Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“Yes! Because, you know, we have Megan, and safety is so important, and we just want to make sure that the—the cars—they’re going at appropriate speeds. For the area. Which is residential. Very residential. Extremely residential. The most residential area that’s ever existed.”
Another sound from inside. This one sounded like something being dragged across the floor.
Something heavy.
What the hell are they doing in there?
Are they moving furniture?
“And the sidewalks!” I continued, my voice getting higher.
“They’re very well-maintained. We walk on them frequently.
Megan and I. We walk. On the sidewalks. Because they’re safe.
And well-maintained. Did I mention that already?
I feel like I mentioned that already. But it’s worth mentioning twice because they’re very well-maintained.
Like, impressively well-maintained. Award-winning sidewalks, really. ”
Gabriel’s jaw was ticking.
That little muscle that only ticked when he was trying very hard not to react to something.
Ms. Rodriguez was writing more notes.
Oh God, she’s writing down that I’m insane.
She’s writing, “Wife is clearly unhinged and possibly on drugs.”
She’s writing, “Wife has an unhealthy obsession with sidewalk maintenance.”
“The neighborhood is very family-friendly,” Gabriel interjected, his voice steady and calm and completely normal. “Good schools, low crime rate, plenty of parks nearby.”
“Yes!” I latched onto that like a drowning person grabbing a life preserver.
“Parks! We love parks. We go to parks all the time. Megan loves the swings. And the slides. And the—the other park things. Equipment. Park equipment. All of it. Every piece of park equipment that exists. She’s very enthusiastic about recreational structures. ”
Stop talking, Cate.
Stop talking right now.
You’re making it worse.
You’re ALWAYS making it worse.
A crash from inside, followed quickly by Fitz clearly saying, “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU WANKER!” before someone—probably Hayden—shushed him violently.
Ms. Rodriguez’s pen paused on the clipboard. “Is everything alright in there?”
No.
Nothing is alright.
Everything is the opposite of all right.
Everything is WRONG.
“Oh, that’s just—” I scrambled for an explanation. “Our friends! Gabriel’s colleagues. They stopped by to—to—”
Why are four grown men in our house right now?
Think of a reason.
Any reason.
A GOOD reason.
“—help with some furniture!” I finished triumphantly.
“We’re rearranging. The furniture. Because we like to keep things fresh.
And organized. Very organized. We’re very organized people who occasionally rearrange furniture with the help of four medical professionals.
Which is totally normal. Lots of people do that. Probably.”
Gabriel’s hand was now gripping mine hard enough to cut off circulation as his thumb pressed against my pulse point.
A warning.
I’m not helping.
I’m making it worse.
Why am I like this?
“I see,” Ms. Rodriguez said, making another note.
She’s writing, “Furniture rearranging story is obviously fake.”
She’s writing, “Wife is a terrible liar who should never be allowed near children.”
She’s writing, “Recommend immediate removal of child from home.”
“And the house!” I continued because apparently, I had lost all control of my mouth and my brain had left the building entirely.
“We love the house. It’s such a great house.
Very... housey. With rooms. Multiple rooms. For different purposes.
Like a kitchen for cooking, and a living room for living, and bedrooms for—for sleeping. And other bedroom activities.”
Did I just say “OTHER BEDROOM ACTIVITIES” to a social worker?
Did I just imply SEX to Child Protective Services?
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die right here on this doorstep.
Gabriel made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been him dying inside.
His hand was definitely cutting off my circulation now.
“That’s... standard for most houses,” Ms. Rodriguez said carefully, her expression suggesting she was reconsidering her career choices.
“Right! Yes! Standard! We’re very standard. Completely normal. Just a normal family doing normal things in our normal house with our normal furniture that we’re currently rearranging with medical professionals. For normal reasons. Very normal, standard reasons that normal people have.”
Please stop talking.
Please, please, PLEASE stop talking.
Another thud from inside.
Then the distinct sound of water running.
Are they doing the dishes?
Are they doing the dishes right now?
“You know what’s funny?” I said, my voice reaching a pitch that probably only dogs could hear.
“I had this dream last night. Well, not last night. I’ve been having this dream for a while, actually.
