Chapter Three #4
Dr. Jeong told me to treat myself the way I’d treat a loved one. This applies always; however, it’s especially relevant when I’m not feeling well. She says things like, “Consider what you might feed someone you love, and prepare that food for yourself.”
I unearthed a bag of navel oranges in the back of the fridge and force-fed them to myself.
I should have just eaten one, but I consumed several.
I now have heartburn, and my mouth feels irritated by the citric acid.
I don’t know why I did this to myself. I would never feed someone I love seven oranges.
In an attempt to course correct, I’ve drawn myself a bath. If I knew Joy didn’t sleep last night, cried at work, got sworn at, almost accidentally euthanized Kyle, suffered through an unpleasant therapy session, then binge ate oranges, I might put her in the tub.
I drop a bath bomb in the water. I watch it fizzle and start to dissolve. It’s black with glitter in it. It’s turning the water purple. It’s swirling and mesmerizing, like a galaxy. I find it calming, so I take a picture of it and post it to my Instagram story.
“I’m holding January,” Joy whispers.
We’re on the phone. I’m still in the bath. I have a cold washcloth on my forehead.
“I’m glad you got there safe. How is January?”
She says, “She’s perfect.”
“And where’s Sophie? How’s she doing?”
“She’s sleeping. She’s okay, I think. I’m glad I came, though. She’s recovering.”
It’s shocking how quickly people return home from the hospital after giving birth.
Sophie had a C-section and was still out of there in less than two days.
I stayed in the hospital for a week after my breakdown.
I can’t imagine pushing a human person out of my body, then being sent packing soon after.
“How was therapy?” she asks.
“It was fine,” I say. “But I’d rather talk about January.”
“She has a lot of hair. She’s a little bigger than I thought she’d be. She looks healthy. She’s wearing a pink onesie right now. It has little ears on the hood, and a twirly tail on the butt, to make her look like a piglet.”
“That’s adorable. Send me a picture.”
“I will.”
“Does she look anything like you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“She must be cute.”
Joy laughs.
“Does Kearney mind you being there?” I ask.
Kearney is Sophie’s husband. Joy hates him. He cheated on Sophie before their wedding. Sophie has forgiven him, but Joy hasn’t. She’s civil with him, but cold. Joy always assumes the best in others, so when people behave badly, she finds it shocking.
“He’s barely been here,” she says. “He’s working. Thank God.”
I can tell she’s rocking January because she keeps saying “coo coo” to her.
“Coo coo,” she whispers.
I’m thinking about my session with Dr. Jeong earlier today.
I’m still in the bathtub. The water is tepid. I’m inspecting my pruning fingertips, ruminating about what I told her. I regret how I talked about Ben. I need to think before I speak. I rambled. I didn’t put enough thought into what I said, and how she might interpret it—
Wait. No, I shouldn’t do that. She’d say that’s not how I’m supposed to approach our sessions. I shouldn’t be thinking about her perspective. I should be more focused on mine.
It’s just that I made him sound like he was a predator.
I wish I hadn’t done that. What I was trying to say was that in retrospect, I was naive, and my eighteen-year-old judgment was questionable.
What I said was more about me than it was about him.
Yes, it’s odd that I felt safe with a guy I’d just met.
But that’s all. I didn’t mean to suggest that Ben himself wasn’t a safe person, or that it was a mistake to trust him specifically.
He and I dated for five years. He was trustworthy. The problem was me.
He used to text me on the nights we spent apart: Are you home safe, dove?
He met me after my night classes so I wouldn’t have to walk across campus alone in the dark.
When we went out drinking with my girlfriends, he intervened when men made them uncomfortable, and he always made sure they had a safe way home.
I loved him. When you’re with someone for a long time, living in a shared space, drinking from the same coffee-stained mugs, you feel familial.
For a long time, I knew Ben as well as I knew my family members.
I didn’t love him in that romantic, passionate way a girlfriend is supposed to love her boyfriend, but I did love him.
I might have married him if I were straight. I felt demonic breaking up with him. I considered staying with him until I was dead, rather than endure the guilt I felt for wasting years of his life, abandoning him. He and I talked about dying together—
I wince. There it is again. Ben is dead.
My face tightens. Tears well in my eyes.
I wake up with my hair matted to the back of my head. I didn’t comb it after my bath last night. I crawled from the tub to my bed like that cursed girl from The Ring, took a sleeping pill, and passed out.
I don’t know what time it is now. I think it’s morning. Lou and Toulouse are both on my chest. I look at my phone.
There are six replies to my Instagram story. That’s odd.
WE CAN SEE YOUR NAKED REFLECTION IN THE TAP.
HEY, JUST LETTING YOU KNOW THERE’S A REFLECTION IN THE TAP.
I open the story, and there it is. My contorted nude body holding my phone out to take a picture of my bath bomb. Three hundred and thirty-two people have viewed the picture.