Sinew.
You are
obsessed with the word.
It stands out in your father's medical books, ink staining your fingers when you rub the word dry on page 57. Sinew. It's almost vile, a thick and dry connection to bone and tissue. But when you roll it around on your tongue it sounds funny and you laugh, imagining what it really means, what you wish you could comprehend. That is what life is full of, big words a 6 year old can't understand because your dad works at a hospital and it's important. That's what they tell you anyway, so you do understand. You eventually go back to your toys and running around outside, but the word is stuck in your head because it still makes you laugh.
You grow up nice, the middle of Portland, surrounded by siblings and the best kept cuisine secrets in America. But even then your dad goes by his middle name at the office, knowing that people are judgmental and anything of spanish decent inspires a panic of incompetence. You know he's brilliant but that's your own opinion. You keep those to yourself, hiding behind your older brother who has the voice, who is always willing to say something for you and to you. You're more quiet, more reserved, buried in books so much your parents introduce you to a counselor at the tender age of 5. They're used to a loud household, of outspoken voices, and you are none of those things. You're not like them, but you twirl your hair and swing your toes off the couch and tell the nice lady you hope for the best in your life. She releases you with a clean bill of sanity, but the fact that you are so young worries you.
Nothing changes, though. You're still the quiet, stoic one, never one to emote, watching as your brother became a soccer star in high school, an outspoken homecoming king of a guy. He has a longtime girlfriend and gets a scholarship to Arizona, so you lose him for a while. Then your younger sisters grow into natural beauties so stunning no one quite believes it. They are warm curves and happy smiles, creamy skin and sunshine. Your nose is sharper, features more angular. Maybe you're already wearing the weight of the world on you before you even graduate. You're the grades Reagan, the shy Reagan, turning away from boys and parties and drugs and gossip because it never interests you. Just medical books and sinews. Murder mysteries and almond sweet cream. You can read until your eyes blur in exhaustion, gather information more perfectly than anyone you've ever known. Again, you're introduced to a counselor, fearing a social stigma. Again, you just enjoy being alone and the life it provides. No one else hinders you; no one else has to care.
You graduate a year early, headed to Harvard dead set on Anatomy. You're glad you don't have to give a speech as you don't know these people. But they know you, look at you, wonder about the smart Reagan who doesn't connect with friends. They don't even think you have them because you don't. The day you throw your cap is the day you carve the word
breathe on your hip with a tiny knife blade. It scars.
Things fare differently at Harvard, which surprises you.
These people understand. They know what it's like to dedicate a life to something, work their ass off to get somewhere. You make friends in the library, taste vodka for the first time and you love it. You smile again, tell your parents everything you're doing, who you're meeting, how things are in Cambridge. You can hear the relief in their voices, as they were convinced you would crack under stress or social pressures. You forget high school and the old life, do well in your courses, get bold and apply for medical school at Harvard early. You find out the day of your 21st birthday you got in. You celebrate with exquisite and expensive alcohol and lose your virginity you forget to mention as he sinks into you.
His name's Michael and he's caring, sweet, and very very into you. He always tastes like citrus, which you find funny and addictive and like it. Citrus, another word you come to love. You met at some inner circle bonfire out in the woods and knock knees all night, whispering in front of the stars things that come naturally. It's easy, being with him. He really makes you smile. And cares, always cares, comes to love you so much and hope for all your success. You find yourself wishing for his too, warmth flooding your system when you find out he wants to teach kindergarten. Kids. Maybe you can think about those after all.
You attend Harvard Medical School, an esteemed class of 31 perfect students. Competition seeps back in and soon enough you live in anatomy labs, sneaking in take out dinners with Michael when you can, so glad he understands. He knows you'll excel and you do, top of the class, the world back on your shoulders because you're expected to do great things...but no one knows you well enough to know you'll crack. There was always a pressure limit with you, drawn out to brinks where you're holding your tongue so hard it bleeds because you don't want to fall apart. Sometimes you leave crescents in your arms, nails digging into skin, into flesh. Maybe you like watching yourself bleed.
