by Mina Hardy
“I should know you though, shouldn’t I? The infamous Val? I feel like I should know you.” He moved a little closer to me.
He was drunk. Drunker than me, and I was having a hard time focusing with both eyes open.
Jonathan stepped into a patch of shadow, closer still, his voice a low but amused mutter. “She talks about you all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I should be jealous that she loves you more than she loves me.”
“She doesn’t love you at all.” The words tripped out of my mouth. Too late to take them back. Too drunk-honest to wish I could.
“I know.”
I was not expecting him to kiss me, but he did. I melted into the embrace as easily as if we’d been flirting with each other for years. Our mouths opened. Tongues dipped and twisted. Sloppy, no skill in it, but when his hand slid beneath my hair to cup the back of my neck, tipping me harder against him, I gave that kiss everything I had. In that moment, all I could think was that it might be the last kiss I’d ever get.
“My father died,” I told him, without mentioning that it had happened only a few minutes ago.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said.
I wasn’t. I hadn’t gotten a last word with my father, but I didn’t have anything to say to him, even if I’d had the chance.
“About that? Or about the kiss?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Don’t be. Shit happens.” I shrugged like none of it mattered, even though it did. Diana didn’t love him. That didn’t mean she wanted someone else to have him.
We were both silent. I thought about asking him for another cigarette but didn’t. I didn’t want to smoke away the taste of him.
“I don’t think it’s okay to cheat on your spouse,” Jonathan said finally.
I shrugged again. Said nothing. I wasn’t the married one, and I sure as hell was never going to tell her.
“I’d better get inside,” he said.
I followed him back to the house, where it was warm and bright and full of the off-key yodeling of party guests doing karaoke in the living room. I watched him find Diana with the focused intent of a predator looking for its next meal. I watched him kiss her, and I watched her let him.
Eight months later, I was in love with him, and she was supposed to be letting him go.
CHAPTER NINE
Diana
Pain. A knife, stabbing into my side, wrenching upward. Ripping me apart. I can’t breathe. Move. I’m dying, I am being murdered, someone is killing me.
I am not dead.
Run, run, running on wet earth, the ground beneath me soft with mud so that my feet slip out from underneath me. I dig in the ground. I make a hole. I fill the hole.
My hands are covered in blood.
I taste it in my mouth, a thickness, sour, choking me. Sick.
I know what I’ve done.
* * *
I never used to sleep late or go to bed early, but since the accident, I do both. In bed by nine PM, up by ten AM, and that’s only if I set my alarm to wake me up.
“It feels like I’m never going to get enough sleep,” I tell Dr. Levitt now. “I think the pills are making me too tired.”
“We can certainly take a look at them and adjust if you want, but keep in mind it truly does take time for your body to get used to medications, particularly in the aftermath of trauma like yours. Sleep is a great healer. Here.” She sets the delicate teacup filled with steaming, sweet tea on the small table next to my chair. “Let that sit for a few minutes, or you’ll burn your tongue.”
It’s such a motherly thing to say, and for a moment, a surprising and embarrassing moment, I’m speechless from the tears clogging my throat. I blink them away and sniff, but I can’t wipe my face. A single tear slips out of my right eye and down my cheek. Dr. Levitt hands me a tissue, tucking it into my hand inside the sling.
“Sorry. I’m feeling down today,” I tell her.
“If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I’d be able to take a Caribbean cruise.”
We both laugh at that because that was exactly where she’d been two weeks ago.
“My doctor’s appointment last week was a disappointment,” I tell her and wince as I carefully ease my arm from the sling and blot the tears. “I thought I’d be out of these by now.”
“Soon,” she promises and settles into the chair across from me. “Collarbones are—”
“I know. Hard to predict. They keep telling me that.” I lean back in the chair and let my arm rest outside the sling, testing the vibrating pain for a few seconds before giving up and putting it back inside the cloth harness. By the time I’m done, the tears are gone. Pain’s good for shoving away sorrow, but I learned that a long time ago.
“And the dreams?”
I hesitate before answering. “I had one last night. It woke me up.”
I don’t mention that I’d screamed loud enough to hurt my throat, or that my terror hadn’t woken my husband because, once again, he hadn’t been there. It had been midnight this time. He was staying out later and later. I guess he’s counting on the pills keeping me knocked out.
“Everything the same?”
They’re always the same, with minor differing details. There’s blood on my hands. I’ve killed someone and buried them under a tree in my back yard.
“Yes. But this time I also had the feeling someone had been trying to hurt me, or they had hurt me. Not just that I’d done something to someone else, but very clearly, that I was in danger.”
“Interesting.” Dr. Levitt scribbles a note. “When you woke up, were you still scared?”
“Sometimes I wake up and my heart is pounding, I can’t breathe—maybe I’ve even screamed a little. Or it feels like I have. But lately the dreams have been feeling so real that when I wake up, I …”
She waits.
