Ruth listened without interruption until I had finished. It was hard to read her expression. Finally she said, “I am very sorry this happened, Theo. I know how much Kathy means to you. How much you love her.”
“Yes. I love—” I stopped, unable to say her name. There was a tremor in my voice. Ruth picked up on it and edged the box of tissues toward me. I used to get angry when she would do that in our sessions; I’d accuse her of trying to make me cry. She would generally succeed. But not tonight. Tonight my tears were frozen. A reservoir of ice.
I had been seeing Ruth for a long time before I met Kathy, and I continued therapy for the first three years of our relationship. I remember the advice Ruth gave me when Kathy and I first got together: “Choosing a lover is a lot like choosing a therapist. We need to ask ourselves, is this someone who will be honest with me, listen to criticism, admit making mistakes, and not promise the impossible?”
I told all this to Kathy at the time, and she suggested we make a pact. We swore never to lie to each other. Never pretend. Always be truthful.
“What happened?” I said. “What went wrong?”
Ruth hesitated before she spoke. What she said surprised me.
“I suspect you know the answer to that. If you would just admit it to yourself.”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I don’t.”
I fell into indignant silence—yet I had a sudden image of Kathy writing all those emails, and how passionate they were, how charged, as if she was getting high from writing them, from the clandestine nature of her relationship with this man. She enjoyed lying and sneaking around: it was like acting, but offstage.
“I think she’s bored,” I said eventually.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because she needs excitement. Drama. She always has. She’s been complaining—for a while, I suppose—that we don’t have any fun anymore, that I’m always stressed, that I work too hard. We fought about it recently. She kept using the word fireworks.”
“Fireworks?”
“As in there aren’t any. Between us.”
“Ah. I see.” Ruth nodded. “We’ve talked about this before. Haven’t we?”
“About fireworks?”
“About love. About how we often mistake love for fireworks—for drama and dysfunction. But real love is very quiet, very still. It’s boring, if seen from the perspective of high drama. Love is deep and calm—and constant. I imagine you do give Kathy love—in the true sense of the word. Whether or not she is capable of giving it back to you is another question.”
I stared at the box of tissues on the table in front of me. I didn’t like where Ruth was going. I tried to deflect her.
“There are faults on both sides. I lied to her too. About the weed.”
Ruth smiled sadly. “I don’t know if persistent sexual and emotional betrayal with another human being is on the same level as getting stoned every now and then. I think it points to a very different kind of individual—someone who is able to lie repeatedly and lie well, who can betray their partner without feeling any remorse—”
“You don’t know that.” I sounded as pathetic as I felt. “She might feel terrible.”
But even as I said that, I didn’t believe it.
Neither did Ruth. “I don’t think so. I think her behavior suggests she is quite damaged—lacking in empathy and integrity and just plain kindness—all the qualities you brim with.”
I shook my head. “That’s not true.”
“It is true, Theo.” Ruth hesitated. “Don’t you think perhaps you’ve been here before?”
“With Kathy?”
Ruth shook her head. “I don’t mean that. I mean with your parents. When you were younger. If there’s a childhood dynamic here you might be replaying.”
“No.” I suddenly felt irritated. “What’s happening with Kathy has got nothing to do with my childhood.”
“Oh, really?” Ruth sounded disbelieving. “Trying to please someone unpredictable, someone emotionally unavailable, uncaring, unkind—trying to keep them happy, win their love—is this not an old story, Theo? A familiar story?”
I clenched my fist and didn’t speak.
Ruth went on hesitantly, “I know how sad you feel. But I want you to consider the possibility that you felt this sadness long before you met Kathy. It’s a sadness you’ve been carrying around for many years. You know, Theo, one of the hardest things to admit is that we weren’t loved when we needed it most. It’s a terrible feeling, the pain of not being loved.”
She was right. I had been groping for the right words to express that murky feeling of betrayal inside, the horrible hollow ache, and to hear Ruth say it—“the pain of not being loved”—I saw how it pervaded my entire consciousness and was at once the story of my past, present, and future. This wasn’t just about Kathy: it was about my father, and my childhood feelings of abandonment; my grief for everything I never had and, in my heart, still believed I never would have. Ruth was saying that was why I chose Kathy. What better way for me to prove that my father was correct—that I’m worthless and unlovable—than by pursuing someone who will never love me?
I buried my head in my hands. “So all this was inevitable? That’s what you’re saying—I set myself up for this? It’s fucking hopeless?”
“It’s not hopeless. You’re not a boy at the mercy of your father anymore. You’re a grown man now—and you have a choice. Use this as another confirmation of how unworthy you are—or break with the past. Free yourself from endlessly repeating it.”
“How do I do that? You think I should leave her?”
“I think it’s a very difficult situation.”
“But you think I should leave, don’t you?”
“You’ve come too far and worked too hard to return to a life of dishonesty and denial and emotional abuse. You deserve someone who treats you better, much better—”
“Just say it, Ruth. Say it. You think I should leave.”
