In two sentences, she’s spoken the truth of my existence. It’s terrifying. She’s looked at my paintings. So have a lot of people. But unlike nearly everyone else, she actually sees them.
“After all these years, you’re still trying to tell the truth.”
“You twist me up, Romy,” I say, so quietly that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hear me. You twist me so tight. I can’t unhear the things you say. Or maybe she untwists me. Cuts me open and sorts out the tangled mess inside. That’s how it feels. Painful and perfect. I press my ear to her chest. Her arms are a cage around my head, shielding me.
“I believe you, Caleb. I believe you.” Her lips flutter against my skin as she speaks.
Her words push me to the surface, up to where I can breathe. Whatever she walked in here believing, she knows I’ve told her the truth, and she’s still here. She might leave tomorrow, but she’s got me now. She’s not letting me go.
A miracle. A small one, but hell, I’ll take it.
As we lie there, the memories slowly recede like a tide, and exhaustion creeps in. It settles over me, gentle but complete. The last thing I’m aware of is the steady beating of Romy’s heart.
The sun through my curtains is like an icepick through my eyeball. I turn my face into the pillow. Romy. Her scent is all around me. I force my eyes open.
She’s not here.
The air leaves my lungs, confusion sweeping in, making my head pound. It feels like someone’s scrubbed the inside of my skull with steel wool. My nostrils flare as I try to wrap my arms around some memory, around something that will make sense of the last twenty-four hours.
A day ago, Romy was here with me. Her skin against mine. Her breasts against my bare chest. I was inside her. I’ve been with plenty of women, but it had never been like that. It felt like Romy needed me, and I know I needed her. I’ve never been so desperate to please someone, never wanted to offer so much. Usually, I’m eager to escape as soon as both of us get what we want, but with Romy, I didn’t want to let her go. But I did. And now …
Oh, God.
Last night. At the co-op. Katie. A wave of nausea sloshes over me and I sit up quickly. Katie was there and she was bleeding and she was holding onto Jude and Romy was there too …
I stagger to the bathroom and heave into the toilet. I don’t drink, not often, at least. But I couldn’t take it last night. I wanted to make it all go away. I remember the vodka, remember sinking into numbness …
Romy was here. She isn’t here now, but she was. I remember her voice, the feel of her hands on my face. I slowly get up and rinse my mouth, wincing as I catch sight of myself in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles beneath them, red mark on my cheek. I lumber into the hall and stare at Katie’s door. She’s in the hospital. I think.
I enter the living room, trying to stitch together what happened. There’s a half-empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen table. And a note. I pick it up with unsteady fingers.
Caleb,
I had to be at my internship early this morning. Check your phone—I think the hospital called. If you want to talk, I’m here.
Romy
Her phone number is at the bottom. But … that’s it. I run my fingertips over her loopy handwriting, as if that’s going to give me some clue as to whether she wants me to call her or not. Because I don’t know. I told her things last night, but I was too dull and wrecked to comprehend how she took it. For all I know, she’s in therapist mode. She sounds like one sometimes. She kind of sounds like one in this note, though there aren’t enough words here to let me figure it out for sure.
I start to crumple it up and put it in the trash, but then catch myself. Why would I do that?
Because I want so much more from her than this.
So much more. I don’t want her to be my therapist. I want to know her. But why the hell would she want to be close to me? What do I have to offer her? Would she even want me to try?
I can’t focus on this right now. Katie’s in the hospital. I check the message on my phone, and sure enough, it’s her psychiatrist, telling me there’s a discharge planning meeting at four. Katie’s agreed to allow me to be there, if I can come.
It’s already two. Thank God I didn’t have any private lessons this morning. I call Daniel and ask him to cover my afternoon classes, then force myself to eat some toast and take a long shower, still trying to pull shreds of recollection to the front of my mind. Everything was spinning last night, but Romy was in the eye of the storm with me. Slowly, it comes back. She helped me stumble to my bed. She stroked my hair from my face, and I close my eyes and feel it all over again, along with a deep ache in my chest.
I pack a bag for Katie, cursing because she took so much with her when she stormed out with that Evan guy. On my way to the hospital, I stop at the drugstore and buy a few things I know she uses, like this flowery body wash and shampoo, a round hairbrush, the toothpaste she likes. She doesn’t like the hospital stuff, and she’ll probably be on the psychiatric unit by now. She can wear regular clothes.
When I check in at the reception desk in the psychiatry unit, Dr. Prihadi comes out of a meeting room to greet me. He’s this tiny guy with skin the color of dark walnut stain, thinning black hair, and thick eyebrows. He’s always wearing a tie, and today it’s sky blue with all these white birds at the bottom. Just seeing him coming toward me fills me with relief. Then I see who’s behind him.
It’s Jude. There’s another, older man beside him. Gray hair, glasses. I tense up as they approach.
“Caleb, this is Mr. Lancaster, who has been seeing your sister at the free community clinic, and his clinical supervisor, Dr. Robert Greer.”
I shake Dr. Greer’s hand and then turn to Jude. “Hey.”
Jude nods solemnly at me.