It’s a recurring dream. Very recurring. It recurs frequently.
Like, an alarming amount of recurring for one dream. ”
“Cate.” Gabriel’s voice held a warning.
A very clear warning.
A “please for the love of God stop talking” warning.
But I couldn’t stop.
The anxiety had taken over and my mouth was just... going.
Like a runaway train.
A runaway train full of terrible decisions and poor word choices.
“It’s about a ninja,” I continued, watching Ms. Rodriguez’s expression shift from professional interest to mild concern to what might have been fascination.
“A masked ninja. With a butter knife. Which I know sounds weird, but in the dream it makes perfect sense. He’s very skilled with the butter knife.
Like, impressively skilled. Professionally skilled.
If there were butter knife competitions, he would win. Easily.”
Ms. Rodriguez was staring at me now.
Really staring.
The kind of staring that suggested she was mentally composing her report.
“Subject appears to be having a psychotic break.”
“And he’s shirtless,” I added, because apparently I had a death wish. “Which seems impractical for a ninja, but again, dream logic. Maybe he’s trying to intimidate people with his abs. Which are very impressive. The abs. In the dream. Very defined. Very... abdominal.”
Did I just say, “very abdominal”?
Is that even a word?
I’m having a stroke.
I’m having an actual stroke on my doorstep in front of a social worker.
“Cate.” Gabriel’s voice was strained.
Very strained.
The kind of strain that suggested he was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
“And the thing is,” I barreled on, because stopping now would somehow be worse than continuing, “I think the dream is trying to tell me something. About my subconscious. Or my anxiety. Or possibly my relationship with breakfast foods. I haven’t quite figured it out yet.
But it’s very persistent. The dream. And the ninja.
He’s very persistent. He shows up at least three times a week. Sometimes more if I’m stressed.”
From inside, I heard Megan’s voice: “Uncle Fitz, why are you putting all my toys in the closet?”
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
“We’re organizing!” Fitz’s voice, slightly muffled and slightly panicked. “It’s a surprise organization party!”
“I love surprises!” Megan said, her voice bright with excitement.
“That’s great, sweetie!” Fitz said too enthusiastically. “Let’s organize all the toys! In the closet! Right now! Post haste!”
Ms. Rodriguez’s eyebrows rose. Both of them. High.
She’s suspicious.
She’s very suspicious.
She knows something’s wrong.
“Perhaps we should go inside?” she suggested.
“NO!” I said, too quickly, too loudly. “I mean—not yet. Because I haven’t finished telling you about the ninja.
See, the interesting part is that he keeps appearing in different scenarios.
Sometimes he’s in a kitchen. Sometimes he’s in a dojo.
Once he was in a grocery store, which was really confusing because you don’t typically associate ninjas with produce sections—”
“Cate.” Gabriel’s voice was very quiet. Very controlled. The kind of controlled that meant he was absolutely losing it internally. “Maybe we should…”
“—but the MOST interesting part,” I continued, because apparently I had a death wish and was determined to see it through, “is that I think the ninja might represent my fear of inadequacy. Or possibly my attraction to dangerous men. Or maybe just my general anxiety about everything. It’s hard to say.
Dreams are very complex. Very symbolic. Very—very full of meaning that requires extensive analysis. ”
I was spiraling.
I could feel myself spiraling.
But I couldn’t stop.
“Like, in one dream, he was teaching a cooking class. With the butter knife. Which doesn’t make sense because you can’t really teach cooking with just a butter knife, but he was very confident about it.
Very authoritative. And shirtless. Still shirtless.
Always shirtless. I don’t know why my subconscious is so committed to the shirtless thing, but it’s very consistent about it. ”
Ms. Rodriguez was writing furiously now.
Gabriel’s jaw was so tight I was worried he might crack a tooth.
His hand was still gripping mine, but now his thumb was rubbing small circles on my palm.
Either a comfort gesture or a “please stop before I have a stroke” gesture.
Possibly both.
“And then there was the dream where he was at a parent-teacher conference,” I continued, my voice getting higher and faster.
“Which was VERY confusing because why would a ninja be at a parent-teacher conference? But he was there, with his butter knife, and he was very concerned about standardized testing. Very passionate about education reform. Still shirtless.”
