Chapter 9

WHEN I WAKE up, a toddler is standing in front of me. Sunrays filter through the sheer curtains and land on his red hair. His beige jumper looks huge on his small frame. He gives a small “Hi.”

“Are you Aunt Josephine’s wife?” My head is still on the pillow, and he tilts his to match. Somehow, I’ve only met him once, on the day he was born. Now he’s four. And it haunts me to know I’ve missed so much.

“Yes, I think so,” I whisper.

“Why are you still asleep?” he asks. “It’s breakfast time.”

“I’m not asleep.” I frown and pretend to be confused. “I have my eyes open. Can you sleep with your eyes open?”

“I think my dad can.” He smiles, carrying his sleeve to his mouth.

“Why do you say that?” This time, I’m genuinely curious.

“Because when Mummy tries to change the channel, he wakes up saying he was watching it. But I already heard him snoring.” He giggles and I do too without a second thought.

Josephine comes out of the walk-in closet, adjusting her hijab. Today, she wears an olive one that accentuates her grey eyes. Artie is more thrilled to see her than he is to see me, which is fair. We practically just met and Jo is way better with kids than I am.

I bring myself up on my elbows to watch how Artie runs to her with his arms up, hoping to be held. She doesn’t pretend to be surprised or treat him like a puppy like most adults do with kids. Jo is genuinely happy to see him. There are kisses and snuggles as she picks him up.

“Well, sleepy head,” she says to me and Artie laughs. “You’re late for work and so am I.” Jo pokes Artie’s side and I can only enjoy his laugh for a moment before I get up abruptly.

“Oh, shit!” I say as I rush to the bathroom but Jo’s voice stops me.

“Hey, honey, take it easy. I’ve already handled it for you.”

I frown as my nephew giggles behind his tiny hands.

“Aunt Jo, your wife said a bad word.” He laughs when Jo makes an exaggerated surprised face.

“Yes, Aunt Emma said a bad word, but it's going to be our secret.” Jo puts him down and gives him a little push toward the door. “Go tell Dad that Aunt Emma is awake and will be having breakfast.”

“Aunt Emma is awake!” His voice echoes down the corridor as he flashes out of the room. Jo turns to me with a concerned expression.

“Are you alright?” Her concern confuses me for a moment. “You slept through your alarm. You were quite tired this morning. I tried to wake you up. ”

“Really?” I ask, starting to move to the bathroom again. “I have to hurry.”

“It’s fine.” Jo grabs my hand and intertwines her fingers with mine. “I called Silvia. She managed. She said she moved everything to the afternoon.”

My face drops in relief and laughter comes through. Jo laughs with me as she pulls me to her. “I felt you get up late at night,” she says and I hide my panic behind a grin. “Is everything okay?”

“You heard me get up but you didn’t hear my phone about to perforate my nightstand?” I squeeze her against me.

“What happened? Who was calling?”

I hate myself for doing this. I hate that she's concerned for no reason and it's my fault. “It was a patient. They had… problems.” I nod. It’s not a complete lie. “I had to take the call.”

“Oh my god, are they okay?”

I should tell her.

“Yes. But it was an extensive talk.”

But I don’t.

“Well, I hope everything is better now. I have to go.” She kisses me and I don’t want to let go. “Hey come on, I’m late.” I kiss her back with vigour, trying to amend the half truth I gave her. “Unlike somebody, I got up and got ready for work.”

“Don’t tease me. I’ll drag you to the shower with me.”

“Babe…” She plays scandalised. “Is that a threat or a promise?” Her smile is the last thing I see before she leaves.

I’M PULLING DOWN my jumper when the screen of my phone lights up with a text message.

T: Good morning.

I look at it for a moment, feeling vertigo that makes me want to throw up. I drop by the side of the bed and look for a bar of soap inside my nightstand. I didn’t know I still hated this feeling and I hadn’t expected a text would bring it back.

I shove my phone in my pocket and head to the kitchen.

“There you are, stupid,” Ben says. I give him a look of annoyance. “Where are the glasses in this house?” He opens every cabinet without looking on the kitchen counter next to the fridge, where there are two rows of six clean glasses. I look at my dad, who’s freshly showered. He gives me a wink.

