Chapter 7
Seven
Dr. D’Antoni always kept a box of tissues on the coffee table in her office between the stack of Psychology Today magazines and a small plastic basket of stress balls and sensory trinkets.
We typically weren’t tissue people, but Nikki leaned forward in the cushy armchair she sat in and picked up one of the squishy sensory toys with little dots you could pop like bubble wrap.
It was clear Dr. D’Antoni made an effort to make her office a cozy space for her patients, but the couch Mom and I sat on felt too worn and too lived in, and I was almost afraid I wouldn’t be able to get up when we were done.
“It’s important that you talk about what happened this week,” Dr. D’Antoni said to Nikki, who kept her head down as she flipped the little popping dots back and forth on the sensory toy. Her pink zip-up hoodie hung off her shoulder, bony and protruding through her T-shirt.
Mom and I had a vague understanding of the topic of conversation today since she had spoken with Dr. D’Antoni earlier, but that didn’t change the way my stomach jumped into my throat in anticipation.
“Nothing’s happened.” Nikki shrugged. “I’m just living the dream here, what with the gourmet meals and the constant attention and tending to. It’s like I’m at a five-star resort.”
“It’s okay to be frustrated, Nikki. But you can talk to us.” Mom reached over and put her hand on top of Nikki’s. “Who’s going to understand better than me and your sister?”
Nikki finally brought her eyes to mine, and she squished her face up like she was trying to clog the pipeline of tears before it burst. “But you don’t understand. If you skip a meal, that’s okay, you’re just not hungry. But if I skip a meal, it’s nuclear fucking meltdown, and everyone’s gonna die.”
Drama had been and always would be a linchpin of Nikki’s personality.
She did theater all through middle school to high school, and everything in her life was a show.
In fact, she was such a good actress that she’d fooled us into thinking she was okay for as long as she had.
But this was not the Dolby Theatre, this was her psychiatrist’s eucalyptus- and lavender-smelling office, and my sister’s dramatics made me squirm uncomfortably in the deep cushions of the couch.
Dr. D’Antoni, being the professional she was, took notice.
“Natalie.” She addressed me in a soothing, even tone. “When you hear Nikki talk about her treatment and recovery like that, how does that make you feel?”
It made me want to scream and shake Nikki until whatever chemical imbalance in her brain was knocked loose, reverting her back to the person she’d been before all of this.
Instead, I said, “I wished she took it more seriously, sometimes.”
Here I was, telling her to take it more seriously, when I was clogging up my own feelings, too, not taking it seriously in my own way.
“All the sarcasm and deflecting is because she’s still not really accepting of what’s happened and why,” I continued. “So then how can she even begin to get better if she’s still in denial?”
Nikki lurched forward in the armchair beside me. “That’s rude. I learned sarcasm and deflecting from you.”
While that wasn’t directly true, Nikki certainly hadn’t been the sarcastic sister of us two—not until she was really in the depths of her disease and it was her way of answering questions about her long trips to the bathroom and her change in appetite.
Mom gently touched my forearm as I was winding up a response, and it was just enough time for Dr. D’Antoni to step in to extinguish the fuming tension.
“Okay.” Dr. D’Antoni gave us both a calm nod.
“I hear both of you. Natalie, I’m hearing that you’re frustrated because you want to see Nikki engaging more seriously with her recovery.
And Nikki, I’m hearing that you think the way you are currently handling things isn’t being validated, which feels unfair. ”
Nikki leaned back into the armchair with a sigh. “Life isn’t fair, is it?”
“Okay, that’s not—” I paused when I realized I was about to say fair and give credence to exactly what she was saying. In any other scene in my life, it would have almost been funny. “It’s not that you don’t have a right to go about your recovery in your own way, but—”
“But I’m not doing things your way,” she muttered, and her words were like sandbags on my chest.
I exhaled slowly, trying to recenter myself. “Nikki, I understand this is hard for you. Really, I do. But maybe if you start taking it a little more seriously, you might find that everything else starts to come easier.”
“Your sister makes a great point,” Mom added. “All we want is for you to feel better.”
A stagnant pause filled the air. Dr. D’Antoni was only a guide in these family therapy sessions—Emotional Focused Family Therapy, she called it—and she’d only speak when she felt it was truly necessary, meaning she intentionally wanted us to marinate in the silence.
Silence forced you to hear your thoughts.
“I’m not in denial, you know.” Nikki’s fingers tensed around the little sensory toy, then flicked one of the dots back and forth with a faint popping sound.
She sighed again and pulled her knees up into her chest, curling inward like a turtle would for warmth and protection.
“But sometimes, no matter what I say or do, it feels wrong.”
I exhaled again, feeling the weight on my chest ease up slightly.
“Well, that’s not true, Nikki. I—” I forced myself to pause and to sit in the uncomfortable silence like I was sure Dr. D’Antoni wanted instead of rushing to give an explanation.
