Furious Read online

  I did not care where he went.

  I had done nothing but mourn for six months, the longest period of inactivity in my thirty-two years. I did not recognize the weeping woman I had become—unable to work, unable to socialize, unable to cope. I had always used my mind to overcome obstacles, but I could not think my way out of this depression. I could not move on after Emma’s death.

  Maybe Brad’s sailing trip would give me distance from the psychological trauma, the space to get my emotions under control. If I did not recover soon, I would lose my pediatric surgical fellowship, lose everything I had worked my entire life to achieve. Forcing myself onto a sailboat would also make me confront my biggest fear, and if I could do that, I would become a stronger person. My trepidation entailed more than an irrational phobia—sailing across the Indian Ocean carried genuine risks. Ships sank, accidents happened, people died.

  But I was desperate. Maybe this time, Brad knew best. He loved me and sailing across an ocean could be the change I required to recover. Maybe I needed this voyage.

  I sat on the couch and pictured my father, the sun reflecting off the water, moments before it happened—twenty-one years ago. The day that defined my life.

  I blinked the thought away and focused on the front yard. Leaves blew in circles across the driveway. The sun sank lower in the sky and shadows crept across the floor. The umbra climbed my legs, covering me, plunging the room into darkness. I watched myself sitting there, like I was that bystander on the beach.

  I waited to see what I would do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Your husband is an asshole,” Jessica Golde said.

  I slid into the passenger seat of her Toyota Corolla, which she had double-parked in front of Boston Pediatric Surgical Center, waiting for me under a no-parking sign. Jessica had never cared about rules.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I said.

  “How can Brad ask you to go sailing for a month? You know I’ve never liked him, but dragging you into the middle of the ocean, it’s really too much.”

  “I don’t know if that’s fair. Brad’s suffering too. Maybe this is how he’s dealing with it. I haven’t been fun to live with, since . . . it happened.”

  “He knows you’ve been terrified of the water since you were a little girl and he still asked you to sail across the Indian Ocean. What a prick.”

  I had feared the water since that day in July—a memory forever imprinted on my mind. The scent of sunscreen and chlorine hung on the warm summer breeze. Women wore bikinis and enormous hats, and men sported colorful swimsuits and flip flops. Children screamed and laughed. Then the crowd quieted and gathered around something on the ground. Ice cream melted down the side of my cone, slid between my fingers, dripped on the concrete. I felt it in my stomach, knew what I would see laying there.

  “Dagny?” Jessica asked. “Did you hear what I said? Are you still with me?”

  I turned to her in the car. Goosebumps had risen on my arms. “Sorry, I was thinking. What did you say?”

  “I said Brad knows about your phobia, but he still asked you on a sailing trip. Why did he do it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  I contemplated my hands. I had thought about that too and concluded Brad’s offer had been a challenge. He had always competed with me. I had not noticed it at first, but we had only dated for three months before I got pregnant. My decision to marry him had been rash, driven by surging hormones and a desire to create a stable home for my unborn child.

  “I think Brad asked you to take a sailing voyage to make you admit your fear, confess your weakness, concede he’s stronger than you,” Jessica said.

  “That would be cruel.”

  “Brad’s always worried that you’re smarter than him, a better surgeon. He wants this trip to be a competition.”

  Maybe it’s time to prove he’s right.

  I turned back to Jessica but did not meet her gaze. “What if he chose a sailing trip to challenge me, to help me confront my fear? He knows I can’t accept failure. Maybe he’s using my childhood phobia to distract me from my grief and force me to heal. If that’s what he’s doing, he’s playing three-dimensional chess—a master motivator.”

  This trip could save me.

  “Or he’s a master manipulator,” Jessica said.

  “Our marriage is in trouble. Brad thinks the time away from our routine will help me mend, and exposure therapy is an effective intervention for aquaphobia. Maybe he’s right.”

  “Brad’s a narcissist, and you know it,” Jessica said. “He’s a spoiled, handsome, rich kid who can’t be bothered with your pain. He didn’t even ask you before he planned the trip.”

  That was true, but I was not going to bad-mouth Brad to her. I owed him that much. Brad was my husband, and I had to be loyal. Besides, Brad could also be sweet and persuasive. His charisma pulled people toward him, made them want to follow. He probably did not intend on being insensitive. It was more a byproduct of his narcissism. He needed me to recover from Emma’s death so he could be happy again, and if he had to force me to get onboard with his plan, so be it.

  “I have to do something,” I said. “I’m lost. Sometimes, I don’t think I’ll make it through the day.”

  “You can do anything you put your mind to, sweetie. You are the most driven person I have ever known. You thought Harvard would be impossible, but you graduated near the top of your class. You doubted you would become a surgeon, but you did. You thought you would never get this fellowship, but here you are. You’re a winner.”

