by Emma Chase
On the outside, I nod and breeze into the office, but inside, I cringe and wilt.
Mr. Haverstrom closes the door behind me and I stop short when I see Patrick Nolan in the chair across from Mr. Haverstrom's desk. Pat is the co-head of the Literature and Fiction department with me. He doesn't look like the stereotypical librarian--he looks more like an Olympic triathlete, all taut muscles and broad shoulders and hungry competition in his eyes.
Pat isn't as big of a douche-canoe as Elliot, but close.
I sit down in the unoccupied chair beside Pat while Mr. Haverstrom takes his place behind the desk. "Lady Sarah, I was just explaining to Pat the reason I've asked you both for this meeting."
Don't mistake the "Lady" before my name as a symbol of respect. It's just tradition, the equivalent of "Miss" for the daughter of a countess. There's no real power behind it.
Maybe I'm just being paranoid--that happens--but there's that tight, heavy feeling in my stomach, as if at any moment the thread that's holding it in place is going to snap, sending my vital organ to the floor.
I force myself to speak. "Yes?"
"We have been selected to host this year's Northern District Library Symposium."
This isn't just not good--it's bad. Very, very bad.
"As the host facility, each department is required to give a presentation, and given the size and scope of our Fiction and Literature department, I see no reason why you and Patrick can't give separate but complementary presentations."
And splat goes my stomach. And my spleen. I'm fairly certain the liver's in there somewhere too.
"I'll need your topic and outline by the end of the week to ensure there's no overlap."
My lips open and close, like the mouth of a fish, but there aren't any words. Breathe! I need to breathe to talk. Idiot.
"Mr. Haverstrom, I'm not sure that I--"
"I'm aware you're not comfortable with public speaking," Mr. Haverstrom says, talking right over me.
That happens. A lot.
"But you're going to have to overcome it. This is an honor and a requirement of your position. Barring an act of God, you will not be excused. If you're unable to fulfill all of your duties, I will unfortunately be forced to replace you with someone who can."
Shit. Damn, damn, shit, shit.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
"Good." He nods. "I'll let you get to it, then."
We all stand, and Pat and I head for the door.
"Lady Sarah," Mr. Haverstrom says, "I'll be happy to go over your presentation with you once it's complete, if that will be helpful to you. I do want you to succeed."
I smile tightly. "Thank you, sir."
Then he shakes Patrick's hand. "Pat, we're still on for racquetball this Saturday?"
"Count on it, Douglas."
Internally, I sigh. More disappointed with myself than anything else. Because I play racquetball--I'm actually quite good at it. And if I had a shred of Miranda Priestly in me, from The Devil Wears Prada, I'd tell them--invite myself along, throw in with the big boys.
But, I don't.
Mr. Haverstrom closes the door, leaving Patrick and me alone in the hallway. Pat smiles slickly, leaning in toward me. I step back until I press against the wall. It's uncomfortable--but not threatening. Mostly because in addition to racquetball I've practiced aikido for years. So if Patrick tries anything funny, he's in for a very painful surprise.
"Let's be honest, Sarah: you know and I know the last thing you want to do is give a presentation in front of hundreds of people--your colleagues."
My heart tries to crawl into my throat.
"So, how about this? You do the research portion, slides and such that I don't really have time for, and I'll take care of the presentation, giving you half the credit of course."
Of course. I've heard this song before--in school "group projects" where I, the quiet girl, did all the work, but the smoothest, loudest talker took all the glory.
"I'll get Haverstrom to agree on Saturday--I'm like a son to him," Pat explains before leaning close enough that I can smell the garlic on his breath. "Let Big Pat take care of it. What do you say?"
I say there's a special place in hell for people who refer to themselves in the third person.
But before I can respond, Willard's firm, sure voice travels down the hall.
"I think you should back off, Nolan. Sarah's not just 'up for it,' she'll be fantastic at it."
Pat waves his hand. "Quiet, midge--the adults are talking."