“I don’t know how to help because sometimes it feels like you don’t want me to. ”
Dr. D’Antoni nodded and turned back to Nikki. “What do you think of what Natalie said?”
Nikki pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of her hoodie. “She’s disappointed in me.”
I shook my head. “No. Not at all. Sometimes I get frustrated, but I’m not mad or disappointed.” My throat tightened, but the confession squeezed past the tense desire to keep it together because I thought that would fix everything. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Finally her fingers stilled. She pressed her lips together into a faint frown, and signs of the emotion she had been trying to tamp down flickered over her face.
She looked away, staring hard at the painting of an oyster shell on the wall on the other side of the room, like if she focused on something else long enough, the moment would pass and we’d move on.
Mom let out a quiet breath, her voice gentle. “Nikki, honey, we’re here with you.”
Nikki kept quiet, her response coming in the form of a slow nod. She swallowed, still staring at that distant spot on the wall.
Dr. D’Antoni let the silence hang in the air again for a few moments before speaking up, her tone unwaveringly calm.
“There’s a lot to process here, but this is good, Nikki.
This is hard, and the instinct is to joke or deflect because it makes dealing with the situation easier.
But I also want you to notice what happens when you don’t.
” She paused and gestured to me and Mom.
“See what happens when you allow yourself to hear that the people who love you are here for you.”
Nikki exhaled slowly. “I’m trying.”
It was the first time she’d said that word in these sessions. Trying. Trying was a start. Trying was good. I’d take trying.
>> <<
Mom made millionaire spaghetti that night, and it wasn’t lost on me that it was a meal Nikki used to love and beg for when we were growing up.
I sat at the kitchen island, where most of the painter’s tape and tarp were now gone, and all that was left was soft baby-blue paint drying on all the cabinets.
“Well, that went about as well as it could have,” she said as she scooped a chunk of spaghetti and sauce onto my plate. “Given the circumstances.”
“Dr. D’Antoni said it was a minor regression,” I added, stabbing the pasta with my fork. “But regression is regression, isn’t it?”
Mom leaned against the island, electing to stand while she ate. “According to her, minor regressions like skipping a meal here and there are normal. It’s almost impossible for people with mental health conditions like that to shut it off. They’re habits, and we have to be understanding of that.”
“Even though that makes sense, it doesn’t make it feel any less shitty.”
Mom looked up at me with a soft smile. “You’re being too hard on yourself, Nat. You’ve been a fixer your whole life, so it’s in your nature to want to fix what’s going on with her, but it’s not that simple. You have to let her try and fix herself, and you can only be there to support her.”
Gracie sat at my feet and huffed out a weary sigh. Sleeping all day must have been so hard for her. Normally I would have given her some spaghetti, but Mom was taking her to the vet tomorrow for a checkup, and spaghetti was not an ideal part of a dog’s diet, no matter how old and needy they were.
“I know that.” The words escaped in a soft breath.
Mom stood upright and shrugged. “That’s all you can do for now.”
After we ate and moved to the couch to watch Bake Off, my mind wandered to Brooklyn. Did he have the kind of setbacks Nikki had? Did his sister worry like I did?
As if the universe was broadcasting my thoughts, my phone lit up with a text from him.
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): you working tomorrow?
I smiled to myself as I typed up a response.
NAT: depends, are you planning on playing Jenga with my new paperback releases again?
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): that was going great until you breathed on it
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): maybe I just need you to do your job and recommend another sick book
“Who are you texting?”
I snapped my gaze up to see Mom trying—and failing—to be discreet about leaning over and trying to peek at my phone screen while she balanced precariously on our squishy couch cushions and pile of blankets.
“Nobody.” I shot her a sideways glance as I scooted away from her.
For a moment I thought she’d let it go, but as Netflix transitioned to the next episode, she casually chirped, “Could it maybe be the friend you met for coffee last weekend?”
The word friend flicked off her tongue tauntingly, and she knew it, too, as her lips lifted into a coy little smirk.
“Okay, maybe.” I shrugged, settling back farther into the couch. “You know, you should be happy I’m making friends.”
“I am, I am.” She held up her hands in defense. “So, what’s his name?”
“Who said it’s a he?”
“Your face,” she teased with another smirk.
And as if my face could give me away any more, I was sure it was now flushed and red.
I couldn’t let her know about Brooklyn without running the gambit on who he was and how we met, and lying—especially to Mom—was never my strong suit.
“Regardless of gender, he’s only a friend,” I explained, and at the very least, that wasn’t an outright lie.
“I am glad you’re making friends.”
But as soon as she finally diverted her attention back to the Bake Off episode we were watching, I pulled out my phone (more discreetly this time) to respond to his texts.
NAT: I barter good recommendations for iced coffee
I was kind of joking, but his response came lightning fast.
brOOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge): you got a deal