“You can’t go back there. If he’s willing to…If my own brother could want to hurt me, then I don’t think it’s safe for you, either.” His eyes rake across the detritus of the living room. “You could…You could stay here if you need to.”
The concern on his face, the offer, it seems sincere. And it’s not the yellowing bathroom, overflowing bins, and solitary bedroom that prevent me from accepting. It’s James.
My brain is ticking so loudly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Will can hear it.
“Will, you never saw me here,” I say.
He pushes himself back into his chair so hard, it’s like he’s trying to disappear. “Wait, what?”
“I came here to find dirt on you, some kind of leverage that would get you off our necks for the blackmail.”
“You did?”
Sure.
“But I didn’t find anything, and you didn’t find me. I came and went; we never spoke. I don’t know he’s been lying about you blackmailing us, and you don’t know he’s been lying about me threatening you. Have you got it?”
His thumb rubs his index finger in circular motions. “But what’s the plan?”
“I don’t have a perfect plan formulated, which is all the more reason to bide our time. All I know—all we both know—is that James is reactive when backed into a corner. I don’t want to see what he’ll do if we force him into one.”
“Okay,” he says, wiping a running nose against his shirtsleeve. “But…” He takes a moment to scan the room again. “But I need concrete answers. If he’s been doing what we think he has, he has to pay.”
43
Now
Dimple
Two hours. That’s how long I have to pull myself together on the way back from Will’s to my home. Home. What an absurd joke of a word. What I’m going home to is a long-running lie. A large part of me can understand why James would want to hide Chioma from me; I don’t really have a leg to stand on in that respect. But there are too many pieces of the puzzle missing from Chioma’s story. Pieces that I’m convinced will help me make sense of everything else. After all, Will was there the day she died, and I can’t help but feel he’s deliberately obscuring something important from view. Somehow, I have to find answers.
If Will is telling the truth, James believed I hurt my exes, that I was capable of hurting Will to shut him up if pushed…But finding out it was my sister responsible? That would have rocked James’s plans.
I’m not sure how, but he must have still sniffed out the danger in me. Known that I could still hurt Will, despite the adhesive in his hot-glue-gunned plan dissolving. That he was right, that he played me so well, is terrifying. I could have killed a likely innocent Will. Although a small part of me, the part nestled in that dark place, says,See? He knows you so well. You might actually be perfect for each other.
I think I need that right now. To have someone. Not be so alone. I know I’m desperate for some sort of connection, belonging, because I think about unblocking my mother. I even pull my phone out, pull up her contact, then decide I’m not quite that desperate. Yet.
Despite the churning thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me, I pull myself together string by string. This is what I’ve spent a lifetime doing: pretending. I can be just as good an actress as Claire and James—all I have to do is return to form. I have two hours to swallow my heartbreak. Because this is what it is—I have loved James, do still love him in a sense, but I have to accept that the version of him that I love doesn’t exist. That I’ve somehow chosen wrong again, having thought I’d learned my lesson. I’m too fond of falling in love with ideas and ideals, not anything real. And if I’ve learned anything from the heartbreak that’s gone before, it’s that sometimes it’s best to throw the whole pear out when you first notice the rot. There’s no point trying to cut around it, not if you want to be sure of not poisoning yourself. Still, like I said to Will, I don’t want to make any sudden moves. Because if I’m right about James and he knows I’m onto him, he’ll have no problem eviscerating me to protect himself. I need time to be sure of the truth and then make my move.
Despite the cool calm I drape around myself when I get home, I worry that James will smell the distrust on me, the deep betrayal. But he doesn’t. Ironically, he seems to have finally relaxed his close monitoring of me, while I’m watching him more closely than ever. Questions about everything—about Chioma—rise and die on my tongue. Even to ask about his ex would give away that I’ve been speaking to Will, leaving me exposed.
I find my way back to Old Natalie, stepping out of myself to protect myself from the bad feelings. There are too many, and it’s easier to live as a passenger in myself. Numb, not feeling at all. This pulls methrough the late dinner I have with James when I get home, pulls me into our marital bed, allows him to kiss me and for me to kiss him in return. And the next day, I find myself able to continue to perform normality while I try to see a way out of my hole. I tell him I want to work from home and spend my lunch break googling him, finding nothing new at first. But when I stitch in the name “Chioma,” a couple more pieces pop up. Nothing as far back as the day she died, but there’s a local press piece about her parents’ attempt to reopen the case again. It features a small picture of them standing together looking lifeless, leaning against each other as if they’d collapse without the counterweight. Marionettes with their strings cut. A couple of blogs picked up the story and reran it, but there’s no new information in it. Just that she drowned. That her parents think there’s more to the story. At least it confirms what Will’s told me. At least it gives me her full government name. Her parents’ government names.
I discover an old but public Facebook post from Chioma’s mom with an email for people to send information to if they might know more about what happened to Chioma. She asks for people to share it. It’s all very aunty-on-Facebook-coded, lots of her friends adding their prayers in the comments. It’s the kind of thing that would have gone nowhere, but I sit and stare at it. Wonder how fair it is to open an old wound. And then I send a message I expect will sit in an unseen void. Send a friend request to her account from my own, untouched for several years.
When I think about James, I’m not struck with the impression of a man who’s methodical in his violence in the same way that someone like Marc or George was. I’m sure he may even think of himself as an actively good person. But he’s a coward. This is his ultimate flaw—ruled by fear beyond the point of reason—and that still makes him dangerous. Dangerous enough for me to not risk slipping.
When I find myself in Dimple’s office the day after, I am still successfully holding myself together, although all my pieces are being kept in place by a single taut string.
“How are you doing today?” she asks with a kind smile.
“All things considered, okay.” I need to work my way up to talking about this. There are limits to what I can share, but I need to talk about James.
“I appreciate you coming back here despite your reservations about continuing our sessions.” Head tilt, hair swish. “But, Natalie, I have to remind you that for this to work, I need you to be honest with me.”
I nod. “You’re right. I’m sorry for that. I’ll try to do better today.”
“Thank you.” She looks genuinely grateful. I wonder if this is an honest reflection of her feelings, or if she’s just as good a liar as James. “So, how have you been managing your temper over the past week? There are still several stressors in your life and—”
