Liam’s keys still sit it in an organizer on the kitchen counter. We’d taken my car that night. I go to pour another drink and pick them up. I imagine his many pockets in which the keys had lived, doors they might open, and what faces or music, comfort or disappointment might lie behind those doors. Which one opened the door to his office? Were there secrets hidden there, meetings with a lover? I remembered the day they’d sat undisturbed on the bargain table at a used bookstore until we retraced our steps, and only then he remembered putting them down on that stack, where they left their toothed impression in a neglected dust pile. We laughed when we found them, and ran through a misty rain to get coffee across the street.
I imagined him in this kitchen, bare-chested with gym shorts and slippers, recipe cards askew and splashed with marinara sauce as he played Iron Chef, determined to impress me with his grandmother’s beef bolognese.
I realize why I’m not succumbing to tears tonight. I don’t know what I’m doing in this house. It feels haunted by his constant memory. In Chicago, I can hear neighbors on three sides—their arguments, their phones ringing, their TVs right through the walls. I’m forced to say hello to people when I go outside. How is there enough space in the world for me to walk all of these big empty, unused rooms alone? They should be filled with life, and I feel dead. I make a decision. I have to leave.
The next morning I wake up and try to remember the leftover wisps of a dream, but it’s hazy and just out of reach. I grasp, mentally, for the memory. I dreamed that I set the house on fire. I should be horrified by the thought, but it seems gratifying for a moment. At least I’d be left with a crumb of satisfaction, knowing that nobody else would ever sleep in our bed or enjoy my coveted soaker tub with the must-have jets. They’d never cover up our memories with new ones.
Then I recall a flash of the dream. I watched our wedding album burn. The flames engulfing the bedroom first and the photos curling up on the sides, melting and boiling before meeting the rest of our earthly belongings as ash in a puff of rolling black smoke above our house.
I go into my office and start writing my description of the one-acre lot and updated, open-concept living space before promptly calling a real-estate agent to list it.
I call Ellie and tell her I’m moving back to the condo. She screams in delight, almost deafening me, making girls’ night and mani-pedi plans before I even finish my sentence, but I hurry her off the phone. I pack my bags right then and there, and hire a service for the rest. I get in my car and drive to Chicago.
SIX
THEN
I can pinpoint the exact moment our life started to crumble. It was a Saturday in January, a few weeks before my book signing party. My first book was a success, and my permanent radio spot Someone’s Listening was turning into regular TV appearances, a few talk shows, guest spots, and even televised interviews. My agent, Paula, thought I should title my next book Someone’s Listening, make it instantly recognizable from the radio show—an expansion on my first book that focuses on life after abuse.
This book would reveal some personal stories of my own abusive childhood, and offer safe plans for leaving an abusive relationship. “It should be really positive,” Paula said. It would include all the tips to get help and a step-by-step guide for anyone trapped in an abusive situation, but the overarching message will be about overcoming destructive patterns and reclaiming yourself.
I liked it. Part of me may have liked it because it was a “screw you” message to Thomas and Alan, my colleagues, because it proved this wasn’t some stroke of luck or a phase. I was really establishing myself in this new role. I would not be “crawling back to private practice with my tail between my legs after being devoured by the media over one misstep or advice that backfired,” as rumored by Alan, or so I’m told. Of course, he’d said it in jest, apparently, and in his defense, after he’d had a few scotches at a dinner party.
I’d been sent a few boxes of the new book, and they’d arrived that morning. Liam and I sat on the sofa in robes, sipping coffee. He was catching the end of the news while I was distracted with opening the boxes of books like Christmas presents, before I could get on a soapbox about the biased, sensationalized theater the news had become. I took one of the books from the neatly packed box. I smelled the glue, the paper, the ink. I examined my photo on the back. Liam complimented it, and started to change the channel when I saw it.
I saw my own face—the same photo I was holding in my hand appeared in a small, framed box next to the reporter’s head. I felt a tapping of prickly heat climb my back. I froze and stared at the screen. Liam looked paralyzed a moment too, the remote held out in midair, his face a mix of confusion and shock.
“Dr. Faith Finley, a popular radio show doctor that you may better know from her appearances on Get Up, America, The Chat, and even an appearance here on Weekend Edition, is gaining fame for a different reason today. She’s been accused of having a sexual relationship with an underage patient. Carter Daley, now twenty, talked to us about his experience with the doctor when he was just seventeen.”
I dropped my coffee on top of the box of books. It seeped down through the creases, saturating and ruining them. I couldn’t speak. Carter’s face appeared on the screen. There were microphones everywhere. He looked frightened. A man stood next to him. Maybe a lawyer? It wasn’t his father. I’d met his father, Alex Daley. He was grateful for the progress I was making with Carter. What the hell was happening? Reporters shouted questions at him. I couldn’t discern one from another, but he started saying something, quieting the chaos a moment.
“I’m not pressing charges. I just think it’s important that it’s out there so it doesn’t happen to anyone else. That’s all I want to say about it,” he said, looking at his feet. There were more questions. Something about how he felt, being taken advantage of at his most vulnerable mental state. Another question was shouted, asking whether he’d sue. But the story cut off and transitioned back to Larry Green, who made an attempt at sincerity when he remarked how sad the situation was for all involved, and then moved to an update on the weather.
Liam turned off the TV and sat down. Neither of us moved. We were in shock, I suppose. Then he just looked at me. I hadn’t seen the look before. Maybe it was a sort of pleading in his eyes to tell him this wasn’t true. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe it was what a person’s face looks like the exact moment trust is broken and they know they’ll never be the same. My hands were shaking and tears were clouding my eyes. My heart was pounding in my ears.
“I...don’t...” I had to catch my breath. I couldn’t speak. “That’s Carter. That’s—” I stood, then sat again.
“Faith. What’s going on? What happened?” he said with a forced calm.
“I don’t know!” My voice was breaking. “I don’t know! You think I know? He’s a patient! He—Oh my God.”