Seven Lies (ARC)
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and I walked to the tube station in the rain, and I sat in a carriage full 31S
of families in dripping anoraks and with condensation clouding the
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windows and I felt hopeful. Because this was good news, wasn’t it?
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Here was the reunion, the remedy, a way to rebuild what felt so broken.
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I knew exactly what was going to happen. I could picture her face
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when she discovered what had happened to Emma: her shock, her sad-
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ness. I could see her boiling the kettle and ordering takeout and then
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deciding that tea wasn’t the right tonic, not for this wound, and opening 06
a bottle of wine instead. Audrey would fall asleep quickly— the antibi-
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otics, the painkillers— and then we’d unpack this sadness together.
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But it wasn’t quite so straightforward. Because I went to the phar-
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macy, as instructed, and discovered that it had closed an hour earlier
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than we’d expected. The sign on the door was accurate— Fridays: 11
8 a.m.— 7 p.m. — but somehow the messages had been mixed, the infor-12
mation muddled. I called Marnie. I said that I’d continue to hers, collect 13
the printed prescription, and find another pharmacy. She started to
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panic— because what if there was no other pharmacy, no way of finding
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the right medication tonight?— and I reassured her that everything would
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be fine, and I envisaged a moment, sometime later that evening, when
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she would instead be comforting me.
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I boarded the next train and by the time I reached her station there
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was a sprawl of gray across the sky, the buildings, the tarmac. I followed 20
my ordinary route to her apartment, through the passageway and past
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the small row of shops. And all of those steps, all of those moments,
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were positive. These were my places, the path to my people. I cried
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briefly— which isn’t unusual for me at the moment— but it was in a
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strange, sort of cathartic way.
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I met your neighbor in the lobby. Do you remember the man with
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the briefcase, rushing off to work the day you were born? He had just
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returned from the office and was standing in the doorway, pulsing his
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umbrella into the street to shake off the droplets. He acknowledged me
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with a small smile and an even smaller nod.
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Jeremy greeted me with a quick wave.
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I felt like I belonged.
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I knocked on the door and she opened it and she seemed pleased to
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see me.
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“You’re here,” she said, and she smiled.
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She was wearing dark jeans and a cream T- shirt, slack at her hips but
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snugly cuffed around her upper arms. Her hair was scraped into a loose
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bun and, as always, the shorter strands had fallen loose at the front. She 08
looked beautiful.
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“I’m so sorry,” she said. “They said eight o’clock. I’m sure they said
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eight o’clock.”
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The flat was impeccable: the floors were shining, and the surfaces
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were cleared of all debris, and I didn’t recognize a single thing that had 13
belonged to Charles.
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“Is something the matter?” she asked, and she leaned in close toward
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me, as though to get a better look. “Have you been crying?”
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I suppose I must have nodded.
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“What is it?” she asked, ushering me into the living room.
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Audrey was lying on a yellow mat on the floor, wearing only a nappy
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and with her cheeks flushed and pink.
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“Here,” Marnie insisted. “Sit down. What’s going on?”
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She stood in front of me and I looked at her black leather belt and its
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gold clasp and I tried to concentrate. I wasn’t crying anymore, but my
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eyes were sore. I wondered if they were red or framed by black smudges.
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I sat on the sofa and hugged a gray cushion to my chest.
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“I’ve had a terrible week,” I said. “ Emma . . .”
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I didn’t know how to finish the sentence, but then I didn’t need to
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say anything further.
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“No,” Marnie said, in a breath. “Oh, God. When? What happened?
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Why didn’t you call me?”
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“I found her.”
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“Jane!”
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“On Monday.”
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Marnie paced her living room, running her fingers through her hair,
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circling the coffee table. It had wooden legs and a glass top and, when I 02
looked closely, I could see that there were small smears— fingerprints
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and watermarks, white rings from mugs and glasses— spread across the
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surface.
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“You should have called me,” she said. “I’d have come straight over.
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I can’t believe this. How did they . . . Have you told your mum?”
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Marnie shut the doors to the balcony and then pulled the curtains
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over the glass. The room felt suddenly smaller, without the noise of car
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horns and voices on the sidewalk below.
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It was just us.
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“She’s barely there,” I replied. “It felt as though she disappeared in-
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stantly the moment I told her. She wouldn’t look at me after that. She
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wouldn’t listen to me. She was still sitting there, just as she’d been a
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few minutes before, but she was completely gone.”
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“Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry.” Marnie sank down onto the sofa beside me.
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“It makes sense,” I replied.
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“It doesn’t make sense,” Marnie said. “I mean . . . how does it make
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any sense at all?”
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“She’s always adored Emma, hasn’t she? And whether it’s the de-
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mentia or . . . What does it matter? She’s never be
en there to support
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me before.”
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Marnie secreted a small squeak from the back of her throat. “What
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an awful thing to happen,” she said. “This is terrible. I mean . . . You 24
poor thing. This must have been such a shock. Have you been at work?”
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I shook my head.
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“You’ve been at home? All week? By yourself? Why didn’t you . . . ?”
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She grabbed my hands and her fingernails were painted in pink polish
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and they were so long that they tickled at my skin as she warmed my
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knuckles between her palms. “I could have been there,” she said. “I
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could have taken care of you. I hate thinking that you’ve been going
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through this on your own.”
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“It’s not so bad,” I said.
