And there you have it. My first lesson that pretending to be what you’re not could work wonders for you. I wondered how much of this Dad had learned from his own parents, but his choice of family was too different for their taste, and so I never met them to find out. Their loss.
The baffling thing about pretending is how easy it is. That’s the scary thing about it, too. I’m so comfortable playing pretend that when I pushed Marc off that rooftop, when I could see that Natalie couldn’t remember what had happened, that it was eating her up inside, I just kept on pretending. Pretending I had no idea, either.
I know I must confess the truth to Natalie. And not only because Emily is also on the way over and I haven’t seen her since Luca. I’ve no idea what she might say. But it’s clear as Nat’s words tumble out of her mouth that she’s taking on guilt that doesn’t belong to her. That I’ve taken my secrets too far.
Still, I want to enjoy this—us—for as long as possible before it might be lost to me forever.
This is the thought still at the forefront of my mind when the keys start jangling in the front door. I see how big and scared my sister’s eyes immediately go, see her shrink in on herself, and my fury spikes, so that when George enters the kitchen and starts provoking Natalie with mean-spirited questions, I’ve no interest in playing nice. I hate him for how he’s chipped away at her confidence, her support network, without her even noticing. How it’s been a slow erosion on the coastal line of her life, over time leaving a barren island behind.
Part of me knows that I’ve made her this way. That silently standingguard, dealing with her problems, has smoothed away her edges. That acting as her armor has allowed her to shed her exoskeleton, leaving her fleshy softness alarmingly vulnerable when I’m not around. A fury simmers in me at that thought, fury at myself for weakening her, and fury at her for being so weak. But as the conversation with George continues, I see something shift in her, shoulder blades drawing together, spine straightening, breastbone rising, proud.
Angry words are exchanged.
Natalie slaps George hard across the cheek.
George lunges.
I block.
I’m on the floor, pain exploding through my head.
Natalie is up, reaching for the knife.
George is fast. His fist connects with the side of her face. The knife falls. She falls.
But I’m ready. My head is aching, a piercing pain splitting my skull, but my fury makes me fast. And the last thing George will see is my face as I sink the knife into his soft chest.
32
Now
Dimple
So, this is awkward. Unmistakably, undeniably, teeth-clenchingly painful. The receptionist is looking at me like I’m a piece of gum she’s had to scrape off her shoe. After the scene I caused last time, I’m not surprised. The other therapist in this office has clearly also come to the desk with a query but has stopped to watch the wreckage of whatever this is. Both were an unwilling audience to my performance the other day, vile words ricocheting around what is meant to be a calm and safe space.
“I’m sorry,” I say for the fourteenth time. “It’s just, if—if there’s any kind of gap in her schedule today, I’d really like to apologize in person.”
I’ve taken the day off work. Used my married-to-the-boss privileges to pull a no-questions-asked sickie; I might as well use them for as long as he can still stand to have me working with him. James and I didn’t say much to each other last night when we got home. Haven’t said much to each other this morning, either. It feels like the next words I say to him will be very important, and I don’t know how to choose them. What happened last night was beyond my comprehension.Yesterday felt like a collapsing domino line of bad news, and now I’m crushed under the weight of it all.
But I don’t need to be a victim of my circumstance. I can take some power back. First, by righting the wrong of my misplaced anger. Dimple didn’t deserve my vitriol. And it’s not like me to care what people think unless I can use it in some way. But Dimple’s different. I care a lot.
The secretary taps her fingernails against the desk, fires some characters into her computer, then looks back at me. “I’m sorry. If you’d like to call to schedule an additional appointment, we can arrange a time for you at a later date.”
My automatic response sits sourly on my tongue, waiting. My mouth twists around its lemon sharpness and swallows it. Now isn’t the time for acerbic retorts.
“Really, I know I was a mess yesterday evening, and once more, you have my deepest apologies for the scene I caused. If Dimple’s diary is fully blocked out, I totally understand, but if she has a spare slot and is willing to see me, I’d gladly pay to take it just so that I can deliver my apology in person.”
The other therapist, pinned up graying hair and loose shawl, is pursing her lips at me. I fear I’m making yet another scene.
“Actually, never mind,” I say, cursing this car crash of an idea. “It’s fine. Again, I’m so sorry for yesterday, and sorry to have disturbed you this morning. I’ll just—”
The phone on the receptionist’s desk rings once, twice. She picks up the receiver. As I turn away, I notice a curious look settling on her features. She flashes her eyes up at me.
“Are you sure?” she asks. A pause. “Okay. Fine, I’ll send her in.”
My heart lifts.
“You’re in luck. Dr. Das has had a cancellation this morning. She’ll see you now.”
