She reached down into a paper shopping bag and pulled out four sample bottles of Infermiterol. “Double your dosage. These are ten milligram tablets. Take two,” she said, and slid the boxes across her desk. “If vanity is going to keep you up at night, let me just say, it’s a very minor slant.”
* * *
? ? ?
IN THE CAB HOME, I looked at myself in the reflection of the tinted windows. My face was perfectly aligned: Dr. Tuttle was obviously crazy.
In the gold-tone doors of the elevator up to my apartment, I still looked good. I looked like a young Lauren Bacall the morning after. I’m a disheveled Joan Fontaine, I thought. Unlocking the door to my apartment, I was Kim Novak. “You’re prettier than Sharon Stone,” Reva would have said. She was right. I went to the sofa, clicked the TV on. George Walker Bush was taking his oath of office. I watched him squint and give his monologue. “Encouraging responsibility is not a search for scapegoats; it is a call to conscience.” What the hell did that mean? That Americans should take the blame for all the ills of the world? Or just our own world? Who cared?
And then, as though I’d summoned her with my mundane cynicism, Reva was knocking on my door once again. I answered somewhat gratefully.
“Well, I scheduled the abortion,” she said, rushing past me into the living room. “I need you to tell me I’m doing the right thing.”
“I ask you to be citizens: Citizens, not spectators; citizens, not subjects; responsible citizens building communities of service and a nation of character.”
“This Bush is so much cuter than the last. Isn’t he? Like a rascal puppy.”
“Reva, I’m not feeling well.”
“Well, neither am I,” she said. “I just want to wake up and it all be over, and I never have to think about this again. I’m not going to tell Ken. Unless I feel like I should. But only after. Do you think he’ll feel bad? Oh, I feel sick. Oh, I feel terrible.”
“Do you want something to take the edge off?”
“God, yes.”
I pulled one of the Infermiterol samples Dr. Tuttle had given me from the pocket of my fur coat. I was curious if Reva would respond to it the same way I had.
“What are these?”
“Samples.”
“Samples? Is that legal?”
“Yes, Reva, of course it’s legal.”
“But what is this, In-fer-mit-er-ol?” She looked at the box and tore it open.
“It’s a numbing aid,” I answered.
“Sounds good. I’ll try anything. Do you think Ken still might love me?”
“No.”
I watched her face flash with fury, then cool. She shook out a pill and held it in the palm of her hand. Was her face at a deviant angle? Was everyone’s? Were my eyes crooked? Reva bent over and picked a hair elastic up off the floor.
“Can I borrow this?” I nodded. She put the pill down and fixed her hair. “Maybe I could look it up when I get home. In-fer-mit—”
“Jesus. It’s fine, Reva. And you can’t look it up,” I said, although I’d never tried. “It’s not on the market yet. Psychiatrists always have samples. The drug companies send them. That’s how it works.”
“Does she ever get Topamax samples? Skinny pills?”
“Reva, please.”
“So you’re saying it’s safe.”
“Of course it’s safe. My doctor gave me it.”
“What does it feel like?”
“I can’t really say,” I said, which was the truth.
“Hmmm.”
I couldn’t be honest with Reva. If I’d admitted to having blackouts, she would have wanted to discuss it endlessly. I couldn’t stand the prospect of watching her shake her head in horrified awe, then try to hold my hand. “Tell me everything!” she’d cry, salivating. Poor Reva. She might actually have thought I was capable of sharing things. “Friends forever?” She’d want us to make some sacred pact. She always wanted to make pacts. “Let’s make a pact to have brunch at least twice a month. Let’s promise to go for a walk through Central Park every Saturday. Let’s have a daily call-time. Will you swear to take a ski trip this year? It burns so many calories.”
“Reva,” I said. “It’s a sleeping pill. Take it and go to sleep. Give yourself a break from your Ken obsession.”
“It’s not an obsession. It’s a medical procedure. I’ve never had an abortion before. Have you?”