If I floated into Dimple’s office on a summer breeze, I leave with the howling of a storm cloud. Words have been said. I can’t recall what exactly, but the words were fast and loud and vicious. I think I toppled the coffee table over on the way out. Doors were slammed, expletives hollered, sound ricocheting into the lobby as waiting patients averted their gazes. I’ve left before my time is up, already drafting scathing emails to Dimple in my mind, in which I demand my money back for time wasted.
My sister!
My sister…
There’s a gnawing sensation in the back of my brain that I can’t ignore. It’s not even quite an idea, just a feeling. The gnarled bud of something waiting to blossom into something hideous. Its fingers are pressing on the inside of my skull, slippery against it. I can feel the pressure of them pushing, pushing, pushing.
I need an ibuprofen. I need some wine. I need an umbrella, because Jesus fuck is this weather awful. The heavens have cracked open, and I have to think this is some kind of sick joke. If the universe cantransform itself into something wonderful for you, it can conspire to become your own personal hell, too.
Before long, I’m in the car, rain-drenched shoulders trying not to shiver.
My sister.
It’s ludicrous to even consider it. And yet…And yet that Feeling is still lurking.
I tap out a quick message:
You around later for a chat? x
Of course, Natty! I go on break in 2 hrs—that not too late for you?
Does it really have to wait two hours?
Do you really want your sister to get fired?
No, 8 is good. Will call.
When I eventually get home, James is not yet back from work, always in the office, whereas I opt for an increasing number of days working from home. And today he’s texted to say he’ll be back late. I’m not sure how to sit with this, alone, for the next half hour. And I’m not yet sure if talking to Claire is going to make this better or worse.
Ibuprofen. Wine. An easy first step, and swiftly arranged. When I check the time, I see I still have twenty-two minutes left to wait. Great.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around, my nerves are shot, and I’m mildly tipsy. I’m sitting on the sofa, thumb hovering over the dial button, Claire’s number up on my screen. There’s something very finalabout making the call, about having the conversation. Whatever the outcome, I know something between us will be irreversibly changed. She’s the only family I have left. I don’t know that I can afford to lose her.
“Hi, Care.”
“Natty! What’s up? God, you won’t believe who I served in the café today.”
“Oh.” My voice is flat. Somehow, I’m already getting this wrong. “Is now a good time to talk?”
The spark in her voice fizzes out. “Yeah, I can— What is it, Natty?”
“Are you alone? Can you find somewhere quiet?”
“One sec, I’m just heading to the break room and then I’m all yours.”
As Claire describes it, the “break room” is really a glorified storage cupboard, just about big enough for a table and chair to be pushed up against a towering stack of boxes. Claire says she’s never minded it, though. Says it’s one of the few places in LA where she feels truly at peace. There’s something nice about being shut off from the rest of the world.
“I’m in,” she says. “Just getting comfortable. What is it? Is it James? Has something happened?”
The words stick in my throat. And when, for a moment, it feels as if I’ve found them, they’re fuzzy, strange, and misshapen. I don’t know how to say this.
“It’s not James,” I say. “Not really.”
“Oh. Then what is it?”
I force the headlines out of my mouth. The latest therapy sessions; the man in the bar; Dimple’s theory. “I couldn’t sit there and keep listening to her, Care. But it—it sounded like she thought maybe what happened to Marc and Luca and George had something to do with you.”
“She did?”
