Chapter 32 Now
Now
Dimple
So, this is awkward. Unmistakably, undeniably, teeth-clenchingly painful.
The receptionist is looking at me like I’m a piece of gum she’s had to scrape off her shoe.
After the scene I caused last time, I’m not surprised.
The other therapist in this office has clearly also come to the desk with a query but has stopped to watch the wreckage of whatever this is.
Both were an unwilling audience to my performance the other day, vile words ricocheting around what is meant to be a calm and safe space.
“I’m sorry,” I say for the fourteenth time. “It’s just, if—if there’s any kind of gap in her schedule today, I’d really like to apologize in person.”
I’ve taken the day off work. Used my married-to-the-boss privileges to pull a no-questions-asked sickie; I might as well use them for as long as he can still stand to have me working with him.
James and I didn’t say much to each other last night when we got home.
Haven’t said much to each other this morning, either.
It feels like the next words I say to him will be very important, and I don’t know how to choose them.
What happened last night was beyond my comprehension.
Yesterday felt like a collapsing domino line of bad news, and now I’m crushed under the weight of it all.
But I don’t need to be a victim of my circumstance. I can take some power back. First, by righting the wrong of my misplaced anger. Dimple didn’t deserve my vitriol. And it’s not like me to care what people think unless I can use it in some way. But Dimple’s different. I care a lot.
The secretary taps her fingernails against the desk, fires some characters into her computer, then looks back at me. “I’m sorry. If you’d like to call to schedule an additional appointment, we can arrange a time for you at a later date.”
My automatic response sits sourly on my tongue, waiting. My mouth twists around its lemon sharpness and swallows it. Now isn’t the time for acerbic retorts.
“Really, I know I was a mess yesterday evening, and once more, you have my deepest apologies for the scene I caused. If Dimple’s diary is fully blocked out, I totally understand, but if she has a spare slot and is willing to see me, I’d gladly pay to take it just so that I can deliver my apology in person. ”
The other therapist, pinned up graying hair and loose shawl, is pursing her lips at me. I fear I’m making yet another scene.
“Actually, never mind,” I say, cursing this car crash of an idea. “It’s fine. Again, I’m so sorry for yesterday, and sorry to have disturbed you this morning. I’ll just—”
The phone on the receptionist’s desk rings once, twice. She picks up the receiver. As I turn away, I notice a curious look settling on her features. She flashes her eyes up at me.
“Are you sure?” she asks. A pause. “Okay. Fine, I’ll send her in.”
My heart lifts.
“You’re in luck. Dr. Das has had a cancellation this morning. She’ll see you now.”
I don’t need to perform my gratitude; it’s an immediate huge weight off my shoulders. “Thank you so much.”
I’m walking to Dimple’s door when she opens it. She looks elegant in her at once soft, loose, and structured clothing. Her hand beckons me in, but the set of her jaw is tight, face pinched. It’s anything but welcoming. I can’t blame her.
“Come in,” she says.
“Thank you.”
The door clicks shut as I make my way to my usual seat. It all feels oddly formal. I watch Dimple take hers, a deep breath directed at her lap. She looks up at me and adjusts her glasses.
“How can I help you today?”
I’m sure I’m not imagining the absence of warmth in her words. It had felt like we were on the same team before, but now it’s like I’ve broken something between us.
“I won’t take up too much of your time. I just wanted to apologize…For yesterday, I mean.”
Her face is remarkably still. I can tell she is working hard to remain a blank canvas. I wonder how much strain it’s causing her.
“Really,” I continue. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even remember everything I said, but I should never have raised my voice at you, never have caused a scene. Not only was it entirely inappropriate, but it was unfair. You were just trying to help. You’ve always just been trying to help.”
Dimple’s face remains a smooth mask. “Why do you think you reacted so strongly in our last session?”
Formal, emotionless. I suppose that’s fair.
She’s here to do a job. “I suppose…I suppose my relationship with my sister is precious to me. I’ve lost a lot in my life, been hurt a lot.
She’s the only person who’s consistently been good to me, and…
and I guess it felt a little like you were trying to take her away.
” Dimple remains unmoved. “But that’s not to excuse my actions.
Really. I know you say my feelings are valid, but I also know I don’t get to act any which way because of them. I should have known better. I’m sorry.”
She nods once, a half smile on her face. Well, I call it a “half smile”—it’s more a British tightening of one corner of her mouth. But it’s better than nothing. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”
Relief floods me for the second time that morning. “Thank you. I’m glad.” I scan the room, rub my legs. “That was it, I guess. I don’t want to take up any more of your time. But like I said to Sarah outside, you can bill me for the full hour.”
I’m already out of the seat when Dimple speaks. “If you’re paying for the full hour, you might as well stay.”
This catches me by surprise. It’s not remotely in my plan. Get in, apologize, get out. Stew in inner turmoil. That’s the deal I’ve made with myself.
“Well?” Dimple asks, gesturing to the seat.
I sit. I always do what Dimple tells me to do. Or, at least, I feel that way. “Well, what do you want to talk about?” I ask.
“I’m curious as to how you’re processing what I raised at the end of our last session. You had an initial reaction, which you’ve apologized for, but how are you feeling now?”
My tongue prods around my gums. I’m not sure where to start.
“I’m not sure where to start.”
Dimple narrows her eyes, offers her familiar head tilt, and then says, “Do you still feel directly responsible for what happened to your exes?”
Pride blocks my airway. It stings to admit the answer, but I cough it out nonetheless.
“No. I don’t. I…My mother…I…We spoke. Briefly.
It’s obvious that she knew all along. I suppose I can’t blame her for not knowing that I blamed myself for all of it.
But if she’d just told me the truth…” I lean forward, elbows on knees, palms against closed eyes, pushing down until it starts to hurt and patterns spark across the darkness.
“So you saw your mother?”
I shake my head. “No, we spoke on the phone.” The pain in the darkness begins to intensify.
“Natalie.”
I take my hands away and sit up straight. Dimple remains unreadable. “So, to be clear, you do believe it was your sister who was responsible for what happened to Marc, Luca, and George?”
I nod. “I’m not sure how, but yes.”
“And how does this news about Claire make you feel?”
I suck air into my lungs and blow it out, chest heavy. “Beyond the crushing betrayal, I feel relief, I suppose, but…”
Dimple waits for me to fill the opened space with words. She’s good at waiting, but today, it seems she’d prefer not to. “But what?” she pushes me on.
“But I thought I’d feel more different, knowing I’m not a killer. And yet…I don’t know. Should my impulses, these dark thoughts, should they have gone? Because I’m not sure that they completely have. And if they haven’t, then what exactly is it that’s wrong with me?”