Mad Max: Unintended Consequences by Betsy Ashton

little longer.”
    “No, you're going to stay.”
    With that, Emilie squeezed me again and danced out of the room, spinning her way down the hallway toward the front door.
    At least one of us was happy with the decision.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    Twenty four hours after the debacle at Dr. Silberman's, Whip called to say he'd be home the next day. “I'm going to stop at the office on the way from the airport.”
    “See you after you unwind. Be home for dinner.”
    I knew the transition from a man's world on a construction site to domesticity could be disconcerting. When I came back from New York, I had to come down from a high of being with my friends. I was never certain what I'd find.
    I was in the kitchen, deep in thought, when Whip appeared at my side. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Where's Merry?”
    I wiped up a spill on the stove. “Upstairs. Napping.”
    “She been out of the house by herself?”
    I shook my head and rinsed the sponge.
    “Still sleeping all the time?”
    “Yes.”
    Whip took the stairs two at a time, only to return within a few minutes, thunder in his eyes. “She's taking a shower and will be down for dinner.”
    “She's been like this every afternoon since you left.”
    “My fault. I shouldn't have gone.”
    “You're right. You shouldn't have gone, but you did. Now, we have to deal with it. Merry's sinking deeper into booze and drugs every day.”
    “Crap. Johnny and I tied one on last night in camp, but I don't get drunk as a daily habit. Got to get her sobered up. Just don't know how.”
    “Me neither.” I'd told Whip about my bargain with Merry, shrink for a plastic surgeon, when he called home. I'd told him to think about committing her too. “Even though the shrink was a dismal failure, maybe a new surgeon will be the magic decoder ring.”
    “Get on it in the morning.” Whip scrubbed his fists through his messed-up hair.
    “Any thoughts about residential rehab?”
    “Can't do it.”
    “Can't or won't?” I thrust my jaw out. “What can you do?”
    Dinner was strained. Merry had washed her hair and tried to look presentable but began drinking even before we sat down. Emilie picked at her food and answered in monosyllables; Alex wolfed his food like a starving peasant. I filled some of the silence with polite, if desultory, conversation. Merry drank. Whip looked mad and scared.
    Whip called Dr. Rosenberg, Merry's first plastic surgeon, about her obsession over her looks and asked for a referral for a second opinion.
    After much searching and getting nowhere, Dr. Rosenberg found a renowned plastic surgeon who accepted a one year teaching fellowship at Chaminade. That hospital wasn't as convenient as VCU, but it claimed this doctor's credentials were impeccable.
    “Mr. Pugh, Dr. Hunter will see you now.”
    Whip tossed aside a month-old copy of National Geographic , and we followed the nurse down a long corridor to a private office toward the back of the clinic. Whip had talked me into going with him to meet the surgeon. I'd agreed to stay through what I hoped would be the final stages of Merry's recovery: her facial reconstruction. If I was going to be responsible for transportation, I wanted to know what to expect.
    “Dr. Hunter.”
    “Mr. Pugh.” Dr. Andrew Hunter leaned over his desk to shake Whip's hand.
    “And you are?”
    “Mrs. Davies, Merry's mother.” I, too, shook the doctor's hand. It was soft and damp.
    “I don't need you here.” Dr. Hunter sat behind his desk.
    “I asked her.” Whip crossed his arms across his chest.
    “Suit yourself.” Hunter held out his hand.
    “I brought Merry's records.”
    The doctor took the large manila envelope, which he set in the exact center of his empty desk. He leaned forward on his elbows.
    The sterile office contained the requisite framed diplomas and board certifications, along with a color photograph of a racing sloop on a bookshelf. The photo was like the one you got when you bought a frame. Very professional. Very