“Jude has informed us that he had some social contact with you in the community,” says Dr. Greer. “We wanted to talk to you before we go in to see Catherine.”
“Katie,” I say quietly.
“She introduced herself to Jude using her given name, and has never asked to be called by her nickname.”
I rub at my temple. “I’ve never called her anything else.” And does it matter, really? I’ll call her whatever she wants to be called if it makes her feel better. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“She’s signed a release allowing all of us to share information,” says Jude. “She wouldn’t do that before. It’s why I didn’t contact you when she first came to see me. I had no idea you were her brother, obviously. She called you ‘Cabe.’”
I sigh. “Yeah. She’s called me that since she was a toddler.”
“Well, maybe I should have probed further, but I assumed that was her brother’s actual name. I was trying my best.” He sounds defensive, and I remember how I yelled at him last night, how frustrated I was.
Dr. Greer puts his hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Obviously Jude is concerned at the confusion and distress this revelation has caused,” he says gently.
“Because she signed the consent,” Dr. Prihadi tells me, “I was able to share her treatment history, as well as some of the things you’ve disclosed to me, Caleb. I hope that’s all right.”
My stomach hurts. “It’s fine.” So all of them know, and that’s good. And awful.
“I also told them how you are her primary support. How you manage her medications and get her to all her appointments.”
“That’s not what she told you though, is it?” I say to Jude. I could tell by the way he looked at me last night. Like I was a freaking monster he had to protect her from. Jude presses his lips together, and it’s the only answer I need.
“I have now shared my own formulation of Katie with these gentlemen,” Dr. Prihadi says. “Given her history and her diagnoses, the way she portrayed you to Mr. Lancaster is not surprising. She’s very black-and-white in her thinking, and this is an example of that.”
“I didn’t know she’d been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder,” says Jude, w
ho glances nervously at Dr. Greer.
I look into Dr. Greer’s eyes. There’s more there than I’m understanding. He looks curious? Or assessing, maybe. “You think it’s true, whatever Katie said?” I ask him.
“She disclosed that you attacked a young man with whom she was intimate. That you burst into her room and assaulted him. Was that a lie?”
My jaw clenches. “It was a mistake. I thought he was … someone else.”
“We’ll need to talk that over with Katie, when she’s willing,” says Dr. Prihadi. “She was quite understandably upset about it.” He glances at his watch. “Shall we go in?”
“May I have a few minutes to speak to Mr. McCallum before we join you?” asks Dr. Greer. While the other two head back into the meeting room on the unit, he leads me into the hallway. “I wanted to speak with you about a related matter,” he says. “I also supervise Romy Foerster, and I understand you have had social contact with her as well.”
Social contact. That’s one way of putting it. I’ve felt her body clench around me and tasted her skin. She’s reached into my chest and closed her fingers around my heart. “Yeah.”
“Romy has been attending a weekly group supervision session in which your sister’s case was discussed. Until last night, she was unaware that Jude was talking about your sister—or you.”
“And she heard a bunch of stuff that made me sound like a psycho,” I say hollowly.
He doesn’t even look apologetic about it. “I want to assure you that the case will not be discussed in a group session again. I will be providing individual supervision to Jude, and he will not share any information at all with Romy.”
“She’s not in trouble, is she? I mean, she didn’t do anything wrong. She’s never been anything but nice. She’s never hurt me.” But she could. God, she could. Still, I’d feel awful if this fucked up situation made things hard for her. “I really appreciated the way she helped Jude with my sister.”
He holds his hands up. “Oh, no, she’s not in any trouble at all, though it’s important that she keep the boundaries between her personal and professional life very clear. However, I know this must be jarring for you to hear, and strange in the least to know that she’s been in possession of this information. Your sister described your behavior in ways that … well.”
So basically, Romy—whose last relationship was with a guy who hit her—has been hearing about how my sister thinks I’m doing the same kind of shit. “Fuck,” I mutter.
“I want to offer you access to therapeutic services if you need that support as you move on.”
As I move on? That ache in my chest returns, except now it feels like someone’s clawing at my insides. “I’m not really interested, but thanks for the offer,” I manage to say. “Can we go talk to Katie now?” I hold up the bag I brought with me. “I have some things for her.”
He smiles. “Of course. I’m sure she’ll be happy to wear some of her own clothes.”
He strides back toward the psychiatric unit, and I follow, all my questions from this morning answered, all my stupid hopes and what ifs blown to hell.
Chapter Nineteen
Romy
I finish writing my session note for Pamela’s file, and then read it over to make sure it’s complete. She’s getting ready to find her own place. She’s finally moving on. But she’s haunted by nightmares of what her boyfriend did to her, and she’s desperately afraid that he’s going to track her down. We did a lot of safety planning, and I hope it’s enough. I also hope she follows up with the referral I gave her. She needs to see someone who specializes in treating PTSD. She deserves to make a fresh start.
A fresh start. Is that even possible? We all begin with a white canvas, but once it’s got paint on it, you can’t undo that. You can try to cover it up, but it’s always there. Caleb’s face floats behind my closed eyelids, and I blink quickly and file the note away, wishing I could do the same with my memories of Caleb.
