Chapter 20 The Show Goes On
The Show Goes On
Catherine
Four Months Later
* * *
Catherine's apartment had always been quiet. She'd chosen it for exactly that reason. While others hunted for natural light or a park view, she'd searched listings for words like "serene" and "idyllic," and in 14D she'd found exactly that.
It had suited her perfectly once. But lately the silence had grown unchecked, developing teeth that gnawed at her composure.
It followed her from room to room like something alive.
When she sat at her piano, it settled behind her shoulders.
When she tried to sleep, it pressed against the walls, waiting like the proverbial wolf at her bedroom door.
It was worst in the mornings. The quiet felt sharper then, almost brittle.
Catherine’s eyes opened at six-thirty without an alarm, a habit her body refused to surrender.
She'd drift from bed to bathroom, and turn the faucet handle to the precise middle position.
The routine followed its usual sequence: cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer, each product applied with movements she no longer thought about.
Her reflection stared back at her: dark blond roots betraying her at the hairline like tiny saboteurs, bloodshot blue eyes that she'd fix with drops before her first student arrived, and fine lines that had long since shifted from elegance to what passed for “character” around her mouth.
Not bad for thirty-nine, she thought automatically. Well, forty, as of today, which was not an improvement on the calculation. She tilted her chin up and immediately regretted it. The underside of her jaw wasn't anyone's friend these days.
She scrutinized a moment longer than necessary before turning to her medicine cabinet. She drew in a breath and pulled the door open, the same way she did every morning.
The little yellow square was still taped to the inside, one corner beginning to curl after four months. The ink had smudged where she'd run her thumb over it those first few weeks, tracing the words like they might vanish if she didn't keep touching them.
Thank you for the music, Catherine.
— 14C
Liv had seen it on her visit last month. Had looked at it for a long moment without saying anything, which for Liv meant she had plenty to say and was choosing not to. The choice hadn't lasted. 'Jesus, Catherine,' she'd said finally. 'It's like you've built yourself a little shrine to regret.'
Catherine had ignored the comment, unable to explain how the note had become both a wound and a bandage.
Every morning, she stood in front of it, shoulders squared like a penitent, letting the familiar ache bloom beneath her ribs.
It hurt, yes. But there was something almost comforting about the routine of it, in knowing exactly how much it would hurt and doing it anyway.
Theodora would have had something to say about that. Something witty about Freud and the talking cure, delivered with that arch of her brow.
But Theodora wasn't there.
She reached past the note for her medication bottle, twisting the cap with ease. One pill, 500mg of lamotrigine, small and white and unremarkable, fell into her palm.
She'd switched to mornings on her neurologist's advice after the hospital. Evenings left too many variables, too many ways for a routine to slip. Mornings were safer, more controlled; the pill taken before the day had a chance to get in the way.
She filled a glass with water, swallowed it, and returned the bottle to its spot.
Forty years old, and the morning looked exactly the same as thirty-nine.
* * *
By six forty-five, the apartment had grown too quiet even for her. She pulled on her sweater and headed down the hall to Mary's fifteen minutes early. Mary would notice the time. Of course she would. But Catherine had absolutely no intention of explaining why.
She slowed as she passed 14C. The apartment had new tenants now, some finance couple who came and went at the same time every day.
No more keys dropping at three in the morning.
No more shower running when Catherine was trying to sleep.
No more laughter filtering through the wall that she'd once complained about but secretly listened for.
She kept walking and knocked on Mary's door, the same as she had most Thursday nights for the past four months.
It had started that first week after Theodora left.
An unexpected knock, Mary's face in her doorway, no preamble beyond "Got stew on the stove.
" Catherine's feet had carried her down the hall before she'd decided to move.
That night, Mary had stirred the pot without looking up and said, "Theo made me swear I'd keep an eye on you.
Said she couldn't stand thinking of you all alone.
" Catherine had gone home afterwards and sobbed until she couldn't make another sound.
That had been the beginning of their Thursday nights.
