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Tuesday
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Fingers tucked Teresa’s hair behind her ear. She opened her eyes. Derrick pulled his hand back like she’d snapped at him. He sat on the edge of the couch with a cup of coffee in his other hand.
“Hey,” he said in a soft voice. Teresa sat up and shifted away from him. Was it really him, or was she still trapped in the old funeral home, Twilight Zone, Hotel California?
“Hi.” Her voice rasped. She cleared her throat. He handed her the cup of coffee. “What time is it?”
“Nine,” he said.
“Maggie,” Teresa glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen, worried about having failed to make breakfast and lunch for the child. Wondering how she’d slept through their morning preparations.
“I took care of her,” Derrick said.
He picked up another mug of coffee from the table and sipped it, staring straight ahead at the fireplace across from the couch.
“Gave her some lunch money and stopped at the bakery on the way to school.” He glanced at her. “Where have you been?” His voice held tender curiosity, but the muscle in his jaw jumped.
“I was . . . I . . .”
“Don’t lie to me, Teresa.” Tenderness gone. He knew. He could smell her indiscretions. Yaldabaoth. He knew everything. No. He couldn’t know. She bit her lip.
“After you hurt me,” she said, sliding into a sitting position and holding out the wrist with the most bruising for him to see, “I went to a friend’s house.”
“A friend?”
You have no friends here.
“Yes.” She smoothed her hand over her hair. Oh, God, what kind of mess was her hair right now? Her make up? She imagined she looked fresh out of a horror movie and glanced at her shirt. She remembered then. Coming home and throwing her bloody shirt in the trash. She’d pulled on one of Derrick’s souvenir shirts from Steamboat Springs.
“I made a friend the other day.”
“Who?”
“Is it so hard to believe I can make friends, Derrick?” She got up and edged toward the hall bathroom, but Derrick grabbed her wrist. He immediately let go when she shied away from him.
He sank onto the couch. Silence for one beat, two beats. He stared into his coffee cup.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“If you’re going to apologize, at least have the decency to look me in the eye.”
He didn’t. She left.
The bathroom mirror reflected a not-too-horrible version of her usual self. Her makeup had managed to stay in place, and her hair, though a little mussed, held a sort of careless order to it. She shrugged. Not bad, actually.
When she came out, Derrick was in the hall.
“You look pretty,” he told her. “By the way—I don’t think I tell you enough.”
She straightened her shirt and lifted her chin. “Thanks.”
“I like it when you don’t try so hard.” He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry—for bruising your wrists.” He lifted his hand, and she watched it near her face. He tucked her hair behind her ear again and opened his arms to her.
Teresa scrutinized his face, his eyes, the faint scar on his chin from a frat boy drunk fest in college, before stepping into his embrace. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. He held her like that, wrapped in his arms, safe and comfortable and familiar.
She could forgive him, yes. She could forgive him for what he’d done. They could move on. A smile came to her lips. A real one. Not a prearranged version for appearances.
He shifted again and kissed the top of her head, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Something else was coming.
“I think we need to take a trip to Mountain View,” he said in a soft voice. His arms tightened, as if predicting she’d pull away. She did and backed into the bathroom doorway. She gripped the frame.
“What? Mountain View? Why?”
“Just for an analysis. That’s all.”
“An analysis? What does that mean?” Her voice had gone shrill, and she hated the way it sounded. Fear tremors rippled through her.
“You haven’t been yourself lately. You refused my offer of pharmaceuticals. I just want to help you.” His face saddened.
“By doping me up? Is that what you want? You want the zombie version back?” She stormed past him to the kitchen and stood at the sink. “Four years, Derrick. Four years I spent in a drug-induced fog behind those walls. Two more out here, at home. I can’t do that again. That wasn’t living. That wasn’t even existing.” She swiped a hand across her forehead. “You can’t tell me you want that version of me.” Tears sprang to her eyes.
“I don’t,” he said after a few seconds. “I want the version before Tiffany . . . died.” His shoulders dropped. He looked weary.
Teresa didn’t know what to say. She didn’t remember who she was back then. Her only clues were the pictures on the piano. Their smiling faces and endearing gazes. A distant memory of being happy and carefree. Six years spent in a drugged haze. In the end, after weaning off of all the anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-living drugs, all she was left with was what her mother taught her about being a good wife.
Tiffany would restore their happiness. She snapped her eyes to Derrick.
“I can be that version again. I will be, soon,” she said.
Three more.
She gulped.
His eyebrows came together. “What do you mean?”
“I’m working on some things,” she stepped toward him. “Things that will bring us great happiness again.”
He raised one eyebrow and cocked his head at her. “What are you working on?”
What, indeed.
“Just . . . things.” She shrugged and toyed with her necklace.
Derrick let out a long, slow breath. “I need to get to the clinic.” He turned, hesitated. “Whatever you’re up to . . .” He sighed and didn’t finish whatever he was going to say. “I’ll see you later.” He continued down the hall.
At the door, he turned again. “Consider what I said. About an analysis. Please?”
Teresa nodded, though she couldn’t even consider it. She would never go back. Not even for an analysis. Derrick closed the door behind him.
Teresa paced. She needed to get this done or risk going back to her personal Hell. She needed to finish her business with Yaldabaoth, bring Tiffany back . . .
Then Derrick would know. He would see. They would be happy again.
She needed to speed things up. But how? Tiffany always came to her with the next task. She stopped pacing.
Yaldabaoth had sent Tiffany.
Though the thought of seeing him again so soon filled her with unbelievable dread, Teresa went down the hallway to the front door, pulled on her coat, and left the house.