“Thanks, Dr. Lerner.”

“What pharmacy should we call?”

“Walgreen’s in Danville.”

“We’ll call it right in. Are you icing it?”

“I am.”

“That’s good. And keep your foot propped up as high as you can, to keep that blood circulating.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Dr. Lerner, and I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

“Have a good trip,” he says.

As soon as I hang up I feel both relief and shame. Why am I doing this? Lying to my nice doctor to get some pills I don’t need? I mean, how long have I been doing this? Think about it, Paris. It’s not until now that I realize I’ve long since driven over the bridge and am actually approaching my exit. As I start to change lanes, someone is honking at me, and when I turn to look, it’s some guy in a truck holding up a giant rubber hand that’s giving me the finger. I guess I must’ve cut him off, but I just give him the finger right back. When I get off the freeway, I pull the car over and stop and drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes.

But I can’t think. Of anything. And almost as if by rote, I reach inside my purse and dump out my last two pills and open my water bottle and swallow them. I drop my head against the cushion, but this time it seems as if knowing I’ve paved a way for my immediate comfort, I can perhaps begin to think about when my so-called long-term discomfort first started.

Last year. Right after I had my breasts lifted and they prescribed Vicodin and I realized that I liked the way it made me feel. That I could think about one thing at a time when I took one. Even then I wasn’t in that much pain, nothing a couple of Advil couldn’t have remedied, but I remember getting the refill when I didn’t need it, and later calling that doctor back and asking for yet another one, and he gave it to me. I did that four times in four weeks. It was right after that, that I had the first of a series of gum surgeries and once again I felt lucky when I was prescribed the same medication.

Back then, I took one every four hours, just like I was supposed to, but now I do believe that I’m up to six and sometimes eight of these things a day. How and when did this happen? I’m nobody’s drug addict, am I? Is this what they mean by getting dependent? No way. No fucking way. I just won’t take any more. Period. I can get through a day without a pill. It’s not like they cure anything. They haven’t fixed anything. Haven’t changed anything. Problem solved. I’ll just stop taking them and grow up and face the fucking music. I mean, what am I complaining about anyway? I live a good life. I’ve got lots of money. A nice big home. A good kid. I’m alive. And I’m no drug addict. No fucking way.