In Winter's Grip Read Free Page A

about her latest patients—a child of ten who wet her bed every night and a seven-year-old boy who liked to light fires. We were sipping on steaming cups of coffee thick with cream when she finally stopped talking about her work and zoomed her attention back on me.
    â€œDoes Sam know how unhappy you are?”
    â€œWhat?” She’d caught me by surprise. I should have remembered how astute Fiona was when it came to reading people. She was a psychologist, after all. “Whatever do you mean?” I tried a smile. “I’m not so sure happiness comes into it after you’ve been married ten years.”
    Fiona’s eyes bored into mine and I inwardly squirmed. I usually avoided any talk of my feelings. She continued, “I’ve known you five years now, Maja, and I’ve learned to read you, probably more than you’d like. It looks to me like you’re having more and more trouble fitting into the world you’ve carved out for yourself.”
    â€œYou’ve never said anything,” I said, at a loss.
    â€œI figured you’d tell me what you wanted me to know when you were ready, and if you’re never ready. . .” Fiona shrugged and smiled. “You’re a very private person, Maja, and I respect that. You remind me a lot of my kid sister, Katrina.”
    â€œMy life is fine. I am fine.” The mantra I kept repeating, it seemed. “I’m not thrilled about my work, but neither are a lot of people.” I suddenly realized that Fiona was my closest friend, and I barely shared anything that meant anything with her. Instead, I’d kept to safe topics like work and books and social functions. “I’m sorry, Fiona,” I said. “I’m not great at this spilling my guts thing.” I uttered a shaky laugh. “The irony is that I’ve picked you as a friend.”
    â€œI think one day, just like Sleeping Beauty, you’re going to wake up and face life square on. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for you.” She hunched forward and spoke quietly, forcefully. “You’ve so much going on, my friend, and you have no idea.”
    â€œWill that be all?”
    I looked up. Our waitress was standing between us, scribbling on the bill. She was staring over our heads through the plate glass window that captured the bustle of Bank Street.
    â€œYes, that’s all for now,” Fiona said as she reached out for the check and smiled at me. “It’s time we put on our winter coats and got back into the fray.”
    When everything else in my life seemed out of my control, I could rely on my skill as a plastic surgeon to give me a feeling of competence and even peace. It was no surprise then, when the rhytidectomy went without complication. I’d opted for a local anesthetic, and our thirty-five year old reporter would be going home to spend the night sleeping it off at home with a tube for drainage behind her ear. I left her resting in the post-op room after leaving instructions with the nurses and went to the 13 ward to check on another patient who’d had a tummy tuck the day before. She’d spend one more night in the hospital before release. I was pleased to see they’d removed her intravenous drip and that she was sitting up, sipping on some broth.
    Seven o’clock found me backing my silver Ford Taurus out of the reserved doctors’ parking to head to our New Edinborough home. I was tired but relatively happy with the day. A recent dusting of snow gave the city a softened, new-world patina caught in the glare of my headlights and the myriad lights of the city. The snow’s whiteness lifted my spirits, and I was suddenly looking forward to a night in with Sam. I knew I’d been out of sorts and withdrawn lately, and we needed to connect. Hopefully, he’d have defrosted one of the many packets of frozen meals and started supper by the time I got home. We’d eat in front of the