Most days, I had the sauna to myself, getting reacquainted with the dry heat after months away.

One afternoon after my shift, I stepped inside to find people actually in there. I took the only remaining seat in a dark corner, noting the elderly woman sprawled out naked, as if she were basking on a nude beach. Skin like a shriveled prune, sagging breasts fully on display. The confidence was impressive, honestly.

Closed my eyes and pretended to be in the Caribbean. Aqua-blue waves lapping against soft white sand, toucans cawing, the scent of coconut oil. 

Then came the grunting.

Snapping my eyes open, the woman’s leg muscles were taught as she engaged in a series of pelvic thrusts — right there on the cedar bench. 

For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. Then she did it again.

“Oh, hell no,” I erupted. “You are not doing that right now.” She gave a startled look, like she hadn’t realized I was there. Had she really thought she was alone? A defiant calmness settled over her, one that said she had no shame. She simply turned her head back to the center, closed her eyes, and inhaled, her belly rising. 

Another woman, who’d been sitting quietly, wrapped in a towel with her eyes closed, was now alert, gaping. We eyed each other, an incredulous laugh escaping from us at the same time. Clutching the cheap white towel to my chest, I laughed harder. Pushed open the heavy sauna door, cool breeze upon my skin, and walked to the locker room, hunched over in peals of laughter.

The “Sauna Lady” in Chicago. What would she have said? Would she have eyed the woman with pity, quietly grabbing her key before slinking off to the locker room? If she had the inclination to share any wisdom, she wouldn’t have interrupted another’s pelvic thrusts to do it, I can tell you that.

Her answer to everything was “Grab a soft-serve ice cream from McDonald’s, sit in the shadow of the Wrigley Building, and watch the world go by.” What redeeming qualities would she have found in L.A. Fitness — a suburban Mecca sandwiched between a Nordstrom Rack and a Chipotle? Would I have told her about being in withdrawal? Probably not.

Wouldn’t have had to.

She would have sensed the restlessness in me.

And her advice still stood.

Get the ice cream. McDonald’s soft-serve is where it’s at.

Don’t talk about the hug, the one with Dennis in L.A. Feel it from time to time, though. Even now. The energy became part of my soul. Was it his energy? It’s both of ours now.

Cruising the pitch-black roads from Santa Monica to West Hollywood in silence. Glare of headlights against the dark, his foot upon the gas. Anytime you’re aware of someone’s foot on the gas and it’s not your own, you should probably get out of the car. 

Speeding past the mansions on Sunset Boulevard, revving was the only sound. Beneath the jean jacket, the white tee was light and airy, the kind that sweats through easily — and it was starting to. The date, for lack of a better word, couldn’t end fast enough. Dennis was so fucked up, took me by surprise. Lose my voice with people like that, you know. Too stunned to know what to say. 

If he’d been more normal that night, maybe I could have been too. What is normal anyway? 

At the diner, when he started slouching in the booth, raised my eyebrows ever-so-slightly. The silver canister of pills was disguised as a keychain. Didn’t even notice ‘em till he dumps ‘em on the table. A few stragglers spiral onto the floor right as the waitress brings the coffee. She halts for a second, then leaves us to clean up the mess. 

“Tranquilizers,” Dennis whispers. 

What to say to that. Eye him a little too harshly, wondering what the hell. He’s slumping and sinking, and not so tall to begin with. Any lower he’ll end up on the floor with those pills. What’s he saying? Hard to tell with the slurring. Takes a sip of coffee and smiles.

Coffee, yes. Drink more. 

We were supposed to hear live music. That cool singer who did the soundtrack for Dennis’s film. Arrived at the club as the show ended, just in time to meet the guy. He dressed in black and wore a fedora, but the music was done. 

The diner was Plan B. The lights in that place were too bright. Everything was on display — all the baggage we tried so hard to run from. Dennis didn’t try to disguise his shortcomings. Did he perceive them as shortcomings? Dennis is fluid in the way Snake River rapids are fluid. Wild, rapturous, untamed. Comes on like a torrent, and there’s always a risk you’ll get caught in it. 