  Jessica had been my best friend since we sat next to each other in our Intro to Philosophy class during our freshman year at Boston University. That was fourteen years ago, before Harvard Medical School, before my surgical residency at New England General Hospital—where I met Brad—and before Boston Pediatric Surgical Center.

  Jessica was short, plump, and brunette—the opposite of me. She was an Italian Jew from New Jersey, and I was a Scottish-Irish Catholic from Boston. We looked nothing alike and came from different cultures, but we had become fast friends. Jessica had gone into nursing; a career move she said I had inspired with my passion for medicine. We had even worked together briefly before I left New England General Hospital. She felt like the sister I never had, and I missed seeing her every day.

  “Thanks, Jess. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

  “I’m glad you called. Stop acting like a hermit and come down the shore with Jimmy and me. He thinks you’re a hottie.”

  “I like your husband, but I haven’t been out at all. You’re the only person I can talk to anymore.”

  “Yet you think spending a month on a boat with Brad will be fun?”

  “Fun? Not exactly, but it may help me. I don’t know.”

  “What were you doing at the hospital today?”

  “I had a session with the staff psychiatrist.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding? I can’t believe you went to a psychiatrist. What happened to the Dagny who said, ‘I can solve any problem with my mind?’”

  “The hospital administrator strongly recommended I see him, and she has been so good to me by allowing me to take this sabbatical. I felt like I couldn’t decline her offer.”

  “What did your psychiatrist say?”

  “The usually touchy-feely stuff. I told him about the sailing trip, and he thought it may be a good idea to get away, to put some space between myself and the house. He said a change of scenery may help, as long as I don’t suppress my feelings.”

  I did not mention that I had also told the psychiatrist about my doubts about Brad and our marriage. The psychiatrist had sug
gested my feelings about Brad had nothing to do with Emma’s death. He said they were probably a separate issue brought to the forefront by our tragedy—concerns born from unrelated problems—and I had not told him everything. Not the worst of it.

  “What are you going to do? Will you go?”

  “I just gave the administrator official notice that I’m extending my leave of absence. I told her I’ll return in January. I think she’ll allow me to finish my fellowship, but if I can’t resume work by the new year, I may have to find another job.”

  “You’re going on the trip to prove how brave you are. You agreed because you’re afraid.”

  Jessica knew me better than anyone. I could never ignore a challenge, and this was an opportunity to confront my childhood phobia, an enduring source of weakness and shame. I swelled with pride at making the hard decision—a flicker of my former self.

  Maybe I’m still in here.

  “I’m going, because I’ll die if I stay here. I need to get away and I can’t get farther away than the middle of the ocean.”

  Someone knocked on my window and I whirled around. Eric Franklin smiled at me through the glass. I lowered the window.

  “Hey Dagny, I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “Thanks, Eric. It’s good to see you too.”

  “When do we get you back? It hasn’t been the same without you.”

  “January, I think. I’m going away for a month. I gave notice.”

  “I can’t say I’m happy to hear that, but I understand. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you have my number.”

  Jessica leaned across me. “Hi, I’m Jessica, Dagny’s friend.”

  My cheeks warmed. “Sorry. Jessica, this is Eric. He’s an infectious disease specialist with a pediatric specialty. Eric’s great with the kids. We’ve consulted together on several patients.

  “Nice to meet you, Jessica,” Eric said.

  “You remind me of Jude Law. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Eric blushed. “Uh, maybe.”

  “Are you single?” Jessica asked.

  “Jessica, stop,” I said, turning to Eric. “We have to get going. Nice to see you.”

  “Remember, call me anytime,” he said.

  I watched him walk into the hospital.

  Jessica raised her eyebrows. “Call you anytime?”

  “Knock it off. He’s a colleague.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having him examine me.”

  “Let’s go. I have to pack. Brad and I are leaving in two days.”

  “Shit. How can I change your mind?”

  “If I keep floundering like this, I’ll die. I have to try something.” I took Jessica’s hand and met her eyes. “Support me on this one.”

  “I always do, sweetie, but I don’t have a good feeling about this trip.”

  “I know. I’m scared, for a lot of reasons, but this trip could help me . . . I think.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I stood in my foyer after Jessica dropped me off. The house felt different. I felt different. Accepting Brad’s challenge had done something to me.

  I could not wait for Brad to come home to tell him I would go on the voyage. I picked up the phone and called his office to give him the news.

  “Surgical Associates, this is Ellen,” his group administrator said.

  “Hi Ellen, it’s Dagny Steele. Is Brad available?”

  “Oh, Dr. Steele. How are you?”

  How should I answer that? “May I speak with Brad?”

  “Dr. Coolidge?”

  “Yes, is my husband out of surgery? I need to speak with him.”