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“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, slapping me on the arm. “It’s crazy
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to be on your own after such a . . . such a trauma. I’m always— I’ve al-
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ways been— just at the end of the phone. You should have called. But
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that doesn’t matter now. I’m here. I’m here. I’m always here. When is
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the funeral? Will your mother come? Do you need help organizing it?
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Or with her place? What can I do?”
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“I’ve agreed to clear out her flat tomorrow,” I said. “They have some-
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one new moving in on Monday. I hoped it wouldn’t be such a rush, but
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they’re in such demand— they’re so cheap, you know, and— ”
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Audrey began to whimper and within seconds she was screaming.
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Her little face was a painful red, her little fists clenched and pounding 13
at the floor, her feet flailing in the air.
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“Oh, I know, I know,” said Marnie, rushing to pick her up. “I know
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you feel awful, my poor little darling.” She bounced Audrey on her hip,
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spinning slowly, facing me and then turning away, but never looking my
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way. “I know, I know.” She held the back of her hand against Audrey’s
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forehead. “Oh, my little one, you’re burning up again. What time is it?”
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She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, its thick roman numerals,
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its thin metal hands. “Yes, let’s take something to sort this fever. And
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Mummy will get that prescription for Auntie Jane and we’ll have you
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back to your normal self in no time.”
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They disappeared toward the kitchen.
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“Jane,” she called, “will you look for one that’s open?”
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I told myself to stay calm, to be patient, not to read a truth that
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wasn’t there into the sense of abandonment that was filling my lungs,
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the panic that was crackling through me. I forced myself to do as she’d
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asked, and I found only one pharmacist open nearby. It was just a few
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miles from the flat, but it wasn’t close to a train station and there were 30
no bus stops in that area, either. I could hear Audrey squalling, Mar-
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nie’s incessant platitudes— “There, now. Don’t cry. Mummy’s here”—
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and I felt a rage building within me and I tried to suppress it.
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“Well?” she said as she came back in, and she frowned as I explained
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the problem, that it would take me over an hour to get there— I’d have
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to walk most of it— and perhaps even longer to get back.
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“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said. “We’re in one of the biggest cities
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in the world and I can’t find a fucking pharmacy that’s in any way acces-
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sible. Okay. Right. I’m going to put her down and then I’ll have to do it 06
myself. I’ll drive. That’ll be quicker. And you’ll stay here with Audrey?
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Is that okay?”
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I nodded.
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“Good,” she said. “Give me a few minutes.”
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They went upstairs and I turned on the television and I tried to find
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something that I wanted to watch, and there were so many choices but
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nothing that felt even vaguely appealing. I went to the fridge and there
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was a bottle of white wine, so I opened it— I didn’t think she’d mind—
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and poured myself a small glass. I looked through the cupboards, trying
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to find a DVD or a book that appealed, but I couldn’t concentrate prop-
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erly. Five minutes passed. And then ten. I stared into the black of the
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television screen, a dark void in the center of the fireplace.
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“Okay,” said Marnie, rushing back in. “She isn’t asleep— I’m so tired
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that I can’t quite believe either of us will ever sleep again; she’s totally 20
wired— but at least she’s calmer now. The crying’s stopped and that’s a
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start.” She rushed around, gathering her purse and her phone and the
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car keys and pressing them into her black leather handbag. “I think that’s 23
everything,” she said. She dragged her trench coat from the wooden peg
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in the hallway and pulled it over her shoulders. She pointed up the
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stairs. “Will you check on her in a few minutes? Make sure that her
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temperature’s dropping? There’s a thermometer in there: one of those
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ones for the ears. If she gets too riled- up, try feeding her. It’s in the fridge 28
if you need it. Her change bag is underneath the stairs, but I think there’s 29
everything in her room already. Right. I’m off. I’ll be back in no time,
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half an hour at most. We’ll talk properly when I’m back. I’m so sorry,
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Jane. I won’t be long.”
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I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt the
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most incredible disappointment and I thought I might feel angry, but I
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didn’t. I was simply sad.
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So I came up here, to your bedroom.
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>
And I started to tell you this story.
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Because it’s something that you deserve to hear.
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This, after all, is the story of how you came to be, of your life, and
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the people that led us both to this moment. It was meant to be a story
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about your father, about his inadequacies, about his death. It was meant
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to be a story about your mother, about her brilliance, and all the little 11
ways that our love has sustained us both. It was meant to reassure me,
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to remind me, to make this evening feel less unforgivable.
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But it wasn’t and it hasn’t.
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Chapter Forty- Two
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k
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T
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here are plenty of things that make you feel worse when they
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ought to make you better. Takeout, for example. It feels won-
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derful in the moment: the sharp tomato base of a pizza, acidic mango
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chutney with a poppadum, crispy- duck pancakes. But it weighs heavy
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within you. It never feels quite as good afterward as you thought it
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would before you ate it. I had anticipated that my conversation with
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Marnie would follow a very different path. I didn’t expect to feel so
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much worse afterward.
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Because I thought I knew her. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said
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that I could accurately predict her response to just about any conversa-
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tion. I could tell you, for example, that she’d like her burger cooked
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medium- well, extra cheese, and yes, please, to tomatoes. I could tell
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you that she’d roll her eyes if you asked about her parents, no matter
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who you were, no matter what your question. I could tell you that she’d
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deliver her copy after the deadline you’d set, but that it’d be no more
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than a few hours late. I could tell you that she wouldn’t call you back,
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and not to bother leaving a message, because she was unlikely to ever
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listen to it. I could tell you that she couldn’ t— absolutely wouldn’ t— eat 29