“I have no idea,” he says in a shaking voice. He actually looks better than most days. His face is fuller and has more colour to it, and his grey hair reminds me there was a time when it was brown like mine.

I grab a glass, tapping it against the others to call Ben’s attention. When he looks my way, he looks baffled. After pouring a glass of water and taking a long drink, I look at him.

“Stupid,” I say.

“Why put the glasses next to the fridge?” he asks as he grabs another glass and pours water for Dad. “That’s what cabinets are for.”

“Your father can’t reach the cabinets.” Still leaning against the counter, I watch him give Dad the glass and his morning pills. Ben doesn’t answer.

“I wish you’d have seen your face.” My dad chuckles.

“You knew?” Ben acts as if he has been wounded by betrayal.

“Have your sight checked, my boy.”

“Ha-ha. Dad. Come on, take these.”

My dad makes a face of disgust like a little kid.

“Come on, come on.”

He takes one after another between a gulp of water. His body is familiar with this movement now. “You take them, then.” His face changes to annoyed.

Ben looks at me and I know he gets it. None of us want to live until we have to stack pills in our mouths every morning. “There, there. It’s over now. Let’s get some breakfast.” Ben pulls Dad’s wheelchair and I notice there’s no sight of food on the kitchen island.

“Where’s breakfast?” I ask as I wash my glass.

“It’s in the dining room,” Ben shouts over his shoulder, pushing my dad to the other room.

We don’t use the dining room for breakfast. We actually don’t use the dining room at all. Except for special occasions like Christmas dinner or New Years.

We like to think it’s our giant office, since we don’t have one and we use the guest room when Jo’s sister, the one that still talks to her, comes to visit.

When I join everyone in the dining room, I see all our paperwork is gone. I need to keep my calm because I know my brother is doing a lot right now. Amanda is sitting beside Arthur, who's in a high chair I’m sure we don’t own. She gives me a smile.

“Hi, Emma,” she says warmly and I can’t help but smile back. “I hope you don’t mind.” She touches Arthur’s chair. “But he doesn’t know how to behave if he’s not sitting in his high chair. The last time, he smudged a bit of cake on his aunt’s scarf.” She laughs. “And I also piled up your documents over there. Don’t worry, I used some sticky notes to separate them so they are in the same order they were scattered in over here.”

I have mixed emotions about this happy family act. I’m overwhelmed by how suddenly there are three more people and a high chair in the house; how casually they invited themselves into this place and how happy Dad looks to have them here, with the curtains pushed back and the sun coming in.

“Thank you,” I say. I hope it sounds genuine despite how uncomfortable I am. “And it’s a hijab,” I correct but I grin at the end to make it seem casual. She grins back.

We have breakfast as my discomfort wears off, little by little. I like to see Dad like this, far from the rainy window and next to the sunshine. Ben is talking loudly about his work. Amanda is paying attention and letting Artie play with his cereal.

It's weird having them here after three years of not talking to each other. I only just got to see my sister-in-law up close—not only her features, but also the way she looks at my brother when he talks.

“Oh…” I say and pull out my phone. “The other day, Sonia texted me.” Everyone looks back at me. Even Ben stops talking.

“What, really?” he asks.

“Yes, she told me next time we are together, we should make a video call.”

Amanda and Ben exchange a glance of surprise and Dad looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Then again, lately, everything makes him quite emotional.

“I’ll call her,” I say, showing my phone.

We wait in silence for Sonia to answer the call as the phone beeps, but after four, five, six beeps, the call fails. I try again but it ends just like the first try.

“Maybe she’s busy.” I put my phone away. “We’ll try later.”

After breakfast, Amanda and Artie take my dad to the living room to his insistence. Peppa Pig is on TV.

Ben and I clean the table in silence, taking mugs and plates to the kitchen while we listen to Artie's laughs and some warnings from Amanda telling him to play soft with his grandpa. My dad profusely tells her it’s fine.