But no one knows that. To them you're perfect medical Reagan, an oddly stunning beauty with a perfect doting boyfriend you move in with when he spells it out on a chalkboard one day. Soon you're encouraged by your girlfriends (your parents are still astonished you have those) to leave out bridal magazines on your coffee table, and the night of your 23rd birthday he proposes. Birthdays always seem to be symbolic to you. You can't wait to tell your parents, they adore Michael. Another sign of approval in your father's eyes when he asked for your hand. It's all perfect outside, the dream life people look at and think about, want so desperately to be theirs. Financially set and a foundation of love, something so rare these days.
They don't see you breaking.
Between wedding planning and your final years of medical school it's too much, too many thoughts in a head already too dangerous. You lose your shining personality, so much so that they have to coax you into a smile for engagement photos, bridal showers, a bachelorette party you got so drunk at you cried. Red flags, everywhere. They should have seen. But instead you're married at a freshly turned 24, the day
after your birthday, and no one wants to tell you how lost you look the entire day. You're not entirely there, exhaustion to overwhelming moments being excuses as you go through the motions. The first night of the honeymoon in Belize you don't even come. It's already a failed marriage and you know it but lie, try to smile when he touches you, try not to pull away. You don't know what happened but he suddenly repulses you, craving the alone time you so desperately needed.
You graduate med school, take a break to explore physical therapy. No one knew you'd taken classes. No one really knew you anyway.
You end up at a football training facility in Boston, the keep to herself Reagan who doesn't let the players hit on her or give her shit. The Reagan so damn good at memorized muscle tears she can usually diagnose on the spot. Management notices. You show up one day and they introduce you to the head trainer for the New England Patriots. You're surprised, but your husband wants children, taking to the 16 he tends to in a local kindergarten in Cambridge. You want nothing to do with that now, so you take the job.
You travel with the team, get better, quicker, can laugh with the light hearted guys who put their lives on the lines for fans and family. You wish you had that fight still. You end up growing close to a defensive end on injured reserve, recovering from a knee injury from the end of last season. His name's Jake, and he has the smile that warms your heart all over again that you forgot how cold you were. You talk daily about anything, everything, and you're convinced you're in love all over...then question if love ever crossed your mind with Michael. He catches the scar on your hip once, on a whim, and traces it with such interest you almost cry out in pleasure.
The day you find out you're pregnant is the first day you fuck him. 3:03 AM in his car because you couldn't wait to get inside. You question once if he's married, remember you're not wearing your wedding ring, a tiny comfort in the dark expanse of his Escalade. Your hands tangle in the seat belts and you bite his fingers when you scream. He bleeds and you ache to taste it, but hold yourself back because there's never the right time for that.
It lasts two months, traveling with the team and hushing the constant affair, until they both notice the swell of your stomach. The heightened emotions, an aversion to the obvious. They both think it's theirs and you can't handle that stress, having to get out from underneath the both of them. You get an abortion you never speak of, but your husband knows. You walk in the door, drop your keys on the counter, stare him resolutely in his eyes and he knows. And he's horrified. The day after an away game you fly home to a half empty house and no note. It's sad, you breathe a sigh in relief. But you never divorce, an estranged relationship with no communication but a wedding band you still sleep with on your bedside table.
You switch teams then, eradicate the lousy sad history you have to continue with the NFL, venturing to Colorado, New York City, Dallas, California. Easy, breezy California. It's there you choose to settle, close enough to family to feel content. Far away to only require a phone call. You work for San Francisco for a while, the sweet Reagan, always the quiet Reagan, but if someone you knew saw you they'd never see the same person. A broken girl who loved herself that way. Broken is actually carved on your other hip now.
Eventually you adjust here. You do a juice cleanse, you lose 15 pounds, you pick up smoking because you want a little bit of anti-California and loved the New York inhibitions. You pick up and refresh your anatomical skills, forensic knowledge, and you realize you remember it all. You're encouraged to see a doctor to diagnose your brain, administer tests, determine the precise memory you have, but that makes you uncomfortable because your dad is the only one you feel like you trust.
Now freshly 27 you're starting your residency at Cedars Sinai, Forensic Pathology. Your true obsession. You've forgotten what love feels like, how to adjust for pain or sadness or empathy. Now you're just a body in motion, fluid in a clatter of bones and muscles and nerves and tendons and sinews. Still your favorite word.