  “Uh, no. I mean, he’s not in surgery. He’s, uh, not here.”

  “Not there?” I asked. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to try his cell phone.”

  She sounded hesitant, odd. I thanked her and hung up.

  I dialed Brad’s cell, and the call went right to voicemail.

  Where is he?

  I gazed through my living room window at the branches of our oak tree swaying in the wind. His office is filled with beautiful nurses. Dark clouds floated by, blotting out the sun.

  Deciding to go on the trip—being proactive and taking action—felt right. I had always been driven to achieve, motivated to accomplish my goals. My calling to medicine came when I was eleven years old, after the incident that changed my life forever. Since that day, I had known I was meant to become a doctor, known it with absolute certainty, the same way I knew I was a girl, or that I lived in Boston. I remembered sitting on the edge of my bed, rocking my legs back and forth, trying to burn off my frustration at having to wait to become a physician. I had pictured a clock over my head, its hands ticking, counting the seconds and minutes I wasted while I finished school. Every day I was not a doctor, some other little girl could suffer the same fate as I. Every day, I missed another opportunity to save a life. Tick-Tock. Every day. That sense of urgency had driven me to excel for my entire life.

  Until Emma died.

  My phone rang, and I answered.

  “Hi Dagny,” Brad said. “Sorry, I missed your call. Is anything wrong?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At work. Is there a problem?”

  “You’re at the hospital?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I called your office and Ellen said you weren’t in surgery and she didn’t know where you were. I thought—”

  “I’m in a pharmaceutical meeting on the second floor. I guess I forgot to tell her.”

  A gust of wind ripped several dead leaves free of the oak and they swirled in the air, fluttering to the ground.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Are you checking on me?”

  “No, I . . . sorry. I called to tell you I’ve decided to go on the voyage.”

  “That’s marvelous, really great.” Brad said. “This trip will do wonders for you; help you get your life back.”

  “That’s my hope.”

  “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The dock swayed beneath my feet as Brad and I followed Ali, our facilitator, through the Bali International Marina. A variety of pleasure craft bobbed beside the narrow piers. Million-dollar yachts looked out of place tied to weathered planks, like Ferraris in a trailer park. Steady maritime traffic flowed in and out of Benoa Harbor, off Bali’s southern peninsula.

  I sipped my third coffee of the day, a double espresso, having nursed it on the way over from the Royal Indonesian Resort in Nusa Dua. Brad had scheduled us to depart the following morning, and we had to prepare the yacht. The trip from Boston to Bali had taken over twenty-six hours and had felt like an all-nighter in medical school. I remained groggy, fuzzy, as if I stumbled around inside a dream.

  “There she is,” Brad said, eyeing the end of the dock.

  “Yes, yes,” Ali said, and flashed a toothy grin.

  We crossed an arched bridge onto a long pier which jutted sixty yards into the harbor. I surveyed boats moored in perpendicular slips on our right. Gorgeous cruising sailboats averaged forty to fifty feet; their sails lashed to booms beneath soaring masts, like a forest of redwoods. As we passed, I read the model names painted on their hulls—Gulfstar 50, Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 49, Oyster 56, Bavaria 42, Bristol 40—all floating vacation homes. On our left, twin-hulled catamarans docked parallel to the pier to accommodate their width. I admired t
hem, but my stomach clenched at the thought of taking to sea.

  “Which one is it?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.

  “There, Mrs. Coolidge,” Ali said.

  “It’s Steele,” I said. “I kept my name.”

  Why did I need to explain that to him?

  Ali gave me a funny look and pointed. I followed his outstretched finger to the end of the pier, beyond the catamarans, to the longest of all the boats—a Beneteau Oceanis Yacht.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “What do you think?” Brad asked.

  “You’re going to sail that behemoth?”

  “We’re going to sail it. You’re my first mate. We can control everything from the helm, and it practically sails itself.”

  A chill crawled across my skin, followed by a wave of nausea. I rubbed my neck and stared at the yacht, the vessel which would deliver Brad and me across thousands of miles of open ocean, and the only thing protecting us from my worst fear. Well, the yacht and Brad’s sailing ability. I shivered and gnawed on a fingernail.

  The deck stood eight feet above the waterline, with expansive freeboard over a gleaming white hull. A band of tinted windows bisected the topsides and ran the length of the boat. A white hardtop covered the cabin, and a carbon mast towered ninety feet over the deck. The yacht looked contemporary, elegant, and efficient.

  “How long is it?” I asked.

  “Sixty-two feet and almost eighteen feet wide at the beam. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  “It’s huge.”

  The yacht was much more than I had expected, and the idea of living on a boat for a month was tangible now—real for the first time. My hands grew clammy.

  This is happening.

  “I was lucky to get it,” Brad said. “The French only made thirty-five of these, but my father’s friend owns this one.”