“Arthur is a beautiful kid.” I start small talk with my own brother. I have to say something after they made breakfast and entertained Dad.

“He really is, isn’t he?” Ben looks over his shoulder to the living room while still washing the dishes. “Just like me.”

I roll my eyes but he doesn’t see me.

I can’t say I didn’t miss this. That I forgot about name-calling and sarcastic comments; all of them feel like our own love language.

“I’m glad you came,” I say without a second thought while I pick a tea towel and start to dry mugs and plates next to him. He stops washing the plates to give me the side-eye. “I really am.” I laugh. “I’m not teasing. Dad’s happy.”

“That’s great,” he says, going back to his chore. “I hope our visits can make you happy, too.”

“Ben…” I sigh. “That’s not what I meant, you moron.”

“I’m the moron?” he says in disbelief.

“Well, I’m not the one who couldn’t see the glasses right in front of them.”

“They were transparent, you dummy.”

“Sure.” We exchange looks and it feels like old times, way before Mum, way before uni, way before moving away from each other.

“So Sonny, huh?” he asks when he finishes the plates and shakes his hands to dry them. “I haven’t talked to her in a while.”

“What, really?” I ask, stopping my drying motion. “Why haven’t you told me?”

“How was I supposed to know you and Sonny were talking? She never talks to you. She’s afraid you’ll psychoanalyse her.” He sits on the same stool I sat last night. I keep drying the cutlery as I walk to him. “She mentioned she was working on her grade project. I just thought she was busy.”

“I hope she’s not mad at me…” I say in a low voice, regretting it as soon as the last word leaves my mouth. “We aren’t exactly talking…”

“Wait, what happened? She never mentioned being mad at you.”

“Well…” I start. I mean, it’s not like I’d insulted her. At least not on purpose. “I kind of pulled a Mum through text.”

“Oh no.” Ben looks actually concerned. “God, Emma. Those are so annoying. You know better than anyone.”

“I know. Before I knew it, I was typing backhanded compliments.”

“I’m not surprised she didn’t want to answer you.” He laughs and kicks me softly on my shin.

“Don’t say that to me. I apologised.” No I didn’t, I just erased the message like a coward, only for her to see it anyway.

“Well…” He gets up from the stool when I finish drying everything and put it away. “I’ll take Dad to his doctor’s appointment and then we’ll go for lunch.”

“What? Wait, but today’s appointment is in the afternoon. Usually, Josephine takes him.”

“Well not anymore. I’m sure Jo does an incredible job but she probably arrives tired from school, so I told her I’d take care of Dad.”

“She didn’t tell me…”

“No, because I told her I was going to talk to you. I knew you’d convince Jo to refuse to accept my help, so I told her I’d talk to you as soon as possible, which I’m doing right now.”

“Oh…”

“Look… I’m serious when I tell you I want to do this. I want to spend time with him, I want Amanda and Artie to do it, too. I don’t want to regret every day I’m away from him. Because we know what’s happening, we know this is not going to… last much longer.”

“I just find it so funny…” I say, not finding it funny at all, “that you keep repeating that.”

“And you kept repeating he was my father when Mum died and I know. I fucking know, Emma. Stop trying to manipulate me into feeling bad. I already do. But I won’t apologise for doing what I thought was best at the time.”

I’ve been trying to manipulate him, that’s true. There’s no use in denying it. I just want him to feel what I felt when he left us. I keep quiet because I don’t want to fight. I already feel the acid in my stomach burning because of the waffles. Let’s not add anger to the mix.

I cross my arms, looking away so he doesn’t see how much it affects me. He realises I wanted to hurt him but he can’t understand why.

“Emma.” He calls my name so I’ll look at him. I don't. He doesn’t try again. “I’m serious. Listen, do you remember when you were scared of the monkey bars and Mum was pregnant with Sonny? Remember when we both climbed them and we helped each other to hang upside down so we didn’t fall? Well, we have to do it again. Let’s help each other to hang in there. Because we are going to need it.”

We haven’t raised our voices, but of course Dad notices something is off. I know when I look over Ben’s shoulder and he’s looking back at me from the living room, his brows raised, his posture tilted as though he’s trying to overhear us, but he smiles at me when he catches me staring back and strokes Artie’s hair.