I haven’t touched my tea yet, not because I’m afraid it’ll be too hot, but because reaching for it is going to hurt. Drinking it would give me a reason to be silent for a few more seconds, though. I reach for the cup but then sit back in my chair. I know Dr. Levitt won’t say a word until she thinks it’s necessary, so she can give me as much time as I need to speak.
I have a confession. It might have something to do with these recurring dreams, or it might not. But it’s not mine solely to make, and even though Val has betrayed me, I can’t bring myself to do the same to her. Not with someone I’ve only known a few weeks.
I blow on the tea before sipping. “Pinkies … out.”
The phrase Val and I always said catches in my throat, and Dr. Levitt gives me a curious look. I haven’t told her about the affair. I haven’t told her about a lot of things. Withholding information from your shrink isn’t the best way to get through your shit, I know. But I’m so, so tired, and there’s so, so much of it, and only an hour a week is never enough time.
“My friend Val and I used to say that,” I explain.
Dr. Levitt writes something on the lovely lavender pad I’ve been coveting. I sip more tea, then put the cup down, careful not to spill, moving slowly to keep the pain at bay. It’s worse today than it has been, and I blame the dream. I woke up thrashing around.
“The last few times, after I’ve woken up, I’ve had a hard time remembering that they’re not real. That they are dreams, not memories.” I cough as I tuck my arm back into the sling. The relief isn’t instant, but it’s better. I look her in the eye when I continue, “I have to remind myself that I have not ever buried someone under a tree in my back yard.”
“Let’s hope you haven’t done anything you’re dreaming about,” Dr. Levitt says—without a laugh this time.
I don’t laugh either.
“I want to stop taking the meds. I don’t like being reliant on them. I can deal with how much it hurts,” I say. “I’m just going a little nuts with how long it’s taking for me to get better.”
“When you were young, how much responsibility did you have for taking care of yourself?”
; So, there it is. The question I’ve always known would come my way as soon as I started seeing Dr. Levitt. Expecting it doesn’t make it easier to answer.
“A lot,” I say.
She nods and scribbles another note, like she was expecting this. I’m sure she was. Her silence is meant to prompt me into speech, but I’m having trouble finding the words. I’ve been waiting to dive into this subject since the first time I came into her office, and still I don’t know what to say. The only person who really knows all about it is Val. If Dr. Levitt wants to know about my childhood, though, she doesn’t probe. Instead, she changes the subject.
“We’ve spoken briefly about you going back to work. Have you given that any more thought?”
I shake my head. “No. I took the payout with the idea that I’d do some freelancing. Maybe look for something new. I mean, money’s not a problem. Jonathan does very well.”
“You’re in a fortunate position.”
I acknowledge that with a nod. “I know.”
“And yet …” She gives me an expectant look.
“And yet?”
“So much of your independence seems to be tied to your ability to provide for yourself. I realize you have a comfortable financial position, but it seems to me that even though you’d decided—and remember deciding—to take some time off, you’re feeling ill at ease with nothing much to do.”
“‘Remember deciding’—that’s the key,” I say. “And, yes. I’m bored out of my mind.”
Dr. Levitt chuckles softly and makes a note. “I get that. So. Have you thought about doing something?”
“Like another job?”
“Or something else,” Dr. Levitt offers. “Something creative.”
I blink at her. “Creative?”
“Perhaps taking a class of some kind? Perhaps a writing class. Journaling can be very helpful, and you’ve shared with me about your to-do lists, so you already enjoy the process of keeping track of your thoughts via a written medium.”
The idea is … appealing. “I never considered making lists to be particularly creative.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you never thought of yourself as particularly creative,” Dr. Levitt says.
I am quiet for a moment. “My mother painted.”
It’s the first time I’ve really referenced my mother. A real two-for-one today. I expect Dr. Levitt to write something down about this, but she only stares at me with a neutral, pleasant expression.
“There you go,” she says.
I look at her and shake my head again. “I never did. I mean, she never … encouraged it.”
“You’ve spoken sparingly of your mother. What was your relationship like with her?”
“She’s dead now. It doesn’t matter,” I tell her flatly.
“How did she die?”
“She had a long history of depression and addiction, and eventually it caught up with her,” I say.
Dr. Levitt nods as though she understands. I don’t, so I’m not sure how she could. “What did she paint?”
“Landscapes. Oils. She was a surrealist.” I laugh now. “She was surreal, all right.”
“Maybe you inherited some of her skill?”
That’s impossible, but I can’t get into why without opening a gigantic, squirming can of worms. “No. Thank God, I didn’t inherit anything from that … from her.”
If Dr. Levitt wonders at why I bit my tongue at the last second, she doesn’t show it, but I explain anyway.
“My mother cursed like a sailor. I swore I wouldn’t let myself be like her. Vulgar.”
“I see. You don’t want to be anything like her at all.” Her pen scratch-scratches.
I scowl. “No.”
“You’re not alone. Many people struggle to distance themselves from parents with whom they have a dysfunctional relationship. But my advice would be not to let something your mother was good at prevent you from seeing if you might also be good at it.”
“I’ve never been much of a writer,” I tell her. “It seems too much like telling a bunch of lies, over and over again.”