These days, Mary opened the door before Catherine could even knock. She wore a deep turquoise cardigan over slacks, her silver hair catching the warm light of the apartment. "Come in, come in," she said, stepping back. "It's freezing in that hallway."
Catherine stepped inside, her shoulders dropping as Mary's apartment wrapped around her.
"Dinner's ready," Mary said, gesturing toward the living room. "Sit yourself down while I plate up.”
"Can I help with anything?" Catherine asked, slipping off her shoes.
Mary snorted and flicked her dish towel. "What you could do is stop standing there, letting all my heat out."
Catherine smiled as she settled into her usual spot on the couch. A mug of tea waited on the coffee table for her, steam still rising from its surface, and she wrapped both hands around the ceramic.
"Saw Luis today," Mary called from the kitchen. "He asked if you were doing alright. Said he hasn't seen you around much."
Catherine hummed, lifting her tea to her lips.
"He worries," Mary added.
“I know,” Catherine said. She really did need to stop by and see him. It had been too long since the last time.
The words settled between them, leaving the kitchen quiet except for the low hum of the stove. Catherine could hear Mary moving around in there, the dim clink of a spoon against ceramic, followed by a brief pause.
Then, as if deciding it couldn't be avoided, Mary said lightly, "I saw Theo at the weekend."
Catherine's hands tightened around her mug. "Oh?"
"Mm, she came over for dinner at Josiah's. Girl was so happy to see me, she nearly tackled me with that hug of hers." Mary appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"Was she—is she okay?"
"Yeah, she's good."
Catherine took another sip of tea, using the motion to compose herself. "I'm glad."
Mary studied her for a moment, then returned to the kitchen. The sound of vegetables being transferred to a serving dish carried into the living room, along with Mary's continued commentary. "She asked about you, you know. Wanted to know if you were doing alright."
The information settled awkwardly in Catherine's chest, creating a sensation she couldn't quite pin down. Happiness that Theodora still cared enough to ask, alongside something sharper that might have been regret or longing or, more likely, both.
"What did you tell her?" Catherine asked, proud of how level her voice sounded.
"That you were teaching your students, keeping yourself busy." Mary emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates, setting one in front of Catherine on the coffee table. "Was that wrong?"
Catherine looked down at the chicken and roasted vegetables, steam rising in delicate wisps. "No."
"She got a promotion," Mary said as she took her seat, her tone deliberately casual. "Three weeks ago. They made her Assistant Director of Medical Services."
Catherine's fork paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down. "That's really wonderful."
"Means longer hours, more responsibility. But she seems excited about it."
Catherine nodded, her throat too tight for words. She knew all about The Eastside Mission. She’d lasted nearly a week after Theodora left before finally looking it up, then spent far too long staring at Theodora’s staff photo until her laptop died.
"I’m happy for her," Catherine said, meaning it.
Mary made a small sound that might have been agreement.
She took a bite of chicken and chewed thoughtfully.
"Josiah said he’s going to ask her to organize their annual gala.
He says it's a big deal for them, like the Met, but with less Vogue and more virtue.
" She paused. "He says she's good at it.
Really good. Natural at building trust with people who don't trust easily.
She's got this way of just being present without pushing, you know? "
Catherine did. She'd experienced it firsthand. The way Theodora could sit in silence without making it uncomfortable and could offer help without making it feel like judgment. That quality of attention that made you feel seen rather than observed.
"She's going to do extraordinary things," Catherine said, and heard her voice catch slightly on the last word despite her efforts at control.
Mary was quiet for a moment, her expression softening. "You're allowed to miss her, you know."
Catherine looked down at her plate, at the food she'd been pushing around more than eating. "I'm proud of her and what she's doing," She stopped, swallowed.
"But," Mary prompted gently.
Catherine shook her head. "No but. Just... I'm glad. That's all."
It wasn't all, and they both knew it. The pride was real, and the gladness was real, and the regret that pressed against her ribs was real too, all of it existing simultaneously in ways Catherine couldn't untangle even if she'd wanted to.
Mary gave her a look that said she wasn't fooling anyone, then set her fork down.