Leaving him this morning wasn’t easy. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again. I’m not sure what I should do. I called my former therapist and made an appointment, to give myself a space to sort it out. Am I drawn to Caleb because he’s damaged? Because he’s dangerous, even though I’ve seen no sign of that so far? Is he like Alex? Everything I heard from Jude made him sound that way, but every moment I’ve spent with Caleb tells me otherwise. But can I trust myself? Can I trust Caleb? And … is it fair to ask him for anything, considering what’s going on with him?
Whatever Jude thinks, it’s obvious Caleb loves his sister, and it’s also obvious that he’s fierce about taking care of her. I’m betting that locked cabinet in his kitchen contains her meds, along with anything sharp in that apartment, because nothing was left out. I checked the cutlery drawer and the other cabinets. Even though I could smell cleaning products, they were all locked away, too. He’s trying to keep his sister from hurting herself. I’m sure of it. From what I observed last night with Catherine in the hospital, he needs to do exactly that. She’s a danger to herself.
And Caleb thinks it’s his fault. He’s been carrying that burden for half his life. The depth of that trauma makes my own pathetic issues seem like a picnic in the park.
“I’m so glad I caught you!” says Justine, bustling into the office. “How’s Pamela?”
“Brave,” I murmur.
Justine smiles. “She really likes you. She told me she wishes she could keep you as her therapist.”
“She makes it easy. She’s so open about things.”
Justine pats my shoulder. “Not to everyone. You make her feel safe.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out two tickets, rectangular pieces of cardstock with some antique-like printing on them. “These are for the charity auction in November. I thought you might like to come.”
I take the tickets from her, smiling. “You’ll be there?”
“I wouldn’t miss it! I don’t get much chance to dress up. The Dexters are so nice to host it this year. You should see their house! It’s unbelievable. Right on the lake.” She’s practically shivering with excitement.
“Have you gotten a lot of donations for the auction?”
She shrugs. “Some of the local gallery owners have donated a piece here or there. We have some nice packages from the boutiques downtown, too. Like a spa weekend—that’s the one I would bid on if I had any money!”
I remember Caleb’s heart, pounding beneath my palm as I asked him if he’d donate a painting. It would be such an opportunity for him, but also a risk, and that was what scared him, I’m sure. “Have you asked some of the artists from the co-op?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know anyone there, but maybe—”
“I know some of them. I could ask.”
When Justine smiles, she is so lovely. Hers is exactly the kind of face I’d want to see if I needed help and reassurance. “That would be nice. Let me know what they say.” She slides a few flyers across her desk. “You could put these up, if you have time.”
“Sure thing.” I tuck them into my bag.
“So … will you be bringing anyone?” she asks, cutting me a sly look.
“What, to the auction?” Stupidly, I imagine going to something like that with Caleb, and then I return to reality. “Yeah, I might bring a friend.”
“A man friend?”
I laugh. “A man friend, yes. He’s got a special man friend of his own, so don’t get too excited.”
She tilts her head. “You’re such a lovely young woman. I find it hard to believe you don’t have anyone special.”
Once again, Caleb enters my mind, the way he said my name, the way he held me tight, wrapped himself around me, made me feel like he didn’t want to let go. “It’s hard …” I sigh. “It’s hard.”
She stares at me. “It is. Finding a good man, one who treats you like you deserve to be treated—it’s not like they’re falling from trees.” She sits on the edge of her desk. “After I escaped my first husband, I didn’t think such a man existed, bu
t then I met Craig.”
“How did you know he was a good man?”
She gives me a puzzled look. “An abuser can’t hide what he is, not forever, not for long, even. Craig lets me be me—in fact, he wants me to be me—and he never tried to stop me from doing things that were important to me. He wanted to be part of my life but he didn’t want to run my life. That’s not how an abuser operates.”
“I know.” I remember.
The front bell rings, and Justine gets up. “I’ll see you Friday?”
I nod. “Thanks for the tickets.”
She goes out to check who’s here, and I pack up. My phone buzzes, and I suppress a pang of hope that it might be Caleb. It’s not—it’s a text from my mother. Planning for Christmas party. Will you be joining us?
I text back. Probably.
Will you be bringing anyone?
I text back. Probably not. My stomach tightens. I took Alex to my parents’ annual Christmas party last year. They loved him. My mother was hinting heavily that I needed a ring on my finger. He was exactly the kind of guy she wanted me to be with—a future lawyer, from a wealthy family like mine. Our dads even know each other professionally. I think one of them acquired some subsidiary of the other’s company. I can’t remember the details, but even before they discovered that fabulous connection, my dad treated Alex like the son he never had, taking him golfing before coming home and drinking brandy together before the party even started.
It took me three months to tell my mom that we’d broken up. I never told her why. It was too humiliating. My parents are already sort of horrified at my career choices, and I couldn’t bear to let them down once again. Unfortunately, the consequence is that my parents keep hassling me about whether Alex and I will get back together. Any moment, Mom is probably going to call me and start pushing the issue.
Sure enough, as I head out to my car, my phone rings, and I answer. “Mom, I’m not going to—”
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