small.
Matt’s place is a modest one-story ranch house with two steps to get to the front door. It looks like the kind of place a guy would live all alone.

It’s mildly disturbing how much Matt’s house is a
shrine to the study of anatomy. He has two skeletons—one full-sized named Jill and the other about three-feet tall named Jack. He has a model of the human heart and lungs. He keeps it on the dining room table. I’m not even kidding.

“You know, your houseguests are going to think you’re a
necrophiliac or something,” I comment as I finger the plastic heart. I can’t imagine how he eats with that thing in front of him.

“Why?” Matt asks, genuinely puzzled.
Because doesn’t everyone keep life-sized models of human organs on their dining table? Sheesh.

He has several bookcases
, and while not every book is related to anatomy, they’re all medical texts without exception. I bend down to scan the shelves for something related to another interest or hobby, but I see nothing that isn’t related to his work. The most surprising book he owns is a chemistry text.

I discover that Matt doesn’t use his cane around the house.
Instead, he grabs on to furniture as he walks to support himself. As we make our way through his living room, he keeps one hand on to the couch then holds the doorframe as we enter his bedroom.

Thankfully, his bedroom is decorated a little less morbidly.
It’s a typical guy bedroom, all browns, blacks, and grays. It looks like he got his bedroom set from Ikea or something. As I look around, I can’t help but wonder if he’s got a whole drawer full of bowties somewhere. Before I can stop myself, I’m opening his dresser drawers, searching for bowties.

I don’t even realize I’m being extremely rude until I notice Matt is staring at me.

“What are you
doing
?” he asks.

I feel my cheeks grow warm.
“I was just looking to see where you keep your bowties.”

To my relief, Matt laughs.
He opens a drawer in the desk by his bed and there they are: at least a dozen little bowties in all different colors.

“Pre-tied!”
I gasp. “You’re kidding me! What are you—five years old?”

He shrugs.
“Yeah, well, you ever try tying a bowtie with one hand?”

I look down at his right hand.
I want to ask about it, why he can’t use it, but I sense we’re not quite there yet.

“Why bowties, anyway?”
I ask instead.

Matt grins
. “I don’t know. I like them.”

“Do you own any ties?”

He nods. “Yeah, occasionally I wear one for really formal occasions.”

He reaches into his bowtie drawer and pulls out a navy blue tie.

“May I?” I ask him, reaching for it.

He nods again.

I come closer to him and thread the tie through his shirt collar.
I learned how to tie a tie ages ago, when I was maybe eight or nine. I found one of my father’s ties and I practiced on his headboard until I got it right. I always imagined how hot it would be to tie my boyfriend’s tie for him. I’ve never had a boyfriend till now, but I was right—it’s pretty hot. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as I tighten the knot.

“Well?” he asks.

“Pretty sexy,” I say, stepping back to admire my handiwork.

“Thank you,” he says and he laughs.

“Will you wear it to class tomorrow?” I ask him.

He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Why?”

I tug on the tie playfully.
“I think it will be a turn on to see you up there, teaching the class, and know that you’re wearing that tie because of me.” I smile at him. “So will you do it?”

“Of course,
” he agrees. “My father taught me that if a beautiful woman asks you to do something, you always say yes.”

I snort.
“I am
not
beautiful.”

The smile fades from his face as he reaches out to graze my jaw with the back of his fingers.

“You are so beautiful, Rachel.
You have no idea.”

I’m not.
I’m really not. But when he kisses me and gently pulls me into bed with him, I can almost believe he thinks so.

_____

Yes, the bowties are dorky
, but I never minded them. But I bought Matt a few regular ties and he’s started wearing them some days in lieu of the bowties. He makes me pre-tie them for him because it’s hard for him to do it himself. And when I see him wearing them, it’s like there’s a secret just between the two of us.

Other than that, we are very, very careful not to interact at the hospital.
A few times, when nobody else was around in lab, he winked at me. But even that felt like a big risk. Nobody can know our secret. If they did, we’d both be in so much trouble.

And worse, it would be over between us.

I have to admit, I’m really infatuated with Matt. It’s honestly a little hard to even concentrate on lecture because I get so excited just by the sight of him. I didn’t even know that was possible. I wonder if he feels the same way about me, but I can’t imagine he does. He’s much older and, dork or not, I’m sure he’s had many girlfriends before. This can’t be nearly as special to him.

“How old are you?” I ask him one day as he’s leading me through his house to his bedroom.

“Older than you,” he replies, winking at me.

“No, seriously,” I say.
When he doesn’t answer, I add, “I’m twenty-two.”

“I was right,” he says.
“I’m definitely older than you are.”

I follow him to his bed, where he sits as he always does—very ungracefully.
I’m not about to let this go though.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

Matt doesn’t answer right away. He pulls off his right shoe then removes the thick plastic ankle brace he wears that goes nearly up to his knee.

“Because I’m really, really old,” he finally says.

“If you’re not going to tell me, I’m going to guess.”

“Do your worst.”

I squint at him, pretending to size him up. I’d already guessed he’s probably late thirties, but I decide to tease him a little. “Fifty-two?” I say.

Matt’s
blue eyes widen. It’s priceless.

“You don’t really think I’m fifty-two…” he says
, looking somewhat worried.

“Well,” I say thoughtfully.
“My dad is fifty-three, and I figure you’re younger than him, so…”

Matt just shakes his head.

“Older?” I say. “Fifty-four then?”

“
Oh, that’s it,” he grumbles.

He picks up a pillow from the bed and smacks me in the shoulder with it.
I laugh at him, and then he tackles me onto the bed. As I let out a squeal, it occurs to me that this is a noise I don’t think I’ve ever made before in my entire life.

After a few minutes of making out, Matt says to me, “I’m thirty-eight.”

“Ancient,” I say with a grin.

“I’m sixteen years older than you,” he says.
“When you were born, I was a junior in high school. I’m sleeping with a girl who was a toddler when I started college.”

“I was a very sexy toddler,” I say.

“Undoubtedly,” he says. “But it still makes me feel like a creep.”

“Don’t stress about it,” I say.
“I could never relate to people my own age. That’s why I don’t have any friends in the class.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Matt says.

It never occurred to me that Matt realized I have no friends. I wonder how long he’d been paying attention to me. Or maybe it’s just that obvious that I’m a total loser. But I don’t want to have a conversation with him about my lack of friends.

“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat.
“I’m okay with you being an old man. Just as long as you can still keep it up.”

“Hell yeah,” he says, and over the next hour, he very much proves it to me.