Chapter 18
Grace
Ihurry down the hallway, away from Nate. The bedroom doesn’t have a lock on the door, but I close it firmly. This space already feels like a refuge, despite being the very spot where he—
Last night. Tonight.
I put his dark promises of negotiation from my mind as I seat myself at the desk.
Even though I don’t like to admit it, Nate was right about one thing: I do want a few pieces of my past brought up from Dunedin.
So I open the list one more time and select the second-hand treasures I collected furtively throughout the years of my marriage.
They’ll be the start of the changes I’ll make to Horseshoe Manor.
I use my finger to sign the bottom of the list, then send it back to Nate.
I spend some time catching up on a few texts and social media posts, wondering vaguely if Nate has, in fact, put spyware on my phone. Whatever it might be, it’s invisible. I consider a factory reset as a cautionary measure, but hold off. I could bring that up tonight, instead—maybe as leverage.
And maybe I’ll tell him that having the bullet journal without my pens is like having a computer without a keyboard.
I smile at his lapse, enjoying the fact that, though part of me wants to, I won’t document a thing until the pens arrive.
If Nate doesn’t agree to give me some privacy, the journal will be unopened, a time capsule with nothing new for him to scrape.
I review the past few days in the journal, continuing the pattern in my mind: yesterday will have to remain orange, but today is a strange one.
Less physical pain, though the air hunger…
I test my lungs. Heavy. But not painful this afternoon.
The pain is within my mind, a shade of yellow that could go orange alongside the images of Nick’s broken body.
It occurs to me that I can use my phone to call Constable Tim.
Or my mother. Or even Mihi. I smile, thinking of the latter.
Before I came back to Nate, Mihi demanded a standing morning walk with Shep on the beach.
I’m already looking forward to tomorrow.
My phone buzzes, startling me badly. I look at the screen.
Mother.
She’s calling me.
The phone falls to the desk with a clatter and I’m on my feet before I realise what I’ve done.
The chair wobbles, almost tipping. I barely hear the door open.
My lungs hurt, aching to fill, and Nate steps neatly around me to grab the phone.
His eyes lock on mine after he sees the name on the screen.
“Want me to get this?”
I nod. He sends me a swift, approving smile before he answers the phone.
“Constance,” he says, voice almost bored.
Mother’s voice is a shrill outpouring, but Nate doesn’t flinch. He lets her go on for a full minute.
“Yes,” he drawls, “I’m aware there are movers taking things out of the townhouse today—at Grace’s behest.” He pauses, listening as she replies. “Hang on, I’ll ask her.” He holds the phone outwards, the screen and microphone facing me. “Do you want to talk to your mother, Grace?”
“No!”
I say it before I can stop myself.
Then I realise what I’ve done—what he’s done.
Nate beams as he continues speaking to Mother, but I can’t hear him. Instead, I hear my own rapid breaths. I just confirmed everything. I am here with Nate. I am rejecting her.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, trying to keep my feet. I cannot have a repeat of my panic attack from this morning. Not in front of Nate.
When his voice comes again, it’s accompanied by his arms, enfolding me. “You did so well just now. Do you know that?”
I shake my head, tears falling, breaths heaving.
“I’m proud of you. I’ve blocked her number so you don’t have to see her pop up anymore.”
His voice seems to unbind my lungs, his body a reassuring coil of warmth around mine. I am a filament, glowing bright with pain even as oxygen fills me to the brim. My tears slow as I breathe. He murmurs encouragement and I want to push him away, call Mother back and—
“This is how it feels when someone loves you.” His arms tighten as he senses my resistance. “And you’re going to learn to let me love you, just like this.”
“You,” I take another breath, my lungs finally filling properly, “blocked her?”
“I did. Does that make you feel safer, Grace?”
His ability to read my thoughts should infuriate me all over again. I can only nod.
“Smart girl,” he says, giving me a last squeeze before turning away.
“What if—” I take another breath, trying to stand up straighter. “What if she finds another way to contact me?”
“You let me worry about that, love. It’s time for your appointment with Eileen.”
I shake my head. “I’m a mess, Nate. Maybe I could lie down instead and we could reschedule the appointment?”
“Eileen fit you in at essentially no notice because she knows what I know: this is the most crucial time we’ll have to help you. You can rest afterwards. I promise.”
