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I stare at her khaki pants with pleats—who wears pleats anymore?—and the drab clock on the wall behind her. The hands tick by as she scribbles on her clipboard. Her face is tight and slightly scowling as if she is dead inside and this is just her way of passing the time. Honestly, though, I prefer this subdued version of her to the peppy, life-is-fucking-fabulous therapists I’ve seen before. I fiddle with my bracelet as I study her, though, wondering if this was a horrible idea. It seems like it.
Dr. Fountain didn’t press me about my canceled appointments for the past few weeks. I thought she might drop me as a patient for being a no-show. Perhaps I sort of hoped she would. But being the altruist she is, when I showed up for our standing appointment, she agreed to meet with me. She didn’t hound me or question me. She simply let me do the talking, let me come to her as she likes to say. It’s like she thinks she’s some tribal goddess to be worshipped with stories of my dysfunction. In fairness, how wouldn’t you get an ego about the normalcy of your own life when talking to so many messed-up patients?
I wring my hands now, certain this was a mistake. I clearly am losing it. What can she possibly do to help me? I don’t know. I’m grasping at straws, though, after the whole thing in the office with John and the home office and everything in between. This is what happens when you let yourself become isolated and when you lose control of your life—you depend on dowdy therapists to throw you the life raft. Sitting here, I realize how shoddy the life ring is and how incapable I am of swimming to it anyway.
“So, Evette, tell me what’s been going on with you.” Her words reverberate through the room, filling it with her song-like buoyancy that feels a tad inappropriate.
I think my husband’s having an affair. I don’t dare mutter the words aloud. What would she say? I see, how does that make you feel?
Like the ugly hag I am.
Like a failure.
Like my whole life’s been a disaster.
Or, I could always start with, I think my husband might be committing crimes. And then what? She’ll ask about Margot’s safety, get CPS involved? Call the police, and my whole family will detonate without a single scrap of proof from me other than some odd behaviors? I’ll get locked away, proven as the town crazy once and for all, while John rides into the sunset with whomever he’s screwing and our baby.
So instead of the truth, which I came here convinced I would tell, I back down. I crawl right back into my shell, into the sparkling mask I’ve been wearing for so long. I suffocate behind the plaster and lacquer smile.
“Oh, you know, just taking care of Margot. It’s been so busy.” I fiddle with the hem of my shirt to keep my hands busy. I remind myself to look up and make eye contact. I remind myself not to smile too widely or look to happy. Simplicity sells lies. Understatement convinces the masses.
“Is Margot with John?” she asks, eyeing me over the clipboard. Someone really should tell these therapists the constant notetaking is jarring.
“Yes.” The clock tick, tick, tick, ticks. I tap my toe to the beat. I avert my eyes from the mousey woman’s hair. She needs her ends trimmed and some highlights.
“That’s good. It’s good you’re able to leave her. Does it make you anxious to leave her?” she asks, still scrawling away with her scratchy pen. There’s no rhythm to her pen, and its inharmonious tapping with the clock warps my head. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, telling myself to focus. I open my eyes again. She’s not even looking at me. She didn’t notice my momentary disappearance.
I exhale. I hate when she asks questions. “Of course it does.” A safe answer. Expected. I’ve learned well.
“I see. I see.” She purses her lips. She does that when she’s thinking. I wish she would tell me what she actually thinks instead of treating me like some fragile flower who can’t handle the truth. I hate all this trying to guess what’s rolling around in her mousey little head. It heightens my anxiety to unbearable levels. I bet she hates me deep down. She probably clapped with glee when I didn’t come to our appointments. My heart beats a little faster at the thought. I feel antsy sitting across from her. I want to know what’s in her notebook. If I could just peer over a bit more...
“And how has John handled Margot?” She continues to the next question without missing a single opportunity, interrupting my plot to swipe a peek at her notes.
My gaze meets hers, abandoning their claim on the words about me. “Fine. I mean, it’s an adjustment, I guess. He’s been a bit distant.”
“And how does that make you feel?” she prods, her signature phrase. I honestly don’t even know why I bothered to come. I could—
But the question stirs something in me. Pain. Repressed loss. The old feeling of being alone bubbles up in my throat and drowns me. I choke the feeling down and fight the urge to expel the foamy liquid from my mouth.
“It’s just sort of hard, you know. After everything that happened. And now I’m home with Margot, and it’s like John’s not there for me. I feel alone, a little bit, I guess.”
Dr. Fountain takes more notes.
“I... I think he is up to something.” There. The words are out. She can judge me if she must. I look at her expectantly. For what, I don’t know. It’s as if she’s the judge handing down the sentence, as if I’m clinging to her leg awaiting a final reckoning she certainly can’t give me.
She remains icily silent as the words hover in the tension-filled air. I hear her pen scratching the paper faster now. It’s still tilted too far for me to see what she wrote down. I imagine the word “psycho” etched on her tablet, over and over, the indelible label printed in my file and tattooed all over my inner skin.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks after her pen stops scratching.
You will anyway. I silently nod.
“Do you think it’s possible perhaps you’re projecting a bit? You’ve had some big changes. Your whole world was upended in so many ways. Is it possible you’re thinking John is acting bizarre and aloof because deep down, you know that’s how you’re acting? You’re feeling those emotions, which is understandable, but you’re afraid to recognize them because of your past. So you’re projecting them onto him instead.”