Why am I still talking?
Why can’t I stop talking?
Someone please make me stop talking!
“The symbolism is really quite fascinating when you think about it,” I said, my hands gesturing wildly now.
“Because the butter knife could represent feeling inadequately prepared for life’s challenges.
Like, you’re going into battle, but all you have is a butter knife.
Which is not a real weapon. It’s barely even a utensil.
It’s more of a suggestion of a utensil.”
From inside, something else crashed.
Then Hayden’s voice: “It’s fine! Everything’s fine! Just a... a lamp!”
“WE DON’T HAVE A LAMP THERE!” Nathan hissed back.
“WE DO NOW!”
Ms. Rodriguez glanced at the door again, then back at me.
Her expression was unreadable.
Professional.
Terrifying.
“Or maybe,” I continued desperately, “the butter knife represents my feelings about breakfast. Because I do eat a lot of toast. An excessive amount of toast, really. My cardiologist would probably be concerned. If I had a cardiologist. Which I don’t.
Because I’m very healthy. Very fit. I walk on sidewalks frequently, as I mentioned. ”
Oh God.
Oh God, I’m talking about toast now.
I’ve gone from ninjas to toast.
This is my life.
This is how I’m going to lose Megan.
Because I can’t stop talking about my shirtless ninja dreams and my toast consumption.
“That’s... interesting,” Ms. Rodriguez said finally, her pen still moving across her clipboard.
“ISN’T IT?” I practically shouted. “I think so too! I’ve been trying to analyze it.
The symbolism. Because obviously a butter knife isn’t a real weapon, so maybe it represents something else.
Like feeling inadequately prepared for life’s challenges.
Or possibly just that I eat a lot of toast. Did I mention the toast?
I feel like I mentioned the toast. But it’s worth mentioning again because it’s REALLY a lot of toast. Like, a concerning amount of toast.”
Gabriel’s hand tightened even more.
I was definitely going to lose feeling in my fingers.
“Sometimes I wonder if the ninja is actually trying to tell me to diversify my breakfast options,” I continued, because apparently I was determined to dig this hole all the way to China.
“Like, maybe my subconscious is concerned about my carb intake. Or my lack of protein in the morning. Or possibly my relationship with gluten. It’s very hard to say.
Dream interpretation is not an exact science. ”
Ms. Rodriguez was still writing.
Still watching me with that professional, evaluating expression.
She thinks I’m insane.
She knows I’m insane.
She’s going to recommend a psychological evaluation.
For me and Gabriel for marrying someone this insane.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Gabriel’s buzzed at the same time.
We both pulled them out.
Fitz: Coast is clear. House is presentable. Please stop whatever Cate is doing out there. PLEASE. We can hear her from inside. Is she talking about toast?
I looked up at Gabriel.
He looked at me.
His expression said, “We’re going to talk about the ninja dream later.”
And also, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
And possibly, “I’m reconsidering this entire marriage.”
My expression said, “Please don’t make me go inside and face what I’ve just done.”
And also, “I’m so sorry.”
And definitely, “I don’t know why I’m like this.”
“Well,” Gabriel said, his voice remarkably steady considering I’d just told a social worker about my shirtless ninja dreams and my problematic relationship with breakfast carbs, “shall we go inside? I think the furniture rearranging should be finished by now.”
His tone was so normal.
So calm.
Like I hadn’t just had a complete psychological breakdown on our doorstep.
“Yes,” Ms. Rodriguez said, still looking at me like I was a particularly interesting psychological case study that she would be discussing with her colleagues for years to come. “Let’s do that.”
Gabriel opened the door.
I held my breath.
Please let it be clean. Please let there be no glitter. Please let there be no evidence that we’re complete disasters who built teepees in dining rooms and stress-baked at three AM.
Please let Fitz have hidden all the flour. Please let there be no broken china visible.
Please.
Gabriel squeezed my hand one more time.
A final warning.
Or maybe a promise.
We’re in this together, even though you just told a social worker about your toast consumption.
I squeezed back.
I’m sorry.
I’m so, so sorry.
I don’t know why I’m like this.
We stepped inside.