Before I Let You Go(70)

“She loves to read and write . . . I mean, Annie was an English major. If there’s a book club or a poetry group or something like that . . .”

“No . . . not really,” Luke says, but I hear him shuffling papers. “Hmm. Interesting. When Annie was admitted and we asked her about her education, she just listed a GED.”

“No, she has an English degree. Her career kind of died in the mud when the addiction spun out of control, but she’s quite a gifted writer,” I say. “I have no idea why she wouldn’t list the degree on the paperwork.”

“I treated a neurologist once who had listed his occupation on admission as janitor,” Luke says quietly. “He’d been fired from his job and was embarrassed that his career had failed. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend you’ve never achieved anything than to admit you’ve had success and failed.”

“I think I’ve got an idea,” I say, and I walk up the stairs from the kitchen. I open the door to the spare bedroom down the hall from mine, a room that is used only for storage, and I stare inside. There are boxes everywhere, but only a few are labeled Annie. “She has this journal our Dad gave her just before he died . . . it was incredibly special to her. I don’t think she’s ever written in it. I still have it in storage here somewhere. Maybe I could bring it next weekend—if she doesn’t want to talk to you, maybe she can write her feelings down instead.”

I’m due to visit Annie on Saturday, but Friday afternoon, Luke emails me to ask me not to come.

I’ve had to withdraw Annie’s visitation and phone privileges. I know you’ll be very concerned by this, but Annie has continued to refuse to participate in her treatments this week and went as far as to refuse to leave her room for our appointment yesterday. I hope that you understand that I’m suggesting we put a pause on contact for both your sake and Annie’s—I’m concerned that she would continue to try to draw you in to rescue her. But I’ve also been thinking about that journal you mentioned—do you think you could mail it over to us?

Right beneath that email is one from Oliver. I groan and glance at the date. The four weeks’ leave he agreed to is up, and I haven’t even called in to let him know I won’t be back next week. I hesitate before I open the email. The subject line is only the word leave.

This can’t be good. I click the screen on my phone fiercely.

Lexie, Sam tells me that you are immersed in things with the baby. I’ve changed your leave to adoptive leave so that will give you another two months to figure things out. Come have a chat with me if you’re ready before then, otherwise, let me know what you’re up to in the new year.

“You called Oliver on my behalf?” I greet Sam at the door that afternoon, a glass of wine in one hand, a scowl on my face. I left Daisy early and have been sitting at home stewing over the email ever since.

Sam looks at me in surprise.

“I know how stressed you are—I just wanted to lighten the load.”

“You didn’t even ask me.”

“What was your plan, honey?” Sam asks me pointedly. “Your leave runs out on Monday. It’s Friday and you hadn’t given it a thought until Oliver called you, right?”

“He didn’t call me,” I snap. I know I’m being an idiot and his method of communication is completely irrelevant but I’m too frustrated and angry to stop myself. “He emailed me. And you had no right.”

“So were you going back to work on Monday?” Sam drops his bag near the door and closes it, then shrugs at me, prompting an answer.

“You know I wasn’t,” I mutter.

“And . . .”

“Sam!” I exclaim. “It’s my career. My problem. I dropped the ball, yes—but—”

“And what was I supposed to do? Let you get fired?”

“I wouldn’t have—”

“I saw Oliver last week, Lexie. He was pissed, but understood. If I hadn’t gone in, and you really had forgotten all about your job and just not showed up next week, he would have fired you.”

I spin on my heel away from Sam, then storm into the kitchen to stir the spaghetti sauce I made. He follows me and sits at the island watching me huffing and puffing around. After a while, he stands and, ignoring my protests, takes the wooden spoon from my hand and turns me to face him.

“I love you. I get that you have to deal with some of this on your own, but you can’t deal with all of it on your own. You’ve rejected every offer of help I’ve made, and I knew that if I asked you if you wanted me to talk to him, you’d have said no. I need to be doing something, Lexie. You can’t just shut me out because it’s messy. This isn’t a short-term crisis anymore—this is all going to be a part of our lives for months, maybe years.”

“But it’s my problem, Sam,” I whisper, and my bravado disappears and my eyes fill with tears. Sam brushes the hair back from my face.

“It’s Annie’s problem, Lexie, and she’s my soon-to-be sister-in-law.”

I nod, and Sam cups my face in his hands. He stares down at me, and I clench my jaw to stop the tears.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s just really hard for me to share these problems with you.”

“Why, Lexie?”

“Habit? Pride? Stubbornness?”