The moment he entered the bar, I knew that Mister J. wasn't your usual guest. Maybe it was the way his eyes darted around, taking the measure of everything he saw, or that half smile as he twirled ... [+]
"It happened again," Myriam said, as she entered the room. "I screwed up. I'm sorry."
She collapsed on the couch, head in her hands. "I just wanted a sip. I thought I had a handle on this thing."
"It's not uncommon to relapse," Dr. Beckham said, settling across from her and balancing her yellow legal pad on her knee. "What's important now is that we look for your triggers, manage shame, and move on."
"I haven't slept. The guilt. I'm disgusting."
"Try to remember this is a disease. It's not something you chose for yourself."
"I guess." Myriam stuck her fingers deep into her hair and tugged. "I just can't believe I'm back here. I thought the last time was the last time."
"Let's take a deep breath and start at the beginning. What triggered this particular relapse?"
Myriam inspected her hands. There were rust colored moons under each nail. Dr. Beckham waited.
"It was a double shift at the diner," she began. "We were slammed. I forgot my medication. That was my first mistake." She hesitated. Her skin was pale, her eyes wet and bright. She swallowed hard.
"A group of nurses came in," she continued. "It was someone's last day, and they were celebrating, laughing. I used to be a nurse, you know, before all this."
"I remember."
"I was great at my job. I ordered labs, pushed insulin, placed IVs. They put me on the toughest rotations because they could trust me. I was helping people, you know?"
"You had a good life, Myriam."
"I did! And now I'm handing out baskets of soggy fries! I went to nursing school and now I spend all day carrying hamburgers to truck drivers and drunk teenagers. And when I saw those women in scrubs, I thought, That's supposed to be my life! And it's gone!"
"That must have been very hard," Dr. Beckham said.
"I was fine, I was handling it. And then . . . they left. And I picked up the tip on the table."
"Bad tip?"
"No, that's the thing. It was a great tip, best one in months. I stood with these crumpled bills in my fist and all I wanted was another hour in the hospital, another chance . . ."
"So you were unmedicated and facing reminders of your past life."
Myriam sighed. "I don't even remember choosing to go into the bar. I had these sweaty dollars in my hand, and then I was at Murphy's. I used to go there after work. Before."
Two tears escaped the corners of her eyes. She wiped at them angrily.
"There was this guy at the back of the bar. Pushy. Rude. I tried to pick someone who wasn't very nice. But now that it's over I keep thinking, you know, maybe he was just having a bad night. Maybe I just caught him on the wrong day. I'm thinking about that now. I wasn't thinking about that when I took him into the alley. I was trying hard not to think, you know?"
Dr. Beckham leaned forward. The lamplight reflected off her glasses.
"Myriam, did this relapse result in a fatality?"
There was a pause. Tears dripped off Myriam's chin.
"I don't think so," she whispered. "I didn't take much blood this time. I stopped . . . On some level, I knew what I was doing."
"Good, good. That's progress."
"I left him on the sidewalk, just like you said, where it would be easy to spot him. I'm glad we talked through what to do if I relapsed. I called 911, washed my mouth, everything. The checklist helped."
Dr. Beckham smiled, a rare gift reserved only for her patients. She never smiled in public, for obvious reasons. The teeth were terrifying, if you didn't expect them.
"Let's focus on the positive," she said, "You didn't drain him dry. You had the presence of mind to call for help. You had some control this time. You weren't in a bloodlust."
Myriam gave her a watery smile. "I guess you're right."
"Relapses are difficult. Remember that you're new to this, and you'll make mistakes. It happens to the best of us."
"Even you?" Myriam asked, her voice clotted with tears.
Dr. Beckham shifted uncomfortably. "It's all about medication and management."
Afterward, Myriam felt lighter. She pulled in several deep breaths of crisp autumn air. Overhead, the oaks threw down handfuls of leaves, which glowed like falling embers under the streetlights. She wasn't afraid to walk alone anymore, no matter the hour. She was the hunter now, not the hunted. It's just a bump, she thought. I'm doing okay.
Nearby, an ambulance let out a lonely wail, like a wolf howling at the moon. And Myriam's hands began to shake.