Ruth looked me in the eyes. She held my gaze. “I think you must leave. And I’m not saying this as your old therapist—but as your old friend. I don’t think you could go back, even if you wanted to. It might last a little while perhaps, but in a few months something else will happen and you’ll end up back here on this couch. Be honest with yourself, Theo—about Kathy and this situation—and everything built on lies and untruths will fall away from you. Remember, love that doesn’t include honesty doesn’t deserve to be called love.”
I sighed, deflated, depressed, and tired.
“Thank you, Ruth—for your honesty. It means a lot.”
Ruth gave me a hug at the door as I left. She’d never done that before. She was fragile in my arms, her bones so delicate; I breathed in her faint flowery scent and the wool of her cardigan and again I felt like crying. But I didn’t, or couldn’t, cry.
Instead I walked away and didn’t look back.
I caught a bus back home. I sat by the window, staring out, thinking of Kathy, of her white skin, and those beautiful green eyes. I was filled with such a longing—for the sweet taste of her lips, her softness. But Ruth was right. Love that doesn’t include honesty doesn’t deserve to be called love.
I had to go home and confront Kathy.
I had to leave her.
CHAPTER TEN
KATHY WAS THERE WHEN I GOT HOME. She was sitting on the couch, texting.
“Where were you?” she asked without looking up.
“Just a walk. How was rehearsal?”
“All right. Tiring.”
I watched her texting, wondering who she was writing to. I knew this was my moment to speak. I know you’re having an affair—I want a divorce. I opened my mouth to say it. But I found I was mute. Before I could recover my voice, Kathy beat me to it. She stopped texting and put down her phone.
“Theo, we need to talk.”
“What about?”
“Don’t you have something to tell me?” Her voice had a stern note.
I avo
And I was, as far as she was concerned. Kathy reached behind the sofa and picked something up. At once my heart sank. She was holding the small jar where I kept the grass. I’d forgotten to hide it back in the spare room after I’d cut my finger.
“What’s this?” She held it up.
“It’s weed.”
“I’m aware of that. What’s it doing here?”
“I bought some. I fancied it.”
“Fancied what? Getting high? Are you—serious?”
I shrugged, evading her eye, like a naughty child.
“What the fuck? I mean, Jesus—” Kathy shook her head, outraged. “Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all.”
I wanted to hit her. I wanted to leap on her and beat her with my fists. I wanted to smash up the room, break the furniture against the walls. I wanted to weep and howl and bury myself in her arms.
I did none of this.
“Let’s go to bed,” I said, and walked out.
We went to bed in silence. I lay in the dark next to her. I lay awake for hours, feeling the heat from her body, staring at her while she slept.
Why didn’t you come to me? I wanted to say. Why didn’t you talk to me? I was your best friend. If you had said just one word, we could have worked through it. Why didn’t you talk to me? I’m here. I’m right here.
I wanted to reach out and pull her close. I wanted to hold her. But I couldn’t. Kathy had gone—the person I loved so much had disappeared forever, leaving this stranger in her place.
A sob rose at the back of my throat. Finally, the tears came, streaming down my cheeks.
Silently, in the darkness, I wept.
* * *
The next morning, we got up and performed the usual routine—she went into the bathroom while I made coffee. I handed her a cup when she came into the kitchen.
“You were making strange sounds in the night,” she said. “You were talking in your sleep.”
“What did I say?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Didn’t make sense. Probably because you were so stoned.” She gave me a withering look and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I’ll be late.”
Kathy finished her coffee and placed the cup in the sink. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. The touch of her lips almost made me flinch.
After she left, I showered. I turned up the temperature until it was almost scalding. The hot water lashed against my face as I wept, burning away messy, babyish tears. As I dried myself afterward, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I was shocked—I was ashen, shrunken, had aged thirty years overnight. I was old, exhausted, my youth evaporated.
I made a decision, there and then.
Leaving Kathy would be like tearing off a limb. I simply wasn’t prepared to mutilate myself like that. No matter what Ruth said. Ruth wasn’t infallible. Kathy was not my father; I wasn’t condemned to repeat the past. I could change the future. Kathy and I were happy before; we could be again. One day she might confess it all to me, tell me about it, and I would forgive her. We would work through this.
I would not let Kathy go. Instead I would say nothing. I would pretend I had never read those emails. Somehow, I’d forget. I’d bury it. I had no choice but to go on. I refused to give in to this; I refused to break down and fall apart.
After all, I wasn’t just responsible for myself. What about the patients in my care? Certain people depended on me.
I couldn’t let them down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I’M LOOKING FOR ELIF, Any idea where I can find her?”
Yuri gave me a curious look. “Any reason you want her?”
“Just to say a quick hello. I want to meet all the patients—let them know who I am, that I’m here.”
