Chapter Three #2
“How do you want to handle it.”
I head back down to the landing. “Handle what exactly?”
“Willa. The press. They know about Christopher.”
I trip on the last step. “What?” I recover, move from the attic stairs to the stairs leading to the first floor. “Wait. Give me a second.”
I scamper down the steps, back to the kitchen. I refill the wineglass and sit at the table. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“An old classmate of yours posted something on her feed. A picture of him and you. Said she always thought y’all had dated during clinicals. Hashtag honest healing. Hashtag what honesty. Local reporter from the Tribune saw it, remembered you.”
I choke on the sip I’ve started to take but manage to say, “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
My ex. Dr. Christopher Fulton. A licensed psychologist twenty years my senior.
But it wasn’t his age that was the problem.
It was his position. I worked for him the year I did my clinicals.
I was twenty-seven and ready to start my career.
He was close to fifty and nursing wounds from an ugly divorce.
It started innocently enough but quickly turned into something not so innocent.
Our relationship was secretive and highly unethical.
Although students dating professors isn’t unheard of, in our field, it’s a deal-breaker.
He and I could have both lost everything we’d worked toward.
We married in a private ceremony at a town hall a year later, after I passed my boards.
I kept my maiden name and went into practice with two others.
We divorced four years later as quietly as we wed, leaving each other with the understanding no one would ever know about our yearlong tryst before we married.
Even after my podcast took off and the book started gaining momentum, I didn’t worry. My former husband had nothing to do with either. I kept him out of it, and no one had gone digging. Until now.
Amy says, “You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“You gave the buzzards a little taste of scandal yesterday, and they liked it. They want more, and they’ll dig until they find it.” She pauses, then adds, “Willa, what do you think the fallout will be with the Christopher thing? Could you lose your license?”
“No,” I answer too quickly, and I can picture Amy rolling her eyes. “Look, what we did was unethical but not illegal. Our relationship had no bearing whatsoever on my clinical internship or my ability to pass my boards. Period. Besides, it’s so far in the past; no licensing board would touch it.”
There’s a pause, and I hear her sip something. No doubt she has her own wine in hand.
I take another sip. “It’s going to be okay,” I say, but I don’t sound convincing, even to myself.
Because what I don’t say is, even though my license is safe, I still need to be very careful when it comes to the court of public opinion.
My field is held to a higher standard of ethics than most. Sleeping with my adviser is not going to do me any favors in the credibility department.
If this snowballs, it will not be good. For me or for Christopher.
“When are you coming home?” she asks.
“Couple of days.” Now, it’s my turn to sigh. “In time to turn around and get to the Good Morning America spot.”
Amy sighs.
“What?”
“They canceled.”
In my head, I see the first domino in a long line tip over. My silence says it all.
“Willa.” Amy clears her throat. “They said they had a scheduling conflict. That’s it. We’ll reschedule.”
I exhale, finish my second glass of warm wine. “I’m sorry for all of this. I feel like an idiot.”
“You’re human, Willa. That’s all. And don’t apologize.”
I nod. Even though she can’t see me, Amy understands. “It’s gonna be okay,” she says, echoing my own words.
All the energy drains from my body. I tell her good night. That I love her. And hang up.
Back on the upstairs landing, I grab my duffel and peek into the remaining three rooms. They are empty except for the last one.
The one Mabry and I once shared. The twin beds are bare except for a set of folded sheets on one.
Did the lawyer know this was the room I once stayed in?
How could he? More than likely, this room was chosen based on the size of the sheets they had.
Just like in the foyer, this room holds Mama’s voice as well.
Our last summer here, she waltzed in with her cheeks glowing.
“Isn’t it just great here? We’re all going to have the best summer ever.
Who knows what will happen?” She twirled around the room with her arms out wide and danced over to Mabry and scooped her up.
Mama dipped her and blew raspberries on her neck, and Mabry squealed with laughter.
Then Mama started into a raucous rendition of “All My Ex’s Live in Texas,” stomping her feet and shaking her hips and sashaying Mabry with her.
I watched and hoped Mama’s mood would make it to the end of summer, but hope was dangerous in the Watters’ house.
And Mama never made it on a high three solid months in a row before.
Still, though, what if? I was almost seventeen and knew better.
Mabry was twelve and did not. But Mama’s laughter and bright eyes and wild hoots of joy were contagious, and soon I was tapping my foot and jumping into the fray right along with them, swinging around the room and laughing as if everything would be okay.
Exhaustion floods over me. I slip off my heels, study my duffel. I could unpack, but how long do I plan on being here? Unpacking may be too much of a commitment. What I do is make the bed, change, and crawl under the sheets.
My mind runs through my conversation with Amy.
Christopher. If I could take back that relationship, I would.
The problem with it, with me, was a basic one and somewhat insulting in its simplicity.
Daddy issues. Christopher, the men I dated after Christopher, the guy I brought home the night before my interview all fit that mold.
Emotionally unavailable. It happens when the only thing you remember about your father is he smelled like spearmint gum and chewing tobacco the day he left.
I was five. Mabry a newborn. Mama yelled after him from the front yard, holding Mabry, who was wailing.
“You’re gonna be sorry you left me!” I wondered for years if he was sorry.
In my twenties, I tracked him down. He lived in a nearby town.
I drove to his house, ready to confront him.
His new wife opened the door. Two young boys stood behind her.
I told her who I was, and she asked me to come in.
She made me tea I didn’t drink and told me my father died of a heart attack six months earlier. I’d just missed him.
I force myself to clear my mind, breathe away my thoughts.
This house, the boxes, that letter have been applying their weight for too long. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t get into the attic tonight. Maybe it’s a sign I’m moving too fast for what’s in there. I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight I’ll let sleeping dogs lie.