Tom takes me to an acupuncturist. It was his idea. He thinks my facial nerves might regenerate if the right spot is stimulated, if a needle worries it just right. I go along. Tom’s optimism makes me want to believe it will work. We pull up to a renovated Victorian. It smells like a spa. Tom waits in the lobby with a plug-in fountain. The acupuncturist has me strip to my underwear and lie on my back. He puts little needles in my earlobes and pinkie toes and other places. After 30 minutes, he takes the needles out.
In the car, Tom asks me if I feel any different. “I feel buzzed,” I say. Tom and I laugh. We decide to treat ourselves to whipped-cream coffees.
On the way I tell Tom that I still call Claude. There is silence. He guns past a spot. “Tom—” We swerve, and one wheel ends up on the curb.
“No more, Louise. No more Claude.”
“I just want him to say he’s sorry,” I say. “I can feel that he is, I just want him to say it.”
“Well he’s not,” Tom says. “You are not feeling that. What you are feeling is something else.”