From the get-go, I was caught in it. Ever since that dinner, when his dad stood up and said, “We’re gonna do some rearranging. Dennis and Beth, you’re going to sit next to each other and talk about writing.” He interlaced his fingers when he said it, and that made me laugh. 

Dennis was brooding, like he was on his best behavior, or had been told to be. Eyes locked — pistachio to dark chocolate. A  jolt of energy gave way to a sexy smile, charging the air, like ions in a chemistry experiment I would have failed in high school. 

Had we met? Somewhere, another era?  Because dinner lasted three hours, we talked the whole time. About Silver Lake and screenplays. Tom Waits and David Mamet. Mystery Train and Night on Earth. 

By his side, everything felt electric, buzzing. Wanted to touch him, to graze his hand. Who makes moves like that at a family dinner? Wished he’d make a move. Did he want to?

Kate was there, my sister. She sat next to me, bearing witness. “You have to keep in touch with him, Beth,” she said on the way home. “You have to.”

Back in L.A., with Dennis at the wheel and Kate’s words on my mind, couldn’t help but wonder. How did I get this so wrong?

It was supposed to be a hug goodbye. A few pats on the back and be done with it. Pulling up to the house, couldn’t wait to get out of the car. Our chapter might have ended with my back to him, walking up the drive. Instead, the hug sparked a stunning transformation. There came a surge of energy, a suturing of souls so magnetic, it could change a physiology. And it did. 

Shocked by the spark, we pulled closer, heart to pounding heart. Center console jilted the vibe, so we tumbled into the backseat. Full body contact. The scent of leather mixed with men’s cologne, and it was hard to tell ’em apart. 

With electricity surging, his smooth shave upon my skin, arms buzzed until they ached. Energy like that could become an addiction. An antidote to all that ails. I’ve tried to recapture it in other embraces, with other guys, in other cities. Nothing’s ever come close. L.A. is the City of Angels, and they flew in our presence that night. 

Could have hugged him forever. Why did we stop? At some point, it must have seemed ridiculous, clinging to one another in the dark. As if sourcing the last life force on earth. 

Thirty minutes of hugging can heal a person. It was years before I understood how much. All I know is we had a connection. A soul connection that should never be denied. Left up to us, our acquaintance would have ended in the twilight. With a quick drop-off and a “don’t look back.” The universe had other plans. 

In the early morning silence, on a West Hollywood side street, with no sound but breathing, it was easy to forget our differences. We were young enough to forget fast and believe fully that this crazy thing was destined. Being writers, we both knew. Sometimes the story writes you. 

Making the reluctant walk into Sue’s brother’s house, the buzzing continued. Through brushing my teeth, and washing my face, and the 20 minutes it took to get into bed. With the last moments of the night fading away, Dennis was all I could think about. Out of his embrace, and still in it.

I keep returning to the moment in Dr. Sullivan’s office where I’m breaking down in tears and he’s shouting, “Don’t be such a baby.” That’s how our divorce unfolded. I remember it like a film reel, to create distance I suppose, make it hurt less. 

There was an intolerance to Dr. Sullivan that made him unrecognizable that day. With my legs dangling from the exam table, I cried inconsolably. Unwell and unheard. Dr. Sullivan wanted me to shut up and be fine, but I was far from fine, and no amount of shouting would change that.

Noted the arms, taut as a slingshot across his chest. That’s when I realized. He blames me for this. The accusatory stance made me cry. Not the spasms. Well, the spasms too, but mostly I was crying because of him. 

“Don’t be such a baby.” He practically spat it. Acted like I was deceiving him, making him confront/an aspect of himself/he refused to accept. Was I? Funny, this condition was the version of myself I refused to accept. That’s why I was there. 

My eyes had that bloodshot feeling where you just know they’re red as fuck. Tears clung to my cheeks like a dryer sheet, nose running. It was an ugly cry, almost hiccup-level, in early May. No sleeve, of course, to wipe with. 

I’ll admit I was hysterical. Before the vanity a week earlier, I’d watched in horror as the spasms rippled in waves, from right to left and back again. There were the eyes, pulsating, clenching, clamping shut. The tongue writhing wildly in the mouth. It snaked in twists and turns that no human could replicate. Suspecting all of this was permanent, I sobbed. 

