After All I've Done

by Mina Hardy

  “I don’t know, babe. You never seemed happy with anything you did in class. Maybe you just … I don’t know. Decided you didn’t want to look at any of them.”

  I find it hard to imagine myself signing up for a painting class in the first place, but it reminds me of something more recent. “Dr. Levitt told me that maybe I should think about taking some kind of creative class.”

  Jonathan has lied to my face about working late when he has plans to meet his lover, and yet I’ve never seen him look this guilty. “Uh …”

  I get to my feet and wince, hard, because I’ve used my right arm to push upward. “What does that mean?”

  “I … well, when you first started seeing her, she asked me about you, about the last year or so and stuff. What you’d been up to. What you’d been like before the accident. If there was anything about your past that might help her understand you better.”

  The idea that my own psychiatrist could not understand me without my husband’s input infuriates me.

  “So, what did you tell her?”

  He doesn’t answer at first. My husband, the coward. Mr. Nonconfrontation. It had been something I liked about him when we first met, how easy he was to get along with. I started hating it about him about a year into our marriage, when I discovered that having someone say yes all the time, even when they had no intention of following through, was so, so much worse than an honest no.

  “Jonathan!”

  “I just said that your mother had been a painter.”

  Everything inside me goes cold. “You told Dr. Levitt about my mother?”

  “Well … yeah … and that she’d basically abandoned you when you were in middle school, but that two summers ago, she came back around and you thought maybe you’d be able to patch things up with her, but she up and disappeared again. And then she died. It kind of fucked you up even more.”

  I can’t get the words out. I have no air. Ten years married, and this is how my husband describes me to someone else? “Is that what you think of me?”

  “No, of course not,” Jonathan says, but in a way that means yes. “I mean … she asked if there was anything that I thought she ought to know about you, about what might be keeping you from regaining your memories—”

  “She said—” I put a hand to my chest and feel the pounding of my heart. I force myself to speak when all I want to do is scream. I already know my husband is a liar, but has my doctor been lying to me too? “She said that the amnesia was not trauma related, that it’s from the anesthesia, and it’s a common thing, and that they can’t be sure anything will work—”

  “Babe, babe,” Jonathan cuts me off, moving toward me as though he means to embrace me. “It’s okay.”

  I step back so he can’t touch me. The thought of it repulses me, that he could even think I would allow him to touch me after what he’s done. “It’s not okay. If I’d wanted to talk to her about my mother, I would have. You had no right. She had no right!”

  “It’s not a big deal. I just told her you’d taken the class last summer as a way of connecting with your memories of your mom and a way of making your peace with her and all that.”

  I am silent for a moment, almost incapable of processing this. “What. The. Actual. Fuck?”

  The vulgarity of that profanity burns, a bitter taste. He has pushed me to being what I swore I would never become, and I want to drop to my knees with sudden, furious grief. I might not be able to remember hating him enough to want to actually leave him, but it’s clear to me now that even if I didn’t before, I do now.

  “Shit, Diana, I don’t know. Okay?” He tosses up his hands. “I thought it would help her to help you! I did it for you.”

  The one and only time Jonathan met my mother, they’d made polite small talk in a coffee shop. Two weeks later she was dead, strangled on her own vomit in a cheap roadside motel. He had never known her, and it’s very clear now that he’s never really known me.

  “But that’s not even close to the truth! I would never …” I have to swallow hard, both to keep the rush of sour spit from pouring out my mouth and to stop myself from spewing forth some violent words.

  We stare at each other. The first time we ever made love, in bed together after the orgasms had faded and our sweat had cooled, Jonathan had pushed the hair off my face and traced his fingertip over each of my eyebrows. Along my jaw, my chin. He’d brushed it along my lower lip, opening it for his kiss.

  “Are you happy?” he had asked me then, and in that moment, in the cocoon of our new and unexpected love, I had answered yes.

  I don’t remember when I stopped being happy, only that one day I woke up and realized that I wasn’t. No one thing had led to it. No one thing, I think now as my throat closes, ever does.

  He gives me a cagey look. “You told me something like that. You just don’t remember it.”

  “I told you that I was going to take a watercolor class at the local rec center because I missed my mother?” My voice rises, high-pitched like a teakettle whistle.

  He doesn’t answer me. His expression says it all. “You just … don’t remember, babe,” he finally whispers when I don’t say anything.

  I refuse to believe that. He will never be able to convince me that it was because I was trying to connect, in any way, with my mother.

  My lip curls. “Levitt can’t talk about me like that to you, can she? Isn’t that a violation of something? Doctor–patient confidentiality or something?”

  “I think that only applies to things you’ve told her that she can’t relay to me. Not the other way around.”

  I want to smack that smug look off his face. He’s probably right. Still, I am betrayed and disgusted at the idea of the two of them talking about me. It’s worse than the thought of him and Val discussing me, because I expect that to happen. I thought my doctor was … well. I thought she was mine, unlike my husband and my ex–best friend, anymore.

  “She was trying to get a handle on your situation, that’s all.”

