The ice castles themselves were magnificent, just like in the pictures she had clicked through online last night after they arrived at their cabin. Now, Anne watched her daughter drag her feet through the ice castle. Thea kept her distance from the character mascots, especially the plushy moose (or was it a reindeer?) asking for a high five, but as she wandered through the maze of ice, she perked up a little, skimming her fingers against the ice walls and watching water spurt out of a hole in the ground with some other kids. Thea loved water when she was little. Anne had called her water bug because no matter what the season, Thea wanted to be in water, even before she knew how to swim. She would beg to wear her swimsuit every day and some days Anne would relent, letting her wear a pink flamingo bathing suit underneath her school clothes.
“Mommy! I can’t wait to grow up!” Thea yelled when she was three years old, an age where everything that came out of her mouth was a burst of magic; Anne never knew what she would say next and found herself almost constantly amused by the workings of her daughter’s mind.
“Why do you want to grow up?” Anne had nudged.
“So that I can swim with horses. I am so excited to swim with horses!” Thea jumped up and down, gleeful in this sudden realization that growing up might involve swimming with horses.
Anne laughed out loud at this memory, grateful that such a small moment had found its way back into her head nine years later. Rose looked at her and smiled. “What?”
“I was just remembering something Thea said when she was a toddler.” Anne paused. “Do you remember how Dad taught Thea to swim in one day when she was . . . what? Three and a half?”
“Of course I do. He took her to the community center pool and she came home saying she’d jumped off the diving board. I just about had a heart attack.” Rose laughed. “Ah, the toddler years. They were the best of times, they were the worst—” Rose stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up . . .”
“Mom”—she forced a smile—“it’s fine. Those years were rough for all of us.” She glanced at her mother. “But look.” She pointed to Thea. “We’re fine now.” Anne squeezed Rose’s hand and smiled again, this time genuinely. Because it was true. They were fine, better than fine.
“What did you want to ask me about, by the way? Or talk to me about?” Last night, when her mother had said she had something she wanted to talk about, Anne had been in the midst of responding to work e-mails. Sara, a newish client, had canceled her appointment for the second week in a row. Anne had flagged the e-mail and wrote a reminder note to check in with her on Monday. During their last appointment, Sara had finally started to open up about why she was coming to therapy. She had described her relationship with her husband as “really good,” but revealed last week that there were times, “not all the time; it’s honestly pretty rare,” during sex when he would turn from loving to violent.
“It’s not rape,” she had said quickly, answering a question Anne hadn’t asked, after describing an incident where he suddenly grabbed her by the ponytail and brought her head down roughly to his penis.
“When it happens, I just shut down. Like . . . my body goes numb. It’s hard to describe.” She rubbed her hands together and sat up straighter. “It’s not rape,” she repeated. “I haven’t really said no or told him to stop . . . but . . . it scares me.”
“I think that sometimes we decide that labeling something gives it power. Makes it real,” Anne said gently. “And that if we don’t call it out by name, then we can kind of put it into a box and hide it away. But whether or not you label it, whether or not you say ‘this is rape’ or simply say ‘this behavior scares me,’ it’s still happening and affecting you in the same way.”
This was a scenario that fell into a gray zone, like many scenarios that she dealt with in her practice. Technically, from what Sara had described so far, there was nothing that obligated her to break client confidentiality—reporting Sara’s husband to the police for rough sex would not only likely result in no charges but could jeopardize the woman’s safety further. And yet, Anne was certain from Sara’s body language and carefully selected words that she had only disclosed the very tip of the iceberg. Anne knew she had to tread carefully; she wanted to continue to develop Sara’s trust while at the same time reevaluating her patient’s safety with each piece of new information she received.
Now, Anne nudged her mother. “Remember? You said you had something to tell me.” In the past few years, Anne had started paying attention to any lapses in Rose’s memory. So far, she hadn’t noticed anything too concerning, but sometimes she couldn’t tell if her mom was developing memory problems or if her mind was just . . . elsewhere.
“Oh, we can talk tonight,” her mother responded. “It’s not a big thing. After Thea goes to bed.” Rose crossed her arms over her chest and made a loud Brr sound. “Should we get going?”
“Ok, Thee,” Anne called out. “Ready to grab lunch?”
“And then the hike, right?” Rose murmured beside her.
“Yep! Well, more of a walk.”
TWO HOURS
BEFORE THE CABIN
THEA
Thea stared at the cheeseburger in front of her. She had taken a single bite out of it and the inside glistened with fat and gelatinous cheese that hung over the edge like a wilted flower. It was suddenly the most disgusting food Thea had ever seen and she had trouble fathoming how it had been her favorite meal prior to this bite.
“Thea?” Her mom spoke through her own bite of fried haddock. The oily white fish and crusty breading, almost as repulsive as the burger on Thea’s plate, peeked out from behind her lips as she asked, “Why aren’t you eating? What’s wrong? Are you feeling ok?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Thea answered quickly. “I’m fine. I’m just not hungry.” Thea took a long drink of lemonade through a straw, to demonstrate that, while her appetite for solids was nil, her body was still functioning. Her mother sighed in her usual way, but seemed, if not pleased, somewhat abated by Thea’s intake of liquid glucose. As her mom and Mimi chatted about dinner (they were always planning their next meal even if they were literally just sitting down to the one in front of them), Thea let her thoughts wander, as they often wandered these days, to Mr. Redmond, Ted. Her new middle school offered an elective foreign language starting in sixth grade and Thea had chosen Spanish over French (the only two choices), against her mother’s wishes. Spanish made a lot more sense than French, practically speaking. Thea’s mom conceded that point, though it didn’t stop her from retelling a story from her year abroad in Paris, about her uptight French roommate, Marianne, who, on principle, refused to speak to l’Américaine, wore all black, and communicated mostly in expletives. Why her mother presumed these tales would tempt Thea to take French, she did not know. In any case, after the first two weeks of Spanish class, Thea had come to the very disappointing conclusion that her mother may have been correct; she hated the class. Her teacher, Señora Pilas, was a squat, mean woman with short black hair and a large mole on her top lip. She used a ruler, not to actually hit the kids (though Thea was certain she would if the school would allow it), but to smack their desks if they got an answer wrong or talked out of turn. The class environment was stressful and hostile and Thea felt her stomach twist every time she stepped foot inside Señora Pilas’s sterile classroom. The afternoon she met Mr. Redmond for the first time, she had made up her mind—she would go to the principal’s office and ask to drop the course; it was an elective, after all, a bonus class. Besides, Livi, Zoe, and Gretchen were all taking French. She walked into the classroom feeling as if a weight had lifted off her shoulders, knowing it was one of the last times she would have to be in the same room as Señora Pilas. As soon as she stepped foot over the threshold, though, she could feel something was different. The energy was excitable, frenetic almost, with kids chatting and laughing, hanging out of their seats and standing in clumps, and Señora Pilas, usually perched at the chalkboard in front of twenty silent, rigid students, was nowhere to be seen.