And the adrenaline comes rushing back, but this time it's not anxiety-induced--it's anger. Indignation.
I push off the wall. "Don't call him that."
"He doesn't mind."
"I mind."
He stares at me with something akin to surprise. Then scoffs and turns to Willard. "You always let a woman fight your battles?"
I take another step forward, forcing him to move back. "You think I can't fight a battle because I'm a woman?"
"No, I think you can't fight a battle because you're a woman who can barely string three words together if more than two people are in the room."
I'm not hurt by the observation. For the most part, it's true.
But not this time.
I smile slowly, devilishly. Suddenly, I'm Cathy Linton come to life--headstrong and proud.
"There are more than two people standing here right now. And I've got more than three words for you: fuck off, you arrogant, self-righteous swamp donkey."
His expression is almost funny. Like he can't decide if he's more shocked that I know the word fuck or that I said it out loud to him--and not in the good way.
Then his face hardens and he points at me. "That's what I get for trying to help your mute arse? Have fun making a fool of yourself."
I don't blink until he's down the stairs and gone.
Willard slow-claps as he walks down the hall to me.
"Swamp donkey?"
I shrug. "It just came to me."
"Impressive." Then he bows and kisses the back of my hand. "You were magnificent."
"Not half bad, right? It felt good."
"And you didn't blush once."
I push my dark hair out of my face, laughing self-consciously. "Seems like I forget all about being nervous when I'm defending someone else."
Willard nods. "Good. And though I hate to be the twat who points it out, there's something else you should probably start thinking about straight away."
"What's that?"
"The presentation in front of hundreds of people."
And just like that, the tight, sickly feeling washes back over me.
So this is what doomed feels like.
I lean against the wall. "Oh, broccoli balls."
AFTER I GET OFF WORK, I walk to my flat, about half a mile away. My building is plain but well-kept, with a garden and sitting area on the roof. There's a newly married couple with an even newer baby in the unit above me--David, Jessica, and little Barnaby--and an elderly couple, Felix and Belinda, together forty years, in the unit below.
I put my keys in the crystal bowl by the door, like always. Then I slip out of my coat and shoes and put both in the closet. Also, like always.
I don't have a roommate or a pet, so my sitting room is just how I left it this morning, neat and spotless, with its beige sofa and burnt-orange throw pillows, matching drapes, pictures of my mother and sister on the end table and my favorite book covers framed on the walls.
The crowning glory of my sitting room isn't the flat-screen television or the wood-burning stove in the corner. It's the bookcase, poised between the two windows.
Six shelves, as high as the ceiling, made of driftwood. I found it at a Christmas market a few years back. It was a shabby piece then, plain and dull--sort of like me--but I could tell the planks were made of sturdy stuff, and they would not buckle. So I brought it home, sanded and polished it, and placed my dearest and most prized possessions upon it--my collection of first-edition classic novels. The fu
ll Jane Austen collection, the Bronte sisters, Dickens--they're all here. Although I enjoy good contemporary romance or chick lit as much as the next woman, these are the ones I come back to--stories that no matter how often I reread them are every bit as moving every time.
The flat is small, with only a sliver of ocean view from the bedroom window, but I pay for it myself--not from the family trust fund.
There's satisfaction in earning one's own money. Self-sufficiency--like knowing how to rub sticks together to start a fire. A survival skill. I could make it in the wilderness if I had to.
Well . . . if the wilderness were Castlebrook, anyway.
The thing is, when you're dependent on others, they hold a part of your happiness in their hands. They can nurture it or crush it at any moment. Your fate doesn't belong to you. I've seen how that works--it's not pretty. My life may be small and simple, but it's all mine.
In the kitchen, I fill the pot for tea. Normally, I'd start dinner now, but it's Wednesday--
Wednesdays and Sundays are dinner days with Mother and Penelope.
