“The last few times, after I’ve woken up, I’ve had a hard time remembering that they’re not real. That they are dreams, not memories.” I cough as I tuck my arm back into the sling. The relief isn’t instant, but it’s better. I look her in the eye when I continue, “I have to remind myself that I have not ever buried someone under a tree in my back yard.”
“Let’s hope you haven’t done anything you’re dreaming about,” Dr. Levitt says—without a laugh this time.
I don’t laugh either.
“I want to stop taking the meds. I don’t like being reliant on them. I can deal with how much it hurts,” I say. “I’m just going a little nuts with how long it’s taking for me to get better.”
“When you were young, how much responsibility did you have for taking care of yourself?”
So, there it is. The question I’ve always known would come my way as soon as I started seeing Dr. Levitt. Expecting it doesn’t make it easier to answer.
“A lot,” I say.
She nods and scribbles another note, like she was expecting this. I’m sure she was. Her silence is meant to prompt me into speech, but I’m having trouble finding the words. I’ve been waiting to dive into this subject since the first time I came into her office, and still I don’t know what to say. The only person who really knows all about it is Val. If Dr. Levitt wants to know about my childhood, though, she doesn’t probe. Instead, she changes the subject.
“We’ve spoken briefly about you going back to work. Have you given that any more thought?”
I shake my head. “No. I took the payout with the idea that I’d do some freelancing. Maybe look for something new. I mean, money’s not a problem. Jonathan does very well.”
“You’re in a fortunate position.”
I acknowledge that with a nod. “I know.”
“And yet …” She gives me an expectant look.
“And yet?”
“So much of your independence seems to be tied to your ability to provide for yourself. I realize you have a comfortable financial position, but it seems to me that even though you’d decided—and remember deciding—to take some time off, you’re feeling ill at ease with nothing much to do.”
“‘Remember deciding’—that’s the key,” I say. “And, yes. I’m bored out of my mind.”
Dr. Levitt chuckles softly and makes a note. “I get that. So. Have you thought about doing something?”
“Like another job?”
“Or something else,” Dr. Levitt offers. “Something creative.”
I blink at her. “Creative?”
“Perhaps taking a class of some kind? Perhaps a writing class. Journaling can be very helpful, and you’ve shared with me about your to-do lists, so you already enjoy the process of keeping track of your thoughts via a written medium.”
The idea is … appealing. “I never considered making lists to be particularly creative.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you never thought of yourself as particularly creative,” Dr. Levitt says.
I am quiet for a moment. “My mother painted.”
It’s the first time I’ve really referenced my mother. A real two-for-one today. I expect Dr. Levitt to write something down about this, but she only stares at me with a neutral, pleasant expression.
“There you go,” she says.
I look at her and shake my head again. “I never did. I mean, she never … encouraged it.”
“You’ve spoken sparingly of your mother. What was your relationship like with her?”
“She’s dead now. It doesn’t matter,” I tell her flatly.
“How did she die?”
“She had a long history of depression and addiction, and eventually it caught up with her,” I say.
Dr. Levitt nods as though she understands. I don’t, so I’m not sure how she could. “What did she paint?”
“Landscapes. Oils. She was a surrealist.” I laugh now. “She was surreal, all right.”
“Maybe you inherited some of her skill?”
That’s impossible, but I can’t get into why without opening a gigantic, squirming can of worms. “No. Thank God, I didn’t inherit anything from that … from her.”
If Dr. Levitt wonders at why I bit my tongue at the last second, she doesn’t show it, but I explain anyway.
“My mother cursed like a sailor. I swore I wouldn’t let myself be like her. Vulgar.”
“I see. You don’t want to be anything like her at all.” Her pen scratch-scratches.
I scowl. “No.”
“You’re not alone. Many people struggle to distance themselves from parents with whom they have a dysfunctional relationship. But my advice would be not to let something your mother was good at prevent you from seeing if you might also be good at it.”
“I’ve never been much of a writer,” I tell her. “It seems too much like telling a bunch of lies, over and over again.”
She laughs, and I do too, although I’m the only one who really knows why what I said is funny. “When I’m healed, do you think I should continue seeing you, Dr. Levitt?”
She looks up at me, her sleek, pale eyebrows raised. She taps her pen lightly on the pad before answering. “If you think you’d like to, of course.”
“But do you think I need to?” I insist.
“I think,” Dr. Levitt says, “you would benefit from continued sessions. Yes.”
We are both quiet for a few seconds, and then it comes out because keeping it inside is slowly poisoning me. If I can’t tell her, who can I tell? “My best friend is sleeping with my husband.”
For the first time since I started seeing her, Dr. Levitt looks surprised. She moves to write something but stops herself. She settles back into the chair to look at me.
“Val,” Dr. Levitt says.
“Yes,” I answer quietly, unsurprised that Levitt’s put the pieces together without me having to say it, and for the second time during this session, my throat closes and rasps with tears. “Her.”
“Interesting that you phrased it that way,” she says.
“Instead of?”
“You might have said, ‘My husband is sleeping with my best friend.’”
The difference is subtle, but I get it. I shrug without thinking and let out a low, irritated cry at the pain.
“Infidelity does not have to be the end of a marriage.” Dr. Levitt says this solemnly.
I frown. “Maybe not, but it sure is the end of a friendship.”
On the desk behind her, the bell indicating the end of our session goes off. Dr. Levitt puts the cap back on her pen. She smiles.
“Well, Diana, it looks like I’ll see you next week.”
“Unless something happens to me in the meantime,” I say.
Her eyebrows raise. “Do you think something might happen to you?”
“You never know,” I tell her. “Things can always happen.”
CHAPTER TEN
Valerie
LAST MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND
Diana started her annual Memorial Day weekend Girls’ Getaway right after she married Jonathan. At its peak, there’d been up to fourteen women participating, but the last one was just the two of us.