  “The point of talking to her about my ‘situation’ as you put it, is that I am the one who talks to her. Not you.” I catch sight of myself in the decorative mirror Harriett has hung by her front door. I stare at my reflection, expecting that I’ll look angry, but I just look sad.

  “Babe …” He sounds frustrated but not apologetic. This is something else I’ve grown to despise about him.

  Jonathan Richmond is never, ever wrong.

  “Never mind.” I bend to gather up the crinkly papers and shove them back into the tote. I gesture for him to pick up both it and the ones with the decorations. “Can you take these next door, please?”

  “If the paintings bother you so much, maybe you should toss them.”

  “Clearly,” I say, “they meant something to me if I decided to keep them.”

  “Yeah, but you put them in the attic,” Jonathan says.

  I’m not sure I believe I was the one who did that, but again I can’t argue with him about it because I really don’t know. Without a word, I leave Harriett’s apartment and cross back to my own house. The smell of browning meat wafts from the kitchen. My stomach rumbles.

  Jonathan puts all the decorations in the den, where Harriett will have to sort through them after dinner and put them up. I plan to claim pain as a reason why I don’t want to bother. The truth is, I have some legal research to do on my laptop.

  Happy belated birthday, Val. You’re going to get exactly what you want.

  Before that, we sit at the dining room table and eat the tacos my mother-in-law has expertly prepared.

  “I’m going to have a glass of wine. Who else would like one?” I decide this out loud, looking at each of them like an invitation, although it’s not, really.

  Harriett’s brows raise. “You know I don’t drink.”

  “Jonathan? Or are you planning on going to the gym later?”

  He looks quickly at the wall clock, instinctually, and his mouth gets tight. “No. I’m not. And I only drink red, b
abe.”

  The bottle of my Briar White in the fridge is chilled, which is perfect; it’s three-quarters empty, which is not. I have backup bottles, of course, in the basement fridge. I should have at least two cases left. Except that now, when I go downstairs to get one, I see four bottles in the fridge and only one box of others.

  I can’t remember how many had been in there.

  I don’t remember drinking most of the open one upstairs.

  I grab one of the bottles and take it with me. I fill my glass with what’s left from the open bottle and put the other in the kitchen fridge. Jonathan and Harriett both look up when I come back to the dining room.

  “Babe,” I say slowly, carefully, the endearment flavored like rotten meat, “have you been drinking my wine?”

  “I just told you, I only drink red.” He shoves a tofu taco into his face and says, “Mmm.”

  I keep my eyes fixed on him. “I’m just asking because I thought I had a lot more down there. You know. From when there was that case discount sale.”

  For a long moment, his gaze holds mine.

  Val drinks white.

  “I haven’t been drinking your wine, Diana.”

  Jonathan scrapes the remains of his dinner into the trash and excuses himself for his traditional after-dinner constitutional. I finish my tacos and the glass of wine. I keep hold of my empty glass when Harriett reaches for it.

  “I’ll keep this. I might have another in a little while.”

  Her mouth purses in disapproval, and her eyes go to the recycling bin next to the back door. Then back to my face. “If you need to.”

  I follow her gaze. The bin is full almost to overflowing. Taking out the trash is Jonathan’s job. Garbage is picked up every week. Recycling, every other.

  From here, I can see the necks of three wine bottles poking up from the rim of the green plastic bin. I don’t move toward it. I shift my gaze back to Harriett’s, expecting her to say something. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have to, really. I can tell what she’s thinking from her expression.

  “It’s not about needing to, Harriett. It’s about wanting to.” My words slip out, sounding mushy, like my tongue’s gone thick and unwieldy. That one glass of wine feels like four. Or five.

  “I’ll clean up the kitchen, honey. Why don’t you go rest on the couch?”

  “I actually have things I have to do upstairs,” I say and grab the bottle opener from the drawer. It takes me a long minute or so to open another bottle with my too-clumsy hands. I pour a generous glass and watch the pale yellow liquid shimmer.

  “We could watch our show,” Harriett says in a trembling sort of voice.

  Runner. I’ve been a fan since the show first aired. It was canceled for a brief time, but the fans rallied for it to come back. It’s in season fourteen now. Harriett and I started talking about it when we worked together at Sunny Days, and then later, watching it together every week.

  In the early days of our relationship, before Harriett introduced me to her son, she and I spent a lot of lengthy lunches working together for the charity events. I confided in her then about the lack of my mother in my life, and all the reasons why. The booze, drugs, the unreliability. I confessed my fears that, despite the fact that I shared no DNA with her, I was still too much like the woman who’d agreed to, but had barely, raised me.

  “You aren’t anything like her. So don’t you let yourself think you are,” Harriett always told me.

  She and I had once been so close.

  Now, everything she does sets me on edge, and I can’t figure out why.

  “Another time,” I tell her. “I have a lot of stuff to catch up on.”

  “I’ll just unpack the bins then, I suppose. When Jonathan comes back down.”

  Upstairs, I grab my laptop just as Jonathan comes out of the bathroom. “Your mother’s waiting for you to help her unpack the decorations.”

  “Don’t spill your wine,” he says in a tone so snide and snarky that I actually have a second’s respect for him. Then he pushes past me and out of the bedroom.

