“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he grunts, grasping my arm and pulling it toward him. I wince at the pain, thinking not forthe first time that maybe I should have gone to the emergency room to get stitches last night. “Jesus, El—” he shoves my sleeve up to reveal my poorly bandaged and bloody arm. “What the fuck?”
“I’m fine.” I yank my arm out of his grip and pull my sleeve down. “I just need to switch out the bandage.”
Jack’s eyes pierce mine with a dozen unsaid accusations. He finally seems to land on one and says, “It’s like you’re fucking possessed at night.”
“Really?” I spit with anger.
“Really, El. I think digging into your past is dredging up old harmful memories. I mean, what else am I supposed to think? I asked you to take some time off from work and maybe do a spa getaway, see a doctor about some sleep medications—”
“Sleep medications can make sleepwalking worse, actually—I’ve been reading.”
“Right.” He huffs, slamming his open palm down on the counter. “I’m doing what I can to keep you safe, but it’s like you don’t even care for your own safety—why the hell should I?” He pushes a hand through his hair. “You remember that time you were put on a seven-day hold in high school? You tried to take your own life, El.”
“That’s not true—” I protest, but the words fall flat when I realize I don’t really remember why I was there. Oh, I remember the facility, all right—the facility, the meds, the nurses, the endless tests—but I don’t rememberwhyI was committed. There’s a giant black hole in my memory.
“Oh my God—” I say, about to level him with an accusation, before I realize it’s just better if I keep my mouth shut. And then another possibility occurs to me.
Aubrey—is she more than just a friendly neighbor whomight be having an affair with my husband? Maybe Jack put her up to babysitting me.
I can’t shake the thought as I consider all of the things she’s said to me, plus the fact that they were both at The Peninsula that night. Maybe they were meeting for a check-in somewhere safe, somewhere they didn’t think I’d find them.
“You know, I’ve done my share of research too. Even called one of the psychiatrists in the city who your father recommended—he says sleepwalking is genetic. Madness runs in families, El. There’s nothing to be ashamed of—we just need to do what we can to treat you, give you some peace... hell, givemesome peace.”
Is he right? Is history repeating itself? I feel like I’ve been under a microscope these last few months, paranoia about my illness reaching a fever pitch as I try to dodge the landmines of my genetics.
But I can’t shake the feeling that something is off—like Jack is lying to me. Or that he at least has an ulterior motive of wanting to rid himself of me, maybe so he and Aubrey can run off into the sunset together.
Is this how it ends? The undoing of my marriage? A slow descent into chaos and pain before one last blow takes us out for good? Or maybe it was already undone, the emotional affair dismantling what was left of us.
Twenty-Seven
Ellie
“Fresh carrot juice aligns the chakras and balances the heart center.” The woman doing the juicing demonstration is swirling the vibrant juice in the glass with a smile.
I have to suppress a groan. This hippie lifestyle is not for me—I’m not sure what Jack was thinking—only that he was desperate to get me out of the house for the weekend, I guess. I’m sure he’s at the end of his rope, and since I’ve been refusing any further treatment for the sleepwalking, this seems like a last-ditch effort to get me help. To be honest, though, I think I’d rather be at an in-treatment facility for a week than try to smile my way through all this juicing for your chakras bullshit.
The woman drones on and I start to shift in my seat, glancing at the group of a half-dozen or so other women around me. Is anyone else as tortured as I am? It’s been exactly three hours since I left the city, and already it’s taking everything in me to not call an Uber to get home. I sip the small shot glass of beet juice that was passed out as soon as our group sat down, my eyes traveling out to the line of evergreens in the distance. I’m only thirty minutes or so from Kat’s Westchester estate, TempsfordManor. I have half a mind to Uber over there and ask Kat directly about the delivery of milk and honey that was sent to my doorstep a few days ago, but then, Kat probably isn’t even there. As far as I can tell, she spends all week long in the city doing charity events and lunches at chic eateries like Le Bernardin. On second thought, though, maybe checking out Kat’s estate on my own is exactly what I should do. I could feign ignorance to the staff if anyone caught me wandering around, investigating... what?
My thoughts are interrupted by a preppy thirty-something with a smile asking me if I want to be her partner for goat yoga.
“I—I’m actually not feeling great. I think I have to pass; thank you, though.” The woman wrinkles her nose at me as if I’m speaking another language. I guess women like her aren’t used to being turned down. I add in my most enthusiastic voice: “It sounds so fun though! I hope you love it!”
That seems to cheer her up because her smile brightens. “Hope you feel better soon!”
I nod, wave, and then stand from the chair thinking the sooner I get myself back to the city, the better. I move in the opposite direction of the rest of the group, sipping their fresh beet and carrot juice as they saunter over to the goat yoga segment of the weekend. As I make my way up to my bedroom in the boutique B & B, I order a car to take me back to the city. I grab my overnight bag before heading back downstairs and right out the front doors.
I feel a little bad that Jack’s birthday gift will go to waste, but these are not my people. In fact, maybe I’ll book a weekend at my favorite spa in the city—a massage, facial, and some sushi sounds way more relaxing. All of this fresh pressed juice is turning my stomach—and I’m supposed to do this all weekend? Without real food? It’s taken me two hours to come to the conclusion that juicing is bullshit. If it wasn’t for the weird place Jack and I have been in lately I probably would have said that exactly, but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for his gift. But then... if he knew me at all, he would’ve known this isn’t my bag.
The drive from Peekskill back to the city takes just over an hour, long enough for me to curse Jack for sending me way upstate. I tried to schedule a massage and facial at that day spa I like in the city, but they’re booked through the rest of the month. I’d probably be too stressed to relax anyway, my mind churning over all that’s been going on lately. I think of the milk tucked away in the fridge. What if Jack got ahold of it by mistake? Maybe then all of my problems would be solved—or maybe they’d just be beginning.
By the time I climb the stairs to our second-floor apartment, I’ve decided to send Kat a quick email and demand to know more about the grocery delivery that landed on my doorstep a few days ago. All of that changes, however, when I walk into the apartment and find Jack’s work files spread out on the kitchen table. I cross the room, eyes trained on the array of folders. At least half a dozen different stacks are perched precariously on the table; more folders are spread wide open in various arrangements. I catch sight of my father’s name on one of the top files and I can’t help but open the folder, my curiosity piqued. I flip through the first few pages of paperwork, and then I shiver.
Check stubs peer back at me. Settlements made out to different women. Receipts for endowments to Columbia University, and lastly, a paystub made out to my husband from Cayman National Bank. Of course my father has an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands—it’s probably not the only one—butdoes that mean that my husband also has one? A sudden feeling of being naïve washes over me. I flip through a few more papers and find more stubs of checks made out to my husband—for staggering amounts. Most are more than his yearly salary.
And the worst part? Some are dated before Jack and I even met.
Twenty-Eight
