Yes—even on this alternate timeline, we don’t have children of our own. It’s a sore subject between us, something that causes arguments. But those arguments never last long. We always make up. We hug and kiss and end the night in the same bed, our bodies touching under the sheets, feeling safe and loved.
On that alternate timeline, if Daniel had just learned that one of my old friends had passed away—had killed herself, no less—he would immediately get up to give me a hug. Tell me that everything would be okay, that he’d go to the funeral with me. Even if he had to take off work or skip volunteering, he’d be there to support me.
But that was an alternate timeline, and this was real life. Here in real life, Daniel picked up his fork and phone, and again entered that bubble where he was content, off in his own little world.
And me? I had my bubble too. I picked up my fork and probed again at the sesame chicken, while Daniel sat across from me staring at his phone, and next door Andrew and Barb’s dog kept yapping and yapping and yapping.
4
“Did you ever see her face?”
“No.”
“Did you ever get close enough to touch her?”
“No.”
“Who do you think it was?”
I didn’t have an immediate response. I sat on the leather couch—an actual leather couch, not some cheap pleather thing like in my office—and stared down at the hairline scar on my left palm.
When the silence stretched, I glanced up at Lisa. She sat on the mesh ergonomic chair beside her desk, her thin legs crossed, watching me. She was in her late forties. Had a slender frame, a strong jaw. She had never been a hippie, as far as I knew, but she always dressed like it—colorful bohemian dresses and tops, beads wrapped around her wrists that clinked and clacked when she moved her hands.
Lisa was the second therapist I’d seen since high school, and I’d been seeing her for the past two years. Like all good therapists, she never told me what I wanted to hear, and always pushed me further than I typically wanted to go.
She tilted her head, raising a flawlessly trimmed eyebrow.
“Well?”
I said nothing.
Lisa took the notepad off her lap, tossed it on her desk, and crossed her arms.
“Why are you being difficult today?”
“I’m not being difficult.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Maybe I don’t know the answer.”
“Yes, you do.”
Lisa was what you’d call a private-practice therapist. Her office didn’t accept government medical assistance, so clients either needed to use their private insurance or pay cash. Because of that, Lisa’s office was much nicer than most therapists’ offices. She had a large oak desk with an iMac sitting on top. An expensive throw rug protected the hardwood floor. A leather couch, plus a leather chair. An artisanal wall clock hung near the door, its circle of numbers roman numerals to add a sophisticated touch.
When I didn’t answer, Lisa swiveled in her seat to check the time, swiveled back to me.
“We have twenty minutes left. You want to call it a day now, or do you just want to continue sitting there being difficult?”
“I’m not being difficult.”
“Sure you’re not.”
“I know what you’re doing.”
Her eyebrow lifted again. “Do you?”
“You’re purposely making me defensive. You think it’s going to help me work through my dream.”
“Now why would you think that?”
“Because I sometimes do the same thing. And I learned it from you.”
She smiled at this but didn’t laugh. I’d heard her laugh maybe a handful of times since I’d started seeing her, and I had made it a goal to try to make her laugh at every session. It was difficult to crack that professional veneer of hers—all I could ever seem to do was make her smile—but it felt good to have a conversation with somebody who had no ulterior motives, somebody who didn’t judge you when you said or did something stupid.
My eyes went to the framed photograph of Lisa and her husband on the desk, and not for the first time I wondered what their relationship was like. Whether they shared meaningful conversation during their dinners or if they let the silence build up into a wall between them.
I liked to think they had a good relationship—a good, strong relationship, the kind that never faltered—and there were times when I thought that what Daniel and I needed was an older couple to befriend, a couple who clearly had their shit together and who could help us see what was attainable.
But that, of course, was never going to happen, at least as long as I was a patient of Lisa’s, and besides, even if I broached the idea with Daniel, I felt certain he’d knock it down.
Lisa glanced at the clock again.
“Fifteen minutes.”
My purse started buzzing. I pulled out my phone.
Lisa said, “Don’t you love it when your clients’ phones go off during a session?”
Ignoring her, I checked to see who was calling. It was a local number I didn’t recognize. I hit the “Dismiss” button, then pressed the button on the side to power it off. Once the screen went dark, I held up the phone.
“There, I turned it off. Happy?”
“I would be happier if you answered my original question.”
“And what was your original question?”
“Don’t be coy, Emily.”
I sighed and looked away. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know who the girl was.”
Lisa’s expression turned skeptical, but she said nothing.
I leaned forward on the couch.
“I can’t remember the last time I had a nightmare.”
“And last night you had the same one twice.”
“At least that I can remember. The first during my nap, then later . . . I could hardly sleep. It didn’t help that Daniel kept snoring.”
“I didn’t want to say anything, but you do look rough.” Lisa said it with a straight face but grinned when she saw my expression. “That was a joke, Emily. How are things between you and Daniel?”
I didn’t want to talk about Daniel today—just like I didn’t want to talk about him most other days—but I knew if I didn’t answer her, Lisa would keep digging.
“The same.”
“And what does ‘the same’ mean?”
“Just . . . the same.”
“Distant?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time the two of you were intimate?”
“Pass.”
Lisa smiled. “Okay, fair enough. Has your daily routine changed much recently?”
“No, it’s pretty much the same. I go to the gym, have some yogurt and a granola bar, and then head into the office. Same thing this morning. Except today is Friday, the one day a week I get to grace you with my presence, so I hurried over here on my lunch break so that you could give me a hard time.”
Lisa smiled again but didn’t speak. A moment of silence passed, and I issued another heavy sigh.
“I think . . . maybe it was Olivia.”
Lisa watched me, waiting me out.