Chapter 6 - THE STORY DIANE TOLD THE CHURCH
By the following Sunday, Diane had told people I had abandoned Eric.
I knew because a woman from their church called.
Her name was Marjorie.
We had met twice.
“Claire, Diane says everyone is terribly worried.”
“About what?”
“Your dependency.”
There it was.
Not cancer.
Not surgery.
Dependency.
I sat at Noah's dining table with one hand pressed carefully against my chest.
“Marjorie, did Diane tell you I am addicted to medication?”
“She said your family is trying to get you help.”
My family.
I almost admired the efficiency.
“What else did she say?”
Marjorie became uncomfortable.
“That you became unstable after surgery. That you screamed when they tried to remove drugs from the house.”
I closed my eyes.
Then Marjorie added:
“She said Eric is afraid you're going to accuse him of abuse because he set boundaries.”
I thanked her for calling.
Then I contacted my attorney.
Not because I wanted to sue a church gossip network.
Because a pattern was spreading.
Eric and Diane weren't simply defending what happened.
They were getting ahead of it.
That week, I filed for divorce.
There was no dramatic confrontation.
My attorney filed papers.
Eric received them through the normal process.
He called from a different number after realizing I had blocked him.
“You filed?”
“Yes.”
“Because Mom threw away some pills?”
“Because you helped her.”
“She was trying to protect you.”
“From the medication prescribed after cancer surgery?”
“You don't hear yourself.”
I almost laughed.
Then he switched tone.
Soft.
Familiar.
“Claire, you're sick.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly. You're not thinking normally.”
The sentence told me something.
My illness had become useful to him.
Before cancer, disagreement meant I was difficult.
After cancer, disagreement meant I was impaired.
I ended the call.
The next morning, the pharmacy's compliance manager contacted my surgeon.
They had reviewed the pickup history.
Eric had collected both postoperative refills.
The first, I received.
The second, I did not.
Pharmacy records also showed another event.
Two months before my surgery, someone had attempted to use my profile to request an early refill of a non-opioid anxiety medication.
The pharmacy refused because no refill was due.
I had never made that request.
The phone number entered on the request belonged to Eric.
Suddenly, the missing postoperative medication was no longer a single strange event.
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It was a second layer.
And the person my mother-in-law kept calling an addict was not the person whose behavior the pharmacy had begun to question.
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