I shake my head and avert my eyes to her bookshelf. I start counting the titles to keep myself calm as the words ‘projecting’ and ‘past’ play on repeat in my head like an out-of-tune melody. A long moment passes by where I say nothing. She’s probably celebrating her victory. She thinks she’s the hero of our story like some sappy movie, that her words have lit the lightbulb in my heart and I am changed.
She’s a fucking moron.
“I’m not imagining it. I’m not.” My fists start balling up. My breathing increases. I tell myself it’s okay. It’s fine. I try to assuage the situation and mitigate my anger by reaffirming what I do know or am told to believe: she’s just doing her job. I notice in my peripherals Dr. Fountain studies my every move as if she’s stalking prey. Her mouth is in a slight frown now.
“Evette, it’s okay. I’m an ally here. I want to help you figure this out. I’m just wondering if...”
Anger bubbles. She really should’ve left it alone. I turn to face her directly. “What? If it’s all in my head? If I’m crazy?”
“Evette,” she murmurs, lifting a hand to me as if she’s calming an energetic dog or a spooked horse.
I clench my jaw. This was a mistake. A total mistake. I stand from my chair. She repeats my name, but I ignore her. She pales a bit. Is she afraid of what I might do? Jesus, this town. Everyone thinks they know everything. I’m sure she’s heard whispers. If only she knew the whole truth. Then, she would be running for the exits. Then she would know who is in control here, degrees and doctorates aside. A piece of paper on the wall doesn’t entitle you to power, courage, or strength.
“I’m sick of everyone talking about me like I’m crazy or something. It was one event. One well-deserved incident. Doesn’t anyone see what it was like to be me in that? Can’t anyone see? And it wasn’t even a big deal. Jesus, it’s not like I fucking murdered her.”
Dr. Fountain continues to say my name in her sickeningly sweet voice. I imagine she’s running through a list of perfect textbook responses to my behavior, as she would note. I ignore her patronizing tone, though, and grab my bag from the vomit green chair in the corner. I turn at the door, staring at a bewildered Dr. Fountain.
“We’re done here. I don’t need you. I’ll sort it out on my own.” I use the same patronizing tone, which brings me comfort. I’m in control, not her. She is not the goddess to be worshipped, not by me at least. She is stone cold, statue still. A marble sculpture chipped away by the realization she has no power. None.
I slam the door so wickedly, it rattles the pictures on the wall. I think one actually crashes to the beige carpet. The waiting room houses a few other patients and a receptionist. They just stare at me, the receptionist’s mouth agape like the fool she is. My face flames, and my chest burns with rage. I just want to be home. I just want things to go back to how they are.
I just want—
I walk home, willing my feet to follow the path. Every step is a drudgery, every lift of my leg feels like I am wearing 10,000-pound shoes. In between commanding my feet to move, I think about the question that sifts through all of the chaos from the day: What do I even want anymore? What am I looking for?
Despite my sluggish steps, I get to the house twenty minutes earlier than I would have if I had stayed for the whole appointment. In truth, I want nothing more than to walk in and fall into John’s arms, to tell him what’s going on. I want him to hold me as he would before Margot came. He would comfort me when therapy was too much and I was struggling. He was always my solace in the middle of turmoil, even that first night we met.
Instead, on a whim, I slink behind the house to look out into the yard alone. I stand for a moment, taking a breath I so desperately need and studying the field of flowers that edges along our lawn. Sometimes, your body and mind just crave the serenity of nature, the silent understanding of the trees. My heart stops pounding, and I realize how much I needed this. I really should come out here more frequently. After a long moment, I begrudgingly command myself to turn and go in the back door.
But that’s when I notice John. The blinds are open in his office. There’s quite a glare, but I can make out his figure standing in the room, his cell to his ear. He saunters over to the wall. I duck down, curious, still staring. I creep closer to get a better look. Where is Margot? Why is he in his office instead of spending time with her?
He moves the replica painting of Starry Night I bought him years ago. The thick, gilded frame slips away. The oversized painting shields the safe tucked carefully in the wall. I always wondered why we needed one, but John insisted it was something he always wanted for life insurance policies and things of the sort. When we bought it, it seemed excessive to me, like a James Bond movie or something.
I take a few brave steps forward. I have no explanation for why I’m back here. If he turns and catches me, all trust will be gone if it isn’t already. But he’s so absorbed in the phone call, angry and waving his hands. He leans his head against his shoulder, pinching the cell between them as he runs the combination. It opens.
I peek and try to see, but he’s blocking the way. Shit. What’s he doing in there? What does he have stowed away? It’s been eons since I’ve been in the safe. John always takes care of things that go in there. My mind goes to all sorts of places, none of them positive.
After a moment, he wraps up the phone conversation. I duck back against the house. I don’t want him catching me spying on him. That would certainly make him angrier. I don’t want to feel the wrath of a pissed off John. Pulse racing, I slink back around to the front of the house, to the main door. I’m a few minutes early, but he probably won’t even notice. I’ll just say Dr. Fountain had to wrap up early today. He won’t question it, will he?
It seems my husband has other preoccupations these days. We both have our secrets.
I think about the gun in the bottom of the filing cabinet drawer, sitting, waiting—for what?
My mind keeps racing. I feel nauseous as if my whole world is about to drop out. I wonder if I, too, should have my weapon stored. Just in case. I don’t even know how to go about getting one, but maybe it’s something I should look into.
You can never be too careful. Never.