I have an hour before I need to leave, so it'll be tea and . . . Sense and Sensibility for a bit. It's the perfect read. Just enough drama and angst to be interesting, but mostly light and entertaining, with the happiest ending. Colonel Brandon is my favorite--the ultimate book husband. He made good and upstanding look sexy as all get-out. Someday, I'll meet a man just like him--romantic, steady, and reliable--and I don't give a damn how silly that sounds. How immature or fanciful.
Because I have a theory.
If nightmares can come true, and sometimes they do . . . then so can our happiest dreams.
Once my peppermint tea is ready, I sink into the chaise lounge in my bedroom, throw a soft, velour blanket over my legs, open my book--and block out the world.
Some people look at their family and wonder if they're adopted. Others hope they are.
I never wonder. Because my mother is so clearly the combination of my and my sister's personalities. Or maybe we're each half of hers. She's reclusive--she hates cities, shuns parties, rarely leaves the estate, and doesn't entertain friends--at least not human ones. She's most content in the greenhouse tending and talking to her flowers. But here, within the confines of her own personal fiefdom, she runs the show. She's colorful and exuberant--just like Penelope. In the last few years she's taken to wearing bright, paisley silk housedresses handmade in China and dyeing her hair a sunrise red--melding into a crossbreed of Sense and Sensibility's Mrs. Dashwood and Shirley MacLaine in her prime.
Some in our social circle call her eccentric. Others call her the Crazy Countess. Penny likes "off her rocker." But I don't think Mother's nutty at all. It's just that she tried living life by other people's rules and it didn't work out. So now, she lives as she likes . . . and everyone else can go to hell.
"Hello, my darling," she greets me in a quiet voice.
My mother's always been soft-spoken, genteel. It's how she was raised. But quiet shouldn't be mistaken for weak. Sometimes the most steely resolve is asserted silently.
Stanhope, our butler, takes my coat, shaking off the raindrops that had started to pour down. Mother guides me toward the dining room with her arm around my lower back, the familiar scent of lilies surrounding her. "Tell me, how are things at the library?"
"Awful."
"Awful? That doesn't sound right. What happened?"
We join Penny at the table, where she taps at her mobile, texting, and over the first course, I recount my tale of woe. Though our weekly dinners are informal, Penelope is dressed to the nines in a royal-blue cocktail dress that flatters her fair skin and light blond hair, swept back in a gentle knot. She always did like to play dress-up and at twenty-three, she'll still take any excuse to glam out.
Unlike other mothers in our station, mine has never pushed me to marry well or date--Penelope dates enough for both of us.
When I finish explaining about the presentation, Mother says, "My poor girl. What are you going to do?"
"I don't really have a choice. I'm going to have to present at the symposium and pray I don't vomit on the audience or pass out."
Penny grins, still gazing at her mobile. "Maybe you should cordon off the first few rows, just in case. You can call them the splash-zone seats."
"That's helpful, Pen, thank you."
She looks up. "This could be good for you, you know. Force you out of your comfort zone."
"The same could be said about your upcoming military service, Penelope," Mother comments.
In Wessco, every citizen, male or female, is required to serve two years in the military.
Penny dramatically slouches back in her chair, throwing her arms wide like Christ on the cross. "It's not the same at all! I'll be a terrible soldier--I'm not cut out for all that marching and climbing and sweating."
She checks her glittery manicure to make sure she hasn't chipped a nail from just talking about it. "I tried convincing them to let me serve my time in the WSO."
The WSO is the Wessco Service Organization--they put on shows and entertain the servicemen. And Penelope has always dreamed of stardom--she's too short to be a model, but certainly melodramatic enough to be an actress.
"That's much more my bag. Sparkly outfits and dancing. But, it's against orders, they said."
"Yes," I smirk. "The military likes to have their orders followed. They're funny like that."
She sticks her tongue out at me.
Before I can decide which obscene gesture to respond with, thunder claps so loudly outside, the china and crystal rattles on the table.
Rain batters the windows and, seconds later, another boom bursts over the house--this one shaking the walls. A shelf gives way, sending decorative plates and figurines falling to the floor, exploding into shards, like tiny glass grenades.
