“No, she does not.” Veronica points a sharp nail to the sky. “First, pharmacies sell drugs, and so do dispensaries. Second, the Main Street business zone expressly prioritizes the respectful use of historic buildings in line with their fundamental historic character.”
“And Ms. Wyeth would respectfully sell the drugs?”
“Very respectfully,” Veronica says. “It’s a very classy venture. I donotassociate with unclassy ventures,” she says reproachfully at the zoning commission, as if they might argue back. “Third, Ms. Wyeth’s dispensary fits perfectly in the zoning plan. Not only does it comply with all physical requirements, it’s also quaint, historic, and it adds to the town’s tourist appeal. It will do good business and drive up revenues for surrounding businesses as well.”
“How, exactly, will a cannabis dispensary help local businesses?” Vinny pontificates dramatically.
Veronica leans over her mic. “I’ve heard that people who partake get the munchies. Sammy’s Steaks, Fredo’s Italian Ice, the new ice cream parlor on the corner can all expect to do excellent business thanks to Ms. Wyeth’s dispensary.”
Across the room, Tonuto’s jaw tightens. Now that I know his backstory with Sammy, it’s clear how much he wants him to fail. How does nobody else see it?
Vinny spins through our carefully curated roster of client witnesses. Julian wasn’t wrong—once we put out the bat signal, both recreational and medicinal clients of mine signed up in earnest to share their stories of how, over the years, I’ve made their lives easier, better, fuller.
Happier.
Hearing client after client gush about me and all I’ve done for them should touch me inside. I should be crying tears of joy, of validation, hearing and seeing that a life lived outside the rat race can still have meaning.
But it doesn’t. And I can’t. I can’t feelanythingbut the pain cresting inside of me. It feels like I’ve been divided into two people. The external Nomi, who’s smiling placidly, nodding at all the right moments, the good girl who helps people however she can. And then there’s Nomi on the inside, a bag of suffering squeezed into too-tight pants she can’t escape. Forcibly gagged so that nobody discovers she’s trying not to explode, right here, in agony. I can’t hear the compliments over the sound of my own pain. The friendly voices can’t reach me where I sit huddled, terrified I’m going to be sick in front of all these people, terrified I’m going to ruin my dreams, and so incrediblyfuriousthat my body works against me every chance it gets. My fingernails are embedded in the soft underside of my forearm, the sharp welts an underwhelming counter to the awful blunt-force pressure gripping my insides. But it’s all I have grounding me in this moment.
That, and my mounting anger. I know it’s not helpful, and I know it’s whiny, and I know,I know,I KNOWthat other people suffer. That theyhave their own agonies, their own woes, and that my pain doesnotmake me special. I know all of this, but I’m still so angry this is happening to me. That thisalwayshappens to me. I try to live, and my body knocks me down and says,Stay down. You think you can do this? You really think you can do anything? Stay. DOWN.
And if I don’t? If I try to start my own business, or God forbid, date a person?
I pay. I suffer. I hurt, so much.
And the extra slap in the face is that, on the inside, you feel like you’re dying. But on the outside, you’re just a person about to shit their pants. You’re the woman trying to cry silently in a public stall, hoping the line of impatient women waiting to pee can’t see you rocking back and forth through the cracks in the door. You’re the friend who’s left the group dinner to go to the bathroom five too many times to be normal. You’re the date who ends the night sweating and clutching her stomach and apologizing for needing to go home,right then. You’re suffering in a way society finds embarrassing. In ways you’re not supposed to talk about. When someone asks how you are, they don’t want to hear that you’re internally bleeding again, that you can’t eat, that you’re afraid to.
They don’t want to know.
Julian places his hand lightly on mine under the table. The warmth of his palm sends a shockwave of revulsion through my body, raising the hairs on my neck and kickstarting another set of spasms. I cringe away from him. Hurt blooms in his eyes, and I avert mine quickly.
“Sorry,” I whisper, “you scared me.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he whispers back. “You look… like you’re not.”
Well, that was diplomatic.
“I now call Dr. Julian D’Angelo to the stand,” Vinny announces.
I can feel Julian looking at the side of my face, waiting for me to assure him that I’m fine, just nervous. But I’mnotfine, and I’m barely holding on to this external lie that I am. “Go,” I urge. “Just… go.”
Reluctantly, Julian stands, a slightly darker purple down his back where he’s sweating through his clothes. Poor Julian. I know that, in some ways, he’s even more terrified of this going badly than I am. My stomach lurches, and desperate, I do the unthinkable: I reach for the pill in my pocket. One more goes quickly in and down.
God, I’m doomed.
“Dr. D’Angelo, you filed the initial complaint against Ms. Wyeth’s dispensary, correct?”
Julian clears his throat directly into the mic. The Commission flinches backward at the feedback filling the speakers. “I did.”
“But you later withdrew your complaint. Why is that?”
“Because I realized that I’d been very stupid about cannabis and all the good it can do.” His big eyes look so soft without the structure of his glasses hemming them in. Tender. Or maybe, that’s just how he’s looking at me. “You see, I thought that because I was top of my class at Yale and received the prestigious Corrington fellowship at Philadelphia General Hospital, that that meant I knew everything about what it really takes to help people. But it took me coming to Sparrow Nook to understand the kind of compassion, patience, and personal investment patients need their doctors to have, and I learned all of that from watching Nomi Wyeth work with her medicinal clients. She is, without a doubt, a force of real good for the people in her life. She will do so much good for this town, if you let her.”
One commissioner audibly sighs at these words, pressing her hand against her heart. Jackie, on the other hand, rolls her eyes.
“Thank you, Dr. D’Angelo, that is all.” Vinny turns and is about to call up his next witness,me, when a voice calls from the back.
“Chief Commissioner, if I may question the witness?”