WHEN EVERYONE LEAVES, I have the house all to myself. It feels like a worn out piece of clothing; there’s so much space we don’t use. Amanda tries to convince me to have lunch with them but I assure her I’ll be fine and I need to go through those papers she put away.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and another message from Theo appears on my screen.

T: Good morning.

T: How’s your morning?

I frown at the screen as if he can see me. I don’t know why he pretends with all this. It feels staged, like he’s playing a prank on me. I always feel like this when I’m around him. I thought after all this time I could be indifferent to his presence and actions but I’m having a hard time not looking over my shoulder. I type my answer and leave my phone face-down on the coffee table in the living room.

E: Hello, I’m fine. Is everything alright?

When I’m ready to leave, I toss my phone inside my bag so I don’t have to look at it, even though it’s vibrating next to my leg. I've been counting the days I’ve been inactive. Jo wouldn’t like to know I’m keeping track of things like exercise and food. I’ve been missing my morning runs because it’s winter, and for the first time in forever, I’m aware of it.

But running keeps me busy and centred. It's not like I’m keeping trackers like I used to in college. I started in high school, small, just counting how many pages I studied per day, then I added how many books I could read, how many steps I took from school to home, how many times I ate in a day, and how many days I went to swim training. How many calories I consumed.

I never noticed it and, even if I had, I didn’t think it was something bad. I used to do it for the pleasure of seeing my schedule full, my days marked as done, and my numbers rounding up to be all the same or less. Mum found my trackers once when I was in school. She cried in the kitchen and took her time to calm herself before talking with me for hours.

I didn’t know I was going through an eating disorder. I just thought I was organised.

I pull out my phone when I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on in my messages. My brother has sent me a series of photos of them having lunch with a text.

B: We called Sonny, she’s fine. Just hungover 🥴.

I laugh at that, but at the same time, there's a pressure on my chest. Was she really hungover or did she just not want to answer me? I guess I can only trust it’s true. Surprisingly, the next text is from Sonia.

S: Sorry, I overslept. Not feeling well 🍺.

The knot in my chest loosens a bit. I can’t help but answer right away.

E: Tomato juice. Trust me.

S: you’d know.

E: Thank me later.

She doesn’t answer. The last text is from Theo.

T: Lunch?

I don’t know what this friendly act he’s putting on is, but I’m not up for it.

E: I’m running errands. I’m booked in the afternoon.

Just as I send it, three dots appear from him typing.

T: Supper?

My mouth twists into an involuntary smirk. I put away the phone again as I arrive at the office.

Theo hasn’t stopped texting during the whole afternoon. More than once, my phone made me jump in my armchair. I'm not used to getting text messages, that's why I have it on me all the time. Even though it isn’t an eventful day, the sudden vibration of my phone has kept me on my toes.

For my last appointment, I’ve put it on silent and tucked it away. All his text messages have been short and direct, asking me to have dinner with him. I said no. He asked what I was doing. I left him on read. Then he asked if I remember the first time we texted. I texted back that I remember it all too well. He didn’t get the Taylor Swift reference.

“I don’t really understand what I’m doing wrong.” The voice of my patient pulls me away from my thoughts. “I was so excited about my blog, but it seems like no one is interested in reading about an old hag.”

I give her an honest grin. I’m not really fond of self-deprecating talk. It actually makes me uncomfortable about how different our own perspective is. We'll never know what we really look like and that’s a frightening thought.

“We need to work on your negative self-talk. We’ll focus on why you feel the way you feel about yourself, and we’ll start from there. You’re not an old hag, Marie.”

“Oh…” Ms Wlosok dismisses my words with a wave of her hand as her cheeks turn red. “You are too nice to me, Doctor.”

I grin. “Now, about your blog. It’s quite difficult to start on the internet. You already have taken the first step, not everyone does that. Maybe you could surround yourself with people in the same niche. Perhaps a book club?”