Yuri looked doubtful. “Right. Well, don’t take it personally if she’s not very receptive.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s after half past, so she’s just out of art therapy. Your best bet is the recreation room.”
“Thanks.”
The recreation area was a large circular room furnished with battered couches, low tables, a bookcase full of tattered books no one wanted to read. It smelled of stale tea and old cigarette smoke that had stained the furnishings. A couple of patients were playing backgammon in a corner. Elif was alone at the pool table. I approached with a smile.
“Hello, Elif.”
She looked up with scared, mistrustful eyes. “What?”
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. I just want a quick word.”
“You ain’t my doctor. I already got one.”
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a psychotherapist.”
Elif grunted contemptuously. “I got one of them too.”
I smiled, secretly relieved she was Indira’s patient and not mine. Up close Elif was even more intimidating. It wasn’t just her massive size, but also the rage etched deep into her face—a permanent scowl and angry black eyes, eyes that were quite clearly disturbed. She stank of sweat and the hand-rolled cigarettes she was always smoking, that had left her fingertips stained black and her nails and teeth a dark yellow.
“I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s okay—about Alicia.”
Elif scowled and banged the cue on the table. She starting setting up the balls for another game. Then she stopped. She just stood there, looking distracted, in silence.
“Elif?”
She didn’t respond. I could tell from her expression what was wrong. “Are you hearing voices, Elif?”
A suspicious glance. A shrug.
“What are they saying?”
“You ain’t safe. Telling me to watch out.”
“I see. Quite right. You don’t know me—so it’s sensible not to trust me. Not yet. Perhaps, over time, that will change.”
Elif gave me a look that suggested she doubted it.
I nodded at the pool table. “Fancy a game?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “Other cue’s broke. They ain’t replaced it yet.”
“But I can share your cue, can’t I?”
The cue was resting on the table. I went to touch it—and she yanked it out of reach. “It’s my fuckin’ cue! Get your own!”
I stepped back, unnerved by the ferocity of her reaction. She played a shot with considerable force. I watched her play for a moment. Then I tried again.
“I was wondering if you could tell me about something that happened when Alicia was first admitted to the Grove. Do you remember?”
Elif shook her head.
“I read in her file that you had an altercation in the canteen. You were on the receiving end of an attack?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, she tried to kill me, innit? Tried to cut my fucking throat.”
“According to the handover notes, a nurse saw you whisper something to Alicia before the attack. I was wondering what it was?”
“No.” Elif shook her head furiously. “I didn’t say nothing.”
“I’m not trying to suggest you provoked her. I’m just curious. What was it?”
“I asked her something, so fucking what?”
“What did you ask?”
“I asked if he deserved it.”
“Who?”
“Him. Her bloke.” Elif smiled, although it wasn’t really a smile, more a misshapen grimace.
“You mean her husband?” I hesitated, unsure if I understood. “You asked Alicia if her husband deserved to be killed?”
Elif nodded and played a shot. “And I asked what he looked like. When she shot him and his skull was broke, and his brains all spilled out.” Elif laughed.
I felt a sudden wave of disgust—similar to the feelings I imagined Elif had provoked in Alicia. Elif made you feel repulsion and hatred—that was her pathology, that was how her mother had made her feel as a small child. Hateful and repulsive. So Elif unconsciously provoked you to hate her—and mostly she succeeded.
“And how are things now? Are you and Alicia on good terms?”
“Oh, yeah, mate. We’re real tight. Best mates.” Elif laughed again.
Before I could respond, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. I checked it. I didn’t recognize the number.
“I should answer this. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Elif muttered something unintelligible and went back to her game.
* * *
I walked into the corridor and answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Is that Theo Faber?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“Max Berenson here, returning your call.”
“Oh, yes. Hi. Thanks for calling me back. I was wondering if we could have a conversation about Alicia?”
“Why? What’s happened? Is something wrong?”
“No. I mean, not exactly—I’m treating her, and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about her. Whenever’s convenient.”
“I don’t suppose we could do it on the phone? I’m rather busy.”
“I’d rather talk in person, if possible.”
Max Berenson sighed and mumbled as he spoke to someone off the phone. And then: “Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock, my office.”
I was about to ask for the address—but he hung up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAX BERENSON’S RECEPTIONIST had a bad cold. She reached for a tissue, blew her nose, and gestured at me to wait.
“He’s on the phone. He’ll be out in a minute.”
I nodded and took a seat in the waiting area. A few uncomfortable upright chairs, a coffee table with a stack of out-of-date magazines. All waiting rooms looked alike, I thought; I could just as easily have been waiting to see a doctor or funeral director as a lawyer.
The door across the hallway opened. Max Berenson appeared and beckoned me over. He disappeared back into his office. I got up and followed him inside.
I expected the worst, given his gruff manner on the phone. But to my surprise, he began with an apology.
“I’m sorry if I was abrupt when we spoke. It’s been a long week and I’m a bit under the weather. Won’t you sit down?”
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