“Nate, seriously, it’ll be pointless if I’m half-dead anyway—”
“Hey,” his hand rakes into my hair, tipping my head back. “Don’t fucking talk like that, Grace. Even if you give one-word answers to Eileen’s questions, it’ll count. Want me to sit in, after all?”
My shoulders slump as I realise there is no way to put this off. “No. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure will be.” He hands me the closed laptop. “This is all set. Eileen will call in a minute or two. I’ll be in my office. You come and get me if you need me, all right?”
I nod, dejected and exhausted, but determined to keep this one medical line in place between the two of us. Nate guides me back to the desk—I refuse to think of it as my desk—and seats me gently. Then he leaves me alone.
The laptop chimes with a call. I answer, wishing I felt more prepared for this.
A woman’s face appears on the screen, and I enlarge it, blocking out my own image quickly.
I don’t need to see the evidence of what an absolutely shit day I’m having.
I try to smile for this new woman, this doctor who has carved out time for me at no notice, and who immediately looks concerned.
She’s grey-haired and rather wispy, her eyes magnified slightly by wire-rimmed glasses.
The only makeup I can detect on her face is bright red lipstick.
“Hi, are you Grace?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Are you all right to talk? I know you’ve been through some terrible ordeals the last day or so.”
I shake my head. “I think we’d best get this over with. God, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it like that, but I’m—I’m at a lot of loose ends right now, Doctor.”
“Call me Eileen. And I want to tell you first and foremost how sorry I am for your loss, Grace. You and Nate have both been in my thoughts.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, realising that I mean it. Her sincerity is unmistakable in a quiet way I find soothing. “It’s been very hard.”
“Let me know if you need a break at any time. I’ve cleared my schedule this afternoon, so we can take this nice and slow.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, wondering how much inconvenience Nate has caused this woman on my behalf.
“Sure as cabbages.” She smiles, her glasses magnifying deep crow’s feet.
“Nate told me enough about you that I feel invested in your case already. In fact, I had to stop him from telling me too much at times, just to keep my professional lines intact. I already know you’re exactly the kind of patient who needs my help the most.”
I feel myself shrink a little. “Why?”
I don’t like the idea of Nate either telling this woman too much about me, or her seeing me more clearly than I would have anticipated.
“Well, many of my patients come to me as something of a last resort. I tend to get the edge cases that make other physicians uncomfortable.” Her smile deepens, her voice warming.
“And most of us integrative specialists have, shall we say, interesting medical histories of our own. We know what it’s like to be dismissed from doctor to doctor, or else to be given non-diagnoses that lead to medications or therapies we either don’t want or can’t take.
Has your experience been a bit like that, Grace? ”
“Yes,” I admit. “I was diagnosed with functional somatic disorder a long time ago, and one of my doctors has been considering me for a Chronic Fatigue diagnosis, but that’s stalled out.”
Her lips purse as she nods. “My approach, Grace, will be to listen to you and then, together, we’ll try to find the underlying cause of your symptoms. For example, Nate has told me that you might have undiagnosed food intolerances.
We could run a battery of allergy tests, but it’ll be just as important to track your diet and history.
That way, we can triangulate some measurable data and improve your life as soon as possible. Make sense?”
“I was already cleared of Coeliac,” I say, feeling I should bring it up. “But Nate thinks I have it, so he won’t let—” I pause, correcting myself, “he doesn’t want me to have gluten.”
“Setting aside his opinions, what do you think?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, my stomach twinging.
“Well, that’s a good place to start. I don’t have access to your medical records just yet, so we can do a rundown of what you remember of your history. How does that sound, Grace?”
I shrug, feeling worried. Mother always answered these types of questions—including at my most recent appointments.
I take a breath and force myself to answer. “A doctor suspected Coeliac when I was really sick during secondary school.”
“Do you remember what age you were, Grace?”
“Yes, I was thirteen. It was around the time I got my first period, so I remember it pretty clearly.”
Her smile turns thoughtful. “That, unfortunately, is a classic time for many girls to have their first autoimmune symptoms. Why did the doctors think you might have Coeliac?”
“I kept going to the hospital with stomach problems. They said it was an atypical presentation for a bunch of illnesses because I was healthy in between really bad bouts, so they tested me for Coeliac as a first step.”
“I see. Did the testing include an intestinal biopsy?”