A New Hope
Page 3
The ER doctor started an IV, then left the room as a bag of fluid ran into Matt. He sobered up fast.
The doctor returned after a while.
“Wow,” Matt said. “I only see one of you!”
“Welcome back.” The doctor laughed.
“I didn’t know you could do that! One IV, instant sobriety! Instant shame!”
“Yeah, it’s magic. So, you have a headache?”
“Right here,” Matt said, pointing to the back of his head. “Am I injured?”
“Possible liver damage, but we didn’t see any blood or bumps. Let’s check the eyes.” The doctor waved a light across his pupils. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest you bumped your head on the way to passing out. So—this a problem for you?”
“Hitting my head and passing out?” he asked.
“No, drinking like a pig and falling down,” the doctor clarified. “Are you an alcoholic?”
“Ah, shit.” He rubbed his head. “I’m divorced. I got married in that same orchard a couple of years ago. It didn’t last long. The marriage, that is. It was kind of...what’s the word?”
“Painful? Embarrassing? Grievous? Lonely? Regrettable?” the doctor tried.
“Yeah, those are the words. I might’ve overdone it a little tonight.”
“So you’re not adjusting well?” he asked.
“My brothers and sisters have taken to calling me Mad Matt. Does that tell you anything?”
“You might want to consider some counseling. Before you really hurt yourself.”
“Doc, I appreciate your help, but if there’s one thing I don’t ever want to talk about it’s my ex-wife and my divorce.”
“Brother, there is life after divorce. I am living proof.”
“You?”
“Me. According to my ex-wife I keep lousy hours, I’m inattentive off the job, I don’t pitch in, I’m snarky and critical, a tightwad, insensitive, selfish, many negative things. The list is long.”
“I didn’t think anyone divorced a doctor,” Matt said, sounding surprised.
“The divorce rate among doctors is high,” he said. “I’m going to let you go home. If you have any problems or questions, call me. Don’t sit and wonder if you’re okay, just call me. And be done drinking for the day.”
“Funny,” Matt said, “the divorce rate among farmers is low. Yet...”
“Even if you were given a reason, that’s just one opinion,” the doctor said. “You going to be okay now?”
“Yeah,” he said, sitting up. “I have to come up with a good apology for my sister, the bride. I don’t think I’ll see her tomorrow. There’s the honeymoon and everything.” And she wasn’t the only one he should apologize to, but that other woman, whose name he never got, was long gone.
“Look, kid, you’re young,” the doctor said. “You’ll get past this divorce thing. It happens to the best of us. The next time you’ll be wiser and more patient about everything.”
“Next time?” Matt asked. “You’re kidding me, right?”
The doctor, who wasn’t that much older than Matt, clapped a hand on his back and said, “You’re like looking in an old mirror.”
* * *
Matt had fallen in love with Natalie instantly. True, he’d been all of twenty-five, but if that hadn’t been love he’d sure like to know what it was.
At the time he was giving a couple of lectures at Portland State; his master’s degree was in biology. His undergrad degree was in plant biology, he had minored in agricultural science and he was a farmer. He was also a visiting professor, which had made his father laugh. But Matt knew a lot about farming, pesticides, organic farming, water runoff, landscape contouring, animal husbandry, you name it. In pursuit of his degrees he’d studied agriculture, environmental science, and the care and breeding of animals, and that made him a valuable resource. It didn’t hurt that his father was the owner of one of the most prosperous farms in the state, with two of his sons, Matt and George, being associates.
And Natalie had been a biology department secretary, also twenty-five, with the longest legs he had ever seen.
She was so pretty and fun-loving and dating her had been sheer bliss. He hadn’t rushed into anything, despite that ER doctor’s assumptions. They went out for months before they moved in together. She wasn’t Basque, which suited him fine. She was of Swedish descent, with a few other European countries in the mix. She was very polite to his family but made it no secret, from their first date, she was never going to be a farm wife. He had no quarrel with that, either. He wasn’t looking for a farm wife, just as his sisters hadn’t been looking to marry farmers. She didn’t want a slew of children. He was okay with that, but he wanted a couple of kids and so had she. Later, she’d said. No hurry.
Matt loved the farm. But in order to commit to a relationship, one makes compromises. He and Natalie didn’t have to live on the farm. They’d build a house closer to the city, when they could afford it. He commuted from their small apartment near Portland and spent the occasional night on the farm when it was a real busy time—planting, harvesting or lambing. George had the sheep, but Matt was always there to help, too—with the breeding, shearing, lambing, inoculations, docking and castrating. Matt wouldn’t marry Natalie until it was clear—he wasn’t giving up the farm.
Knowing that, Natalie still wanted to get married. She chose the orchard as the venue—but the reception was held in a large hall in Portland. When a bee stung her forehead during the vows, causing a very large red bump, it should have been an omen. But even with that big red bump the size of a quarter right in the middle of her forehead, the wedding was a success. The wedding pictures had to be doctored, but they were beautiful. If you could predict the success of the marriage by the wedding, they should have made it fifty years. Not only were all the Basque relatives present but also every friend and family member Natalie had ever known.
Very soon after the wedding, before the last thank-you note had been written, Natalie was already growing unhappy. She didn’t like his hours or the dirt under his nails or those big family dinners on the farm with all the noise and chaos. Being married to a farmer, even a commuting farmer, was trying and boring for her. He was up at 4:00 a.m. and home, exhausted and hungry, at five, and in bed by eight. She’d rather have brunch at the Hotel Monaco than dinner with the Lacoumette clan. She liked clubbing and dancing. And she’d appreciate it if he could stay awake through one movie!