In Dr. Sullivan’s office seven days later, the madness continued. Fiery tingling beneath the skin, the kind of burning that could char your insides. “It’s just a nuisance,” Doctor Sullivan was saying. As if I were the nuisance.

“A fly on the shoulder is a nuisance. This is frightening.” 

The respectful tone I’d long been accustomed to had a toxic edge now, like the rest of me. Felt myself glaring and very much the object of someone’s shame. Was it mine or his?  “You’re fine, Marybeth,” the doctor insisted.

Desperate for an out, my gaze locked on the far corner of the ceiling. It was the look of a woman being silenced by her doctor. Not just any doctor. One I’d had, one I’d relied on, since forever ago. Sitting in Dr. Sullivan’s office, age 36, I’d been his patient for half my life. He should have known me, I thought he did. How could he not? In the tear-stained seconds spent eyeing the ceiling, something detached from my being. Felt like upheaval, probably looked like it too. An iceberg breaking loose in Arctic waters. 

I came to Dr. Sullivan one summer, when a man stood before the tanks in Tiananmen Square. Communism was falling in Eastern Europe, car bombs exploding in Belfast. The world was rising up. Tapering off medicine at 18, I felt the pull of change as much as anyone. Given one more chance at a drug-free life, I took it. 

When the seizure came, it was in the style of a teenager — at a music festival out in some pasture. Crossing the field with Kelly when the lights appeared. With the pressure coming on, I placed the cigarette on the grass and lay myself at the feet of strangers. The mud had dried, but not completely. The chill of rainwater seeped into my side, ice cold. Kelly crouched beside me, saying something I couldn’t hear, and the world faded into oblivion.  It’s a lonely experience having a seizure among thousands. Even with a friend by your side.

Dr. Sullivan had the warmth of a woolen cardigan. I liked him from the start. It takes a special person to make you laugh after a seizure, and he could do it. Got me in for an appointment, put me back on pills. Writing out the script, he sensed my dejection. “It’s just for now, Marybeth.” The words made the decision easier to accept.

Dr. Sullivan didn’t rush me through like other doctors. Never in 18 years did he rush me through. You know how rare that is? Instead, he worked the room with the precision of a surgeon. Sharp, efficient, masterful. “Follow the flashlight with your eyes.” “Walk across the room, balance beam.” “Touch your nose, touch my finger. Nose to finger, nose to finger.”

He started every appointment by washing his hands. Working up the lather, the harsh scent of medical soap filled the room. With the suds growing upon his palms, I imagined how funny it would be if he clapped his hands together with a flourish, sent the suds spraying. Wished he’d do it, just once.

Went to Dr. Sullivan by default, too old for the pediatric neurologist. Dad picked him, so I went. Dad didn’t pick just anyone, you know. I viewed Dad’s choice as an endorsement, treated it as such. Over the course of 18 years, I trusted the doctor blindly. He was the best, and he knew best which decisions were right for my health. 

Coming up as a child through the healthcare system, I spent my youngest days being terrified by doctors. In the earliest record on hand, age 3, my fear is documented in the chart. Over time, fear gave way to trust. It was an innocent trust with no agenda. I believed in the good of doctors because I believed in the good of Dad. 

After a while, there was no distinguishing the doctor’s office from my own genetics. Going to the neurologist wasn’t simply a business transaction, it was a community. Lollipops and smiles and hugs, you know? Dr. Sullivan was the adult version of the community for the adult version of me. No more lollipops, just the relief of a laugh when I needed it most.

Now here I was at 36, begging for an out. Was it the brightness of the lights or the nausea in my gut that made it so apparent we couldn’t continue? The doctor-patient relationship had changed because we had changed, and the tension between us grew too fraught to ignore. Where had the tension even come from? It looked like the death of a relationship. Chalk it up to a loss of faith in each other.

“Go downstairs and get an EMG, then come back and see me,” he said. 

Given the damage done in the 15 minutes prior, it’s strange to know these were the words that led to our demise. Even before the EMG, I knew it was the last appointment with Dr. Sullivan. Knew it shuffling past the people in the waiting room. Pushing the down arrow for the elevator. And dabbing away the dejection that had dried on my face. Still, it was the EMG, in all its innocuity, that slammed the door shut.