I close my eyes, but it doesn't matter--everything goes gray.
I come to gasping. It's always the way it happens, as if I've been held underwater just until I'm on the cusp of drowning.
"There she is," Mother coos from the chair beside me, while Penelope rubs small circles on my back from the other side.
"It was a long one this time," Penny says with concern. "Over ten minutes."
And the familiar shame tightens and squeezes inside me.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
"None of that, now," Mother chides, pressing a cool, damp cloth to my forehead.
"Let's go into the parlor, Mother," Penelope says. "Sarah will be more comfortable on the sofa."
I nod, not concerned with missing the rest of the meal--I think we've all lost our appetites. My sister helps me stand, and though my knees are shaky, I give her a smile.
"It's all right. I'm all right now."
As soon as I'm seated in the parlor, the downstairs maid, Jenny, puts a glass of brandy in my hand. I sip it slowly.
"I've been reading about a new meditation specialist, Sarah. I think you should make an appointment with him," my mother tells me. "He's a Buddhist and rumored to be very good."
Temporary dissociative fugue state is what the doctors call it. Rooted in stress, anxiety, and trauma, triggered by loud noises, most often breaking glass. But it's inconsistent. There are times when I can hear the sound and have no reaction at all; other times the echo of a single dropped glass in a restaurant can cause me to "blink out."
It's not as bad as it could be--for some it can last days or even weeks, and the poor people afflicted wander and act in ways they have no memory of when they come to. My episodes last anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes. I don't move or speak--it's like I'm just gone . . . dead, but still breathing. I've tried medication, but it doesn't really help and the side effects are unpleasant. I've tried hypnosis, therapy, acupuncture . . . but they've also been mostly ineffective.
"All right, Mother."
We enjoy our drinks in silence for a few minutes and then Stanhope enters the room.
"There is a visitor, Countess."
"A
visitor?" Mother looks toward the rain-drenched windows. "Who would be out in this mess? Has their car given out?"
"No, My Lady. The young woman says her name is Nancy Herald. She apologized for not making an appointment and provided her card. It seems to be a business proposition."
My mother makes a sweeping motion with the back of her hand.
"I have no interest or time for business propositions. Send her on her way, please."
Stanhope places a business card on the table, bows, and leaves the room.
Penny picks it up as she sips her drink, looks it over--and then spits her brandy all over the carpet.
"Penelope!" mother yells.
My sister stands up, waving the card over her head like Veruca Salt after she got her hands on the golden ticket to the chocolate factory.
"Stanhope!" she screams. "Don't let her leave! She a television producer!"
Penny turns to me and in a quieter but urgent voice says, "She's a television producer."
As if I didn't hear her the first time.
Then she sprints from the room. Or . . . tries to. Halfway to the door, her heel catches on the carpet and she falls flat on her face with an "Ooof."
"Are you all right, Pen?"
She pulls herself up, waving her hands. "I'm fine! Or I will be, as long as she doesn't leave!"
The second try's the charm, and Penelope scurries out of the room as fast as her four-inch heels will take her.
My mother shakes her head at my sister's retreating form.
"Too much sugar, that one."
Then she drains her glass.
"The producer is most likely interested in filming on the property," my mother adds. "It seems like every few months I get an inquiry."
A few moments later, there's the echo of Penelope's quick, high-pitched chatter from the foyer and, shortly after, she walks back into the parlor. Her arm is linked with a petite, dark-haired woman in a drenched trench coat. Stanhope follows behind them like a frowning shadow.
Penelope introduces her like they're old schoolmates, stealing Stanhope's thunder.
"Mother, Sarah, this is Nancy Herald. She's a television producer."
I stand and offer my hand. "Hello, Miss Herald. Tell me, are you a television producer? I wasn't sure."
I wink at my sister. She sneers back.
"Assistant producer, actually," she replies, shaking my hand. "It's nice to meet you."
Stanhope sniffs. "May I take your coat, Miss Herald? And offer you a hot beverage?"