The doctor returned after a while.
“Wow,” Matt said. “I only see one of you!”
“Welcome back.” The doctor laughed.
“I didn’t know you could do that! One IV, instant sobriety! Instant shame!”
“Yeah, it’s magic. So, you have a headache?”
“Right here,” Matt said, pointing to the back of his head. “Am I injured?”
“Possible liver damage, but we didn’t see any blood or bumps. Let’s check the eyes.” The doctor waved a light across his pupils. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest you bumped your head on the way to passing out. So—this a problem for you?”
“Hitting my head and passing out?” he asked.
“No, drinking like a pig and falling down,” the doctor clarified. “Are you an alcoholic?”
“Ah, shit.” He rubbed his head. “I’m divorced. I got married in that same orchard a couple of years ago. It didn’t last long. The marriage, that is. It was kind of...what’s the word?”
“Painful? Embarrassing? Grievous? Lonely? Regrettable?” the doctor tried.
“Yeah, those are the words. I might’ve overdone it a little tonight.”
“So you’re not adjusting well?” he asked.
“My brothers and sisters have taken to calling me Mad Matt. Does that tell you anything?”
“You might want to consider some counseling. Before you really hurt yourself.”
“Doc, I appreciate your help, but if there’s one thing I don’t ever want to talk about it’s my ex-wife and my divorce.”
“Brother, there is life after divorce. I am living proof.”
“You?”
“Me. According to my ex-wife I keep lousy hours, I’m inattentive off the job, I don’t pitch in, I’m snarky and critical, a tightwad, insensitive, selfish, many negative things. The list is long.”
“I didn’t think anyone divorced a doctor,” Matt said, sounding surprised.
“The divorce rate among doctors is high,” he said. “I’m going to let you go home. If you have any problems or questions, call me. Don’t sit and wonder if you’re okay, just call me. And be done drinking for the day.”
“Funny,” Matt said, “the divorce rate among farmers is low. Yet...”
“Even if you were given a reason, that’s just one opinion,” the doctor said. “You going to be okay now?”
“Yeah,” he said, sitting up. “I have to come up with a good apology for my sister, the bride. I don’t think I’ll see her tomorrow. There’s the honeymoon and everything.” And she wasn’t the only one he should apologize to, but that other woman, whose name he never got, was long gone.
“Look, kid, you’re young,” the doctor said. “You’ll get past this divorce thing. It happens to the best of us. The next time you’ll be wiser and more patient about everything.”
“Next time?” Matt asked. “You’re kidding me, right?”
The doctor, who wasn’t that much older than Matt, clapped a hand on his back and said, “You’re like looking in an old mirror.”
* * *
Matt had fallen in love with Natalie instantly. True, he’d been all of twenty-five, but if that hadn’t been love he’d sure like to know what it was.
At the time he was giving a couple of lectures at Portland State; his master’s degree was in biology. His undergrad degree was in plant biology, he had minored in agricultural science and he was a farmer. He was also a visiting professor, which had made his father laugh. But Matt knew a lot about farming, pesticides, organic farming, water runoff, landscape contouring, animal husbandry, you name it. In pursuit of his degrees he’d studied agriculture, environmental science, and the care and breeding of animals, and that made him a valuable resource. It didn’t hurt that his father was the owner of one of the most prosperous farms in the state, with two of his sons, Matt and George, being associates.
And Natalie had been a biology department secretary, also twenty-five, with the longest legs he had ever seen.
She was so pretty and fun-loving and dating her had been sheer bliss. He hadn’t rushed into anything, despite that ER doctor’s assumptions. They went out for months before they moved in together. She wasn’t Basque, which suited him fine. She was of Swedish descent, with a few other European countries in the mix. She was very polite to his family but made it no secret, from their first date, she was never going to be a farm wife. He had no quarrel with that, either. He wasn’t looking for a farm wife, just as his sisters hadn’t been looking to marry farmers. She didn’t want a slew of children. He was okay with that, but he wanted a couple of kids and so had she. Later, she’d said. No hurry.
Matt loved the farm. But in order to commit to a relationship, one makes compromises. He and Natalie didn’t have to live on the farm. They’d build a house closer to the city, when they could afford it. He commuted from their small apartment near Portland and spent the occasional night on the farm when it was a real busy time—planting, harvesting or lambing. George had the sheep, but Matt was always there to help, too—with the breeding, shearing, lambing, inoculations, docking and castrating. Matt wouldn’t marry Natalie until it was clear—he wasn’t giving up the farm.
Knowing that, Natalie still wanted to get married. She chose the orchard as the venue—but the reception was held in a large hall in Portland. When a bee stung her forehead during the vows, causing a very large red bump, it should have been an omen. But even with that big red bump the size of a quarter right in the middle of her forehead, the wedding was a success. The wedding pictures had to be doctored, but they were beautiful. If you could predict the success of the marriage by the wedding, they should have made it fifty years. Not only were all the Basque relatives present but also every friend and family member Natalie had ever known.
Very soon after the wedding, before the last thank-you note had been written, Natalie was already growing unhappy. She didn’t like his hours or the dirt under his nails or those big family dinners on the farm with all the noise and chaos. Being married to a farmer, even a commuting farmer, was trying and boring for her. He was up at 4:00 a.m. and home, exhausted and hungry, at five, and in bed by eight. She’d rather have brunch at the Hotel Monaco than dinner with the Lacoumette clan. She liked clubbing and dancing. And she’d appreciate it if he could stay awake through one movie!
