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Alisha mentioned that new mothers, loving mothers, often picture themselves hurting their babies, slamming them against walls, or breaking their little necks. Other people are afraid of heights not because they might fall, but because they might have an urge to fling themselves over the edge. These people aren’t actually suicidal; they just have a vision they can’t control. Which is very different from an impulse they can’t control. A daydream is harmless. These fantasies, as horrible as they sound, are normal. The mind computes thoughts and feelings and emotions in ways that aren’t always linear or logical or acceptable. But that’s okay as long as we keep them where they belong, as fleeting thoughts that serve to get us from one emotion to the next.
She asked me, in earnest, “Do you think you will actually try to rip off her arm and choke her with it?”
“Of course not! . . . And I don’t even think that it would be physically possible, anyway.”
“Exactly. It’s a cartoonish demonstration of the hatred you feel. So let’s talk about that. Why do you hate this woman so much?”
“She broke my lamp.”
“Yes. And I’m very sorry that happened. But it seems you disliked her even before the lamp incident. So what about her triggers this intense anger in you?”
“She’s a vile, mean, rage-filled bigot who doesn’t deserve to be on this earth, when there are so many other good, decent people out there who are desperate for therapy. Desperate for help. And the Witch will not be helped.”
And there was the trigger. Other than the obvious, that she was a hideous person, she made me feel ineffectual, which was one of my own worst fears. I was invisible to the Witch, unable to perform an important task, leaving me worthless. Leaving me like a useless slug, vulnerable to being dissolved by salt.
By the end of the session with Alisha, I had decided two things. One, I would offset my anger toward the Witch and spend even more time helping others by volunteering at a nonprofit mental health organization. And two, I would get my lamp fixed.
CHAPTER 17
LAMP
I hauled my broken and battered lamp into a lamp-repair shop in Bal Harbour. It had been open since the 1950s and seemed unchanged since then. Headshots of long-forgotten and dead movie stars lined one wall, newer headshots of hopeful Miami models lined another, and faded floral curtains with little lace frills on the edges hung on to their rods by threads. Even the dust was old. It was the kind of place you can’t believe still exists in this modern world, until you realize everyone has lamps, and sometimes they break, and therefore a lamp-repair shop makes perfect sense.
The ancient man behind the counter examined my lamp with his gnarled hands, and he said in a thick Russian accent that he could fix, thirty dollars, but it would not be perfect. I said that was all right by me.
The door chime jingled and I instinctively looked back to see who was coming in. A man, maybe late twenties, wearing cargo shorts, Vans sneakers, and a blue T-shirt that made his eyes pop, walked in sheepishly carrying a small green lamp in the shape of a frog. He smiled at me. He had perfect white teeth. I smiled back.
“Nice frog.”
“Thanks. It’s not mine.”
“That’s what they all say.”
He laughed. An easy, comfortable laugh. He had a lovely hint of a Southern drawl and explained that his mother collected all frog-related items and he spotted this at a garage sale and thought it would be a good gift for Mother’s Day. I pointed out that Mother’s Day wasn’t for months. But he said he liked to think ahead. Wow, a guy who cared about his mom and bought thoughtful presents well ahead of time—and he was cute, at least five eleven, and not wearing a wedding ring.
The Russian man said, “Frog just needs to be rewired. Ten dollars. Will take three days.” I asked how long mine would take. “Longer. Three weeks.”
The frog guy and I walked out at the same time, leaving our lamps behind. We paused outside, waiting to see if our moment would amount to anything further.
“I’m Jason.”
“I’m Ruby.”
The Russian lamp fixer hurried out with an old camera. He said he liked photographs. That’s why he kept old ones up in the shop. But he liked new ones too. Of customers. And we made such a nice couple. Could he?
Neither Jason nor I had an issue with being photographed. A good sign that neither of us had any reason to not be seen in the same frame. We stood together, under the lamp store sign, like two strangers who might want to get to know each other a bit more. Jason smiled and squinted a little in the sun, and the man snapped a photo.
It was a copy of this very photo that was third in line on the table, the one that Detective Keith Jackson was fidgeting with. He flipped it over and placed it directly in front of me, in a pat manner. I was aware that he was watching my every expression, micro and macro. I had known a photo of Jason was coming, since he was now dead and the detective certainly thought I murdered him. That was what started this whole chat at the police station in the first place. So I should have been more prepared to see Jason’s smiling face. But the choice of this photo in particular felt like a gut punch. A photo from the very first day I met him four and a half years ago. A photo I was also in, when life was wide open to a happily-ever-after.
I picked it up and felt the edges. Flimsy and thin. And the colors were dull. Jason’s eyes were much bluer in real life. This copy was clearly printed off of a cheap all-purpose office printer. Jason had died sixteen days ago. But seeing the photo felt like it was happening all over again in real time. My body got even colder because all my blood was rushing to my organs, to help them continue on even while my icy sorrow washed through me. The photo was still in my hand. If I put it back down on the table, it would be like I was letting Jason go all over again. But if I held on to it for too long, it would seem like I was merely playing the role of the grieving widow.