The Break(39)

My mother always called me pretty, like it was the thing she was most proud of. Sean moves closer and a tiny voice inside my head starts to scream, but I stifle it, smiling at him, wanting more than anything to make this work.





SEVENTEEN


Rowan. Thursday morning. November 10th.


We have options available to us, Rowan,” Sylvie is saying as I sweat. “There are evidenced-based therapies specifically designed for the treatment of PTSD.” She turns to Gabe, but he’s not looking at her. She says to him, “For our next session, it might be helpful if you stay at home with Lila and I work with Rowan alone.”

Gabe is staring hard at me. I see so many emotions written on his face, but mostly fear and love. And those are really the only big ones, aren’t they? Everything else is mostly just an offshoot.

“Fine,” I say, my eyes still locked on Gabe. My husband; my protector; the person I thought I’d be with forever. Why do things feel this broken? I turn back to Sylvie and ask, “Do you know our babysitter’s missing?”

Gabe lets out a grunt that sounds like exasperation. “She’s not missing, Rowan,” he says. “You make it sound like she’s been kidnapped.”

“Maybe she has,” I say. “She’s still basically a kid. A kid we brought into our sick lives and tortured.”

There I go. Somewhere dark. No coming back.

“Do you believe you tortured your sitter?” Sylvie asks.



Oh my God. Therapy. “Didn’t you hear what I said?” I snap. “Is this really all about me? I just told you June was missing.”

“Yes, but I’m your therapist. I’m not the police.”

I exhale. Gabe says, “We didn’t torture June. We employed her.”

“I think Gabe liked that she worshipped him,” I say. I don’t meet his eyes, but I feel them boring into the side of my face.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Gabe asks, his knee bouncing up and down in the corner of my vision, and this time it’s not for Lila. He’s nervous.

I turn to him now, feeling slightly sorry for myself, and for him, too. Maybe even for Lila, that this family she’s been born into already has cracks. “Come on, Gabe,” I say. “Can’t you even admit to that, at least?” What is it with him being so unable to admit when he’s done something? “I’m not even saying it’s wrong,” I say, “only that it’s true. It’s natural to enjoy someone worshipping you.”

“June didn’t worship me,” he says. “If anything, she seemed to worship you.”

The air is very still. I sniff to break the silence, to hear my body make some kind of noise signaling my actuality, to know I’m really here and that this isn’t another bad dream.

“That might be partly true,” I say. June worshipped me the same as anyone who values talent. It’s not everyone, but it does exist: people who are so fascinated to learn you make your living singing/drawing/sculpting/painting/writing/acting, people who want to be close to you, to see if it’s as magical as they think. It isn’t, of course. “But I think June felt sorry for me by the end,” I say to Sylvie. “Can I hold my baby, please?” I ask Gabe.

Sylvie crosses her legs again.

“Rowan, please, she’s so quiet,” Gabe says, his hands so big on Lila’s tiny bottom.

She is quiet. For now.



“Fine,” I say. I feel like such a brat in this room. Maybe everyone does in therapy? I’m not used to everything being about me outside my work life. (And I can admit that it’s like that in my work life: it’s all, How are you feeling about this novel, Rowan? Do you need more time? Should we extend the deadline? I don’t want to get in the way of your process, Rowan. Do you like the cover? Are you happy with marketing? It’s a person from the publishing house making sure the hotel is perfect when I go on book tours, and it’s a gentle email reminding me about my speaking engagements that month, and it’s how any uncomfortable conversations are had through my agent. Dave deals with anything unsavory, not me.)

But I’m not like that in my personal life. I’m not perfect, but I’m a good friend, a good neighbor. I don’t litter and I call people on their birthdays. And I’m certainly not a diva in my marriage. Gabe is the center of our universe, the eye of the hurricane, the volcano about to erupt. He can’t separate his creative genius from the person who needs to unload the dishwasher.

“Tell me about June,” Sylvie says. “I’ve met her once, briefly, at WTA, and I’ve heard a lot about her from Louisa, but mostly professional things. Louisa was happy with June as an assistant, but I should be transparent and tell you that I know Louisa was displeased when June started dating Harrison.”

I nod because I understand why Louisa would feel that way, but I don’t say anything. It feels a little off that Sylvie’s bringing up the personal connections at play here. Though I guess she’s only seeing me as a favor to Louisa, so maybe it’s all out in the open anyway, and more casual than it would normally be.

Gabe won’t look at either of us. He’s staring down at Lila’s head, clearly wanting nothing to do with this conversation.

“June was very beautiful,” I say softly.