She laughs, and I do too, although I’m the only one who really knows why what I said is funny. “When I’m healed, do you think I should continue seeing you, Dr. Levitt?”
She looks up at me, her sleek, pale eyebrows raised. She taps her pen lightly on the pad before answering. “If you think you’d like to, of course.”
“But do you think I need to?” I insist.
“I think,” Dr. Levitt says, “you would benefit from continued sessions. Yes.”
We are both quiet for a few seconds, and then it comes out because keeping it inside is slowly poisoning me. If I can’t tell her, who can I tell? “My best friend is sleeping with my husband.”
For the first time since I started seeing her, Dr. Levitt looks surprised. She moves to write something but stops herself. She settles back into the chair to look at me.
“Val,” Dr. Levitt says.
“Yes,” I answer quietly, unsurprised that Levitt’s put the pieces together without me having to say it, and for the second time during this session, my throat closes and rasps with tears. “Her.”
“Interesting that you phrased it that way,” she says.
“Instead of?”
“You might have said, ‘My husband is sleeping with my best friend.’”
The difference is subtle, but I get it. I shrug without thinking and let out a low, irritated cry at the pain.
“Infidelity does not have to be the end of a marriage.” Dr. Levitt says this solemnly.
I frown. “Maybe not, but it sure is the end of a friendship.”
On the desk behind her, the bell indicating the end of our session goes off. Dr. Levitt puts the cap back on her pen. She smiles.
“Well, Diana, it looks like I’ll see you next week.”
“Unless something happens to me in the meantime,” I say.
Her eyebrows raise. “Do you think something might happen to you?”
“You never know,” I tell her. “Things can always happen.”
CHAPTER TEN
Valerie
LAST MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND
Diana started her annual Memorial Day weekend Girls’ Getaway right after she married Jonathan. At its peak, there’d been up to fourteen women participating, but the last one was just the two of us.
We took her car, of course. That red head turner was way more fun a ride than my steady old sedan. We left after lunch, the windows down and music up. The three-hour drive gave us plenty of time to catch up and reminisce.
That three-hour drive was the last time Diana and I had been really, truly friends.
Diana’s beach house was small, no more than a cottage, really, but it was only a mile from the sand, and that was better than anything I’d ever have. The first order of business upon arrival was always wine. Always Briar White. She loved it enough to stock up on it by the case when she came to the beach, because the stores at home didn’t carry it. It wasn’t my favorite, but when you have a wealthy, generous friend who’s willing to supply the beach and booze, what kind of dumb bitch complains?
So, we drank. We got drunk. We made nachos. We smoked cigarettes.
We talked.
“I’m so glad you moved back home,” she said. Her words were the tiniest bit sloshy. “But I know you hate it there. I’m sorry, Val.”
“As soon as I get back on my feet, I’ll be moving back to the city. Or somewhere else. Anywhere else.”
I think we both knew it wasn’t likely I’d be back on my feet any time soon. I’d been sending out resumés for months, with no bites. Without a new job, there was no way I could afford to move.
Diana waved a hand around the interior of the living room. Vaulted ceiling. Creamy paint. Comfortable furniture and tasteful art. “I love this house, Val.”
“I love this house too.” I refilled both our glasses.
“Does it make me a bad person? To love this house more
than I love my husband?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, but drank a long drink and kept going. “Although this house is easier to live with than he is. I love his mother, but she really made a mess of her son.”
We both drank then. Drained our glasses and refilled them. We moved outside to the front porch, and we lit up again.
“It’s like she never let him grow up,” Diana said then in a low voice. “I get it, you know? Harriett’s always been there for me ever since I met her. More than my mother ever was. So, I get it. He likes being taken care of and catered to. He’s grown to feel entitled to it. But oh my god, whatever makes him mommy’s little boy does not make him, in any way, shape, or form, a good husband.”
I’d heard the stories over the years. Jonathan was clueless, selfish, self-centered. He expected to be coddled. He was indecisive while also being stubborn. Arrogant, too rough in bed, patronizing. Never wrong. Incapable of apologizing. He sounded like every guy I’d ever fallen for, if I was going to be honest with myself.
I might be jealous of my friend’s beauty and the privileged life she led, but still … she was my best friend. I hated seeing her so unhappy.
“It’s easier to divorce a mama’s boy than it is to change him.” The words rose to my lips without me knowing quite where they came from.
Diana was silent for a moment. “I can’t just divorce him. We have a prenup. We leave the marriage with whatever we came into it with, and for me that is definitely not this house—or the one in Pennsylvania either. His mother gave him both before I even met him. He’ll keep them both, and we’ll have to split everything else. Unless one of us cheats and the other has proof. If he does, he loses … well, just about everything.”
“Does kissing count?” I asked. “Or does he actually have to put his dick in someone else?”
She laughed but didn’t answer.
And I confessed.
“Jonathan kissed me. At Christmas,” I told her. “I … I kissed him back.”
Diana swallowed the last of her wine. “People get giddy at parties. They do dumb things. Christmas is a terrible time.”