  In the small room down the hall I use as my office, I pull open the filing cabinet where I store all my important papers. I sort through them quickly. A copy of the deed for the house stops me, my fingers curling and almost wrinkling the paper before I can stop myself. My name isn’t on it, but I knew that. Jonathan’s name is on it.

  So is Harriett’s.

  So much for her giving the house to him, I think. This means she still owns half of it. Another quick search shows the same thing for the beach house.

  With a sinking heart, I sit back and study the deeds. I hadn’t considered this. It changes everything because now, even if I get all the requirements to break the prenup, I’ll still only be entitled to half of both homes. Even if I was awarded his entire share, I’d still own them with Harriett. I’m not stupid enough to think that would work out very well.

  I quickly make copies of the deeds and put the originals back in their place. When I search further for the copy of the prenuptial agreement, I come up with nothing. It’s not in any of the folders, and I look through them all. Then again. I can’t find it anywhere. I remember the gist of it all, but not every detail. I recall there was a specific protocol and list of items required to enact the part about divorce on grounds of adultery, and I need it if I’m going to move forward.

  My head is spinning far too much for having had only a single glass of wine. The second sits, still full, on the small side table next to me. I force myself to focus.

  I haven’t used my laptop very much since getting out of the hospital. I’d never used much social media. I usually check my emails from my phone, and it had simply been too painful for so long. My fingers feel unwieldy on the keys.

  First, I look up “PA divorce law.” Then, a few minutes after that, “How to legally bypass or break a prenup.” Without the details, I can only gather information, but I bookmark a few sites to go back to.

  I have one more task to complete. It takes me a bit of searching for the lawyer’s website, only to discover that the one who worked with us ten years ago is no longer practicing. There is no information about how to get in touch with him or how to access any copies of anything from him.

  I’m looking up internet advice on how to handle that when the laptop dings with an email notification. I pause to check it. The message has come in on an account I don’t have set up on my phone. It’s the one I’ve had the longest but now use the least. The new message is just junk, but when I scroll up a little bit, I see a familiar email address.

  Dated in August just a few months ago, Val’s message is brief. I can’t remember getting it the first time, but I’m sure I was as devastated to read it then as I am now.

  Never contact me again.

  What happened in August?

  But no matter how far back I scroll, there are no other messages to tell me. I type a quick message to Val. We need to talk. Please. I hit “Send” before I can stop myself, but it doesn’t matter, because within a minute I get an error message telling me the email was undeliverable.

  Dizziness rolls over me, relentless as a storm. Nausea follows it. I manage not to vomit, but I’m clammy and shaking. Dr. Levitt told me this might happen—trying to remember what happened during the blank spaces might trigger physical reactions. Another rush of dizziness hits me. My entire body buzzes and hums with a weird electric sensation like a really rough high. All I can do is breathe through it.

  Whatever happened in August doesn’t matter right now. Whatever I asked Val to do and whatever she has done will have to wait. All I can do right now is breathe.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Valerie

  HIGH SCHOOL

  “Get up, Val. C’mon. Wake up.”

  I didn’t want to wake up, but Diana’s voice wouldn’t let me stay asleep. She shook me, too, and I flailed out of bed in a tangle of sheets and blankets and my own sour sweat. My mouth tasted like an ashtray.

  “God. I can sme
ll you. Come on.”

  Before I could figure out what she was doing and stop her, she dragged me out of my room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. She flung open the shower curtain, and even I turned away, repulsed. Nobody’s cleaned it in weeks. Months, maybe.

  Not since before Mom … died.

  Diana started to pull my T-shirt over my head, but I stopped her without much effort. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  I scowled and, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, turned away. I didn’t need to see what I looked like. It was bad. I could feel it, but I couldn’t care about it. I couldn’t care about anything.

  “Look,” she said next in a softer tone. “I lost my mom a long time ago. I know it’s not the same—”

  I interrupted. “No. It’s not. I loved my mother.”

  She was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I know you. But right now, you stink.”

  “So let me stink!” The shriek rose up, up, and up and out of me, hurting my throat.

  Diana backed up. I thought she was going to leave, and that was good—it was just fucking perfect. I wanted her gone. Out. I wanted her to leave me alone to just … I wanted to be alone.

  “Fine,” she said, “don’t shower. Smell like ass and puke. Whatever, Val. But even if you won’t clean yourself up, you’re still coming out here with me.”

  She gripped my arm with a grip like iron, and even if normally I could fend her off, I hadn’t eaten in … well, couldn’t remember when I ate. I tried to pull away, but I couldn’t. Diana marched me down the hall, through the living room, out the back door to the deck. Into the yard. She let me go and I stumbled forward a few steps in the too-high grass.

  We were in front of the shed that had been falling down for years. When we were little kids, we played house and fairy castle in there, and when we got a little older, sometimes we took the boys in there to play kissing games. We still played kissing games, but now we did it in other places. Private places, for private things.

  Diana went inside the shed and came out with a cardboard box. It rattled. She put it down in front of me. It was full of old mason jars without lids. Mom didn’t can anything after she got sick. She must have taken these old jars out to the shed to make room in the kitchen.