It’s been a week since I started at the academy, but I’m no closer to teaching. Between watching Greg and Charlotte do their jobs, I’m more of an assistant than a teacher. It’s like they’re afraid to let me contribute.
The days have gone by in a blur, each one bleeding into the other. Some nights, it’s like I have gauze over my eyes. Deborah and I watch mindless British reality TV while Richard lurks in his study. If he’s not in there, he’s eyeing me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
I’ve given up on trying to be his friend.
As I walk back to the house from the academy—from yet another class I just listened in on—there’s a message from Susana on InCheck.
I climbed into the cupboard today, it reads. I just needed some alone time. It feels overbearing, being here with the kids sometimes.
I shield my eyes from the sun and type a response: It’s normal to take time for yourself. You taking a break could be the best thing for your kids.
Her response is immediate. Do you have kids?
Thoughts run through my head. It’s policy not to divulge personal information to clients, but there’s another thought there, somewhere deeper.
Maybe she knows you’re a fraud.
I shake it off, reminding myself that the app keeps all information confidential. I’m just paranoid, thinking of that Instagram message I got almost a month ago. Since then, the account has been deleted, and I haven’t received a similar message.
Turning Susana’s question about having a kid over in my mind, I choose a response that feels the safest. I want to be relatable, but not too much.
Yes, I type. One child.
Her response comes again: Have you ever done something like this?
She’s wondering if she’s alone in this. If Alice has ever sat in a cupboard while her kid has a tantrum. I doubt she would have—if she were a real, that is— but what I know for sure is that Susana is not alone in her struggle to be a good parent.
“I don’t have all the answers, bud,” my dad used to tell me. He always called me bud—like a rosebud, or a buddy. Memories flash through my head: the drives around town listening to The Beatles, the ice creams mom never knew about. The countless times other people thought I’d be better off with another father, or none at all.
I start typing a message to Susana.
Yes. I’ve learned that taking deep breaths helps.
It feels flat, but I send it anyway. No sharing of personal information. As I stand on the corner of the street, I jot down another message to her. You’re a better mother to them than you think, I type. They are lucky to have you.
I have no clue if Susana is a good mother. And then again, what makes a good parent? But what I do know is that words carry more power than we give them credit for. What you say—or don’t say—can bring a lot of joy. Or pain.
Her response appears again: Thank you. I needed that.
I crack a smile. It’s moments like these I feel less guilty about taking someone else’s name on a counselling app. I picture what a real psychologist would have said, how much weight it would carry. How different would it be from what I just said.
My own therapy sessions from years ago float around in my head. Talking, analysing. Talking, analysing.
The fact is, everyone likes to talk. And the more they talk, the more can be thrown back at them to dissect. But sometimes, people need more. They need answers to the fundamental questions that they wrack their brains about. They need to be guided to where they want to go.
The sun’s sinking beneath the water now, a soft orange glow staining the sky. It’s so beautiful I almost don’t see the figure walking towards me. We’re on the same pathway, one going up the hill, one going down. He’s got a black hoodie on, and his face is downcast, distorted.
But something tells me I already know who he is.
There are only so many people on this street. And they’re all older. Deborah and Richard’s house is one of the last before you hit the dock.
As his tall frame gets closer, I see the hands in his pockets, the thick hair masking his face. And then, dark-rimmed eyes meeting mine for a second. I try to say hi, but he’s already walked past, a whiff of alcohol following in his wake.
That’s him, I think. That’s the fiancé.
I glance back, his hunched form making its way to town. My eyes trail back to the dock. I can picture Lisa standing there. No wonder he keeps his hood over his head. I wouldn’t want to see that dock ever again, if I were him.
The house is quiet when I enter. But as I climb the stairs, there’s a muffled noise. Deborah’s voice. The walls are thin here, and when I’m on the landing, I can hear her clearly.
“I will bloody stretch this out if I want to,” she shouts. “I have no problem with it, Richard.”
I weigh my options. Either I walk to my room or go back downstairs. But before I can decide, she’s shouting again, louder this time.
“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I’ll allow that whore to live in my house!”
All I can do is stand there, frozen. When my limbs finally decide to move, I edge closer to the stairs. I’m about to take the first step when Deborah’s voice comes through again, deeper.
“You’ve taken everything from me.”
My foot slips and I reach for the banister, legs hitting the stairs with a loud thump.
“Hello?” Deborah calls.
Great timing, Cat.
“Who’s there?” she calls out again.
I steady myself, rushing downstairs. I stand up straight and roll my ankles, checking for pain but finding none. “Hi,” I call, my voice hoarse. “It’s me—Cat.”
There’s a hushed commotion, followed by a friendly shout. “I’ll be out in a sec!”
I throw my bag on the couch and sit down. Hearing her footsteps on the stairs, I pull a curriculum book from my bag, paging aimlessly through it.
“Hi,” she says, her breathing ragged. “How was class?”
It doesn’t take much to see that she’s flustered. “Yeah, good.” I nod. “How are you?”
“Great,” she says, trying to sound casual. She fiddles with her hands, then strolls to the kitchen. Her words from upstairs still sound in my head, and I crane my neck to look down the hallway. The door to the study is closed, like always.
“Is Richard home?” I ask.
“Fuck knows.”
I blink at her response. “Sorry?”
“What?”
Deborah’s angry tone is soon replaced by one of confusion.
“I was just asking where Richard is,” I say, getting up and walking to the island. Deborah’s face drops like she’s forgotten something. “Oh, h-he’s gone for some errands,” she says. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
The silence drags, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
“Sorry about that,” she croaks, pulling a wine bottle from the fridge. “I was just on the phone with some realtors for our property back in the UK. They really get me wired up.”
She shakes her head, lets a small laugh escape. But her lips are trembling, and when she licks them, she looks away.
A lie.
Unless the realtor’s name is Richard, I’m pretty sure she was on the phone with her husband. By the look on her face, she’s more than wired up. She’s depleted, like someone’s slapped the life out of her. If she was talking to Richard, it was a fight. A bad one.
A part of me is relieved. If Deborah and Richard are having problems, then that would explain their weird chemistry. The thing I can’t quite put my finger on. But what was she talking about on the phone—about the house and the whore? Was she referring to this house? And what about the whore—who was that?
Deborah looks at me, then at the bottle of wine in her hand. “Want some?”
I say nothing, opening then closing my mouth like a fish. How hard is it to say no?
“Uhm—”
“Oh shit,” she says, “Right. Coke then?”
“Sure,” I say, my cheeks brimming with heat. Without saying a word, she pours a glass of wine for herself and a Coke for me. As she passes the drink to me, I can feel the tension spreading to the corners of the house. Like an oven working overtime. Sipping the cold liquid, my body cools down, but my muscles remain tense.
First Greg and Charlotte, then the hooded man in the street. And now this.
What is up with the people in this town?