Sometimes, I feel like a hypocrite when I’m treating people with social anxiety. My advice and comments are things I personally don’t and won’t do. I like my house, I like my small circle, and I have no intention of going out more than I have to. So it’s always a relief when I can discharge another case of social anxiety. Not Marie, though. I enjoy her company more than other cases. I don’t feel inadequate doing my job. She makes me feel like I could follow my own advice. Her occasional “would you come with me?” doesn’t feel wrong to answer with a smile.

When the day is done and Silvia comes in to take away the records, I find I’ve received more texts today than in the last three years. First Josephine.

J: It seems your dad is having a great time.

A smile pulls the corner of my mouth before I text back.

E: He’s like a kid on Christmas.

J: We should have dinner, you and me.

I think before texting back. I know my brother now has a key to my house and it doesn’t bother me. I’m just concerned because he doesn’t know how to handle Dad’s routines, medications, rituals. Little things that could upset him if it’s not done in the same exact way as the day before.

J: please?

My heart shrinks a little. It's been a long time since we had dinner, just me and her. It's been hard since my dad has been getting worse, or at least not getting better at all. I guess they can manage. I can text Ben. I’m sure he’d be thrilled.

E: At 7:00?

J: ❤❤❤ I love you.

When I’m about to type I love her back, another text from Theo arrives. I roll my eyes. I can’t believe he’s on the way to ruin my plans via text.

T: When can we talk again?

E: I thought we had an appointment tomorrow?

T: You know what I mean

E: I don’t know Theo, we’ll see.

T: Please?

Seeing the same message my fiancée sent me moments ago but coming from a different number, his number, does not sit well with me. There are two exact same texts but are not the same at all, and never will be. I want to toss my phone across the room. But I leave it face down in a drawer as I stumble to the bathroom, looking for my soap.

I open the door so gracelessly, I think for a moment I’m going to end up face down on the floor.

It starts subtle and barely there, makes you think it’s going to be okay, but out of nowhere, your chest tightens, your head starts to spin, and you end up curling up on the bathroom floor. I have seconds before all of that happens.

The cold porcelain of the sink grounds me as something flashes into my mind. I picture my twenty-two-year-old self lying on a naked mattress, holding on to my phone for dear life. I grab my soap and bring the bar to my nose. The cracked screen with messages, monosyllabic words answering my long crafted questions. I smell the soap before I can see the word ‘come’ over and over again before me.

I find my way to the toilet and sit cross-legged, one arm wrapping around my waist and the other pressing the soap against my nose, inhaling and exhaling as I count to ten backward and forward. Slowly, the scent fills my nostrils, my skull, my throat. My heart slows down. The memories go back to the forgotten corner of my head, and my weight comes back to my office bathroom.

“Dr Lamb, is everything alright?” Silvia’s voice comes from the other side of the door. “I’ve been knocking on your door for ten minutes.”

I’m disoriented but primarily embarrassed, as if I’m some kind of junkie getting off on soap. I leave the soap on the sink while I smooth my hair and fix my turtleneck.

“I’m coming.”

“Do you need help? Is your stomach upset?”

You gotta be kidding me.

“No,” I reply immediately. “I’m fine, Silvia. I promise. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” This time, I can hear the question in her voice.

“Yes, yes. Please, I’m fine.”

This is embarrassing. My secretary is waiting for me to see if I have been taking a huge shit. I open the door and Silvia’s face changes from that mischievous look ready to mock me for having diarrhoea to a concerned frown.

She grabs me by my shoulders. “Are you sure you're alright? You look like a ghost.” Her hands cup my face but I don’t want to be touched right now. I recoil at the cold skin of Silvia’s hands and walk past her.

I sit on my desk chair, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair. I pinch the bridge of my nose so I can regain centre and awareness. Silvia puts a glass of water in front of me and asks one more time if I need her to stay. I shake my head.

“I promise, I’m fine, just have an awful headache.”

Silvia nods and leaves the room as I try to look as if nothing happened, as if indeed I was having a bad stomach day. I try to focus on the sounds of Silvia leaving the office and not on the notification on my screen saying I have an unread message from Theo.

T: I can come.