The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(76)
So I bundled up and pretended to be stepping out to run some errands. It is the closest I have ever come to outright lying to him, and my skin felt as if it were coated with a layer of slime. I nearly turned back to tell him, but if I had done that, I don’t think I would have made it out the door. I would have stayed home instead, just so that I didn’t have to lie to him.
Dr. Haddad’s office was on the ground floor of a brownstone. It felt more like someone’s parlor than a medical office. Lamps stood in the corners and created a dim, intimate space. The doctor herself was slender, with sleek dark hair that she wore straight and cropped at her shoulders. Her black trousers were so alarmingly fashionable that covetousness suddenly overran me.
She guided me to an armchair. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
Pouring a cup for herself, she smiled. “I find it always soothes me, especially in this weather.”
“It’s starting to get warm again.”
“Mm-hm … but it isn’t there yet.” She held up the cup and smiled over the edge at me. “So … what brings you in this evening?”
I swallowed, and immediately regretted declining the tea, which would have given me something to do with my hands. “I seem to be suffering from anxiety and … and I don’t know what to do about it.”
She set her cup down and leaned forward. “My dear. That’s what I’m here for.”
And I wept.
TWENTY-FIVE
PEIPING MAY ORBIT SATELLITE BY 1958
U.S. Intelligence Data Note Increasing Indications of Active Space Program
By JOHN W. FINNEY
Special to The National Times.
KANSAS CITY, KS, Jan. 9, 1957—A Government intelligence report predicts that Communist China will be able to launch an Earth satellite in two years.
The small white pill sat in the center of my palm. The palm itself was coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Overhead, the bathroom fan rattled like an unbalanced airplane engine and masked most of the sounds from the apartment.
Nathaniel had been sitting in a chair with Ray Bradbury’s new novel. I kept hoping he’d go out, but he hadn’t yet, which was probably for the best. If anything went wrong, I should have someone with me.
Telling him that I was about to take a tranquilizer would be sensible—but I didn’t.
Don’t ask me why. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, it’s just … I don’t know. I didn’t trust myself? Does that make any sense?
Taking the pill was a sign that I had failed. No matter what the doctors said about anxiety being a genuine illness, I couldn’t shake my mother’s voice: What will people think? What would my husband think?
Wetting my lips, I placed the pill in my mouth. The bitter coating curled my tongue and I swallowed a mouthful of water to wash it down. I set down the glass. Done. In the mirror, my face stared back at me unchanged. Brown eyes. Nose slightly askew. Chin a little too rounded. No horns … yet. I know it sounds melodramatic, but that two-hundred-milligram pill carried a potent possibility. Please work.
Twenty minutes. It would be twenty minutes before I could possibly feel the effects. I opened the vanity drawer and hid the bottle among my sanitary napkins. There were few places in our tiny apartment that I could be certain Nathaniel wouldn’t go. This was one.
Wiping my hands on my skirt, I opened the door and left the bathroom. Nathaniel barely glanced up from the book he was reading. Given the congressional hearings, it was a wonder that he was willing to take the day off. On the other hand, since we couldn’t resume our launch schedule until the hearings concluded, there wasn’t that much he could do at work.
Right. I pulled out one of the chairs at our table and sat down. There were bills to be paid. I pulled the stack toward me and got to work.
An hour later, the bills were paid. I’d balanced the checkbook. And … I felt fine.
I drew a blank sheet toward me and began plotting a trajectory for a moon landing. Possibly, if I thought about it, I was a little slower. Maybe. But no more so than toward the end of a long day. Not that I felt tired, just … muted? That’s not even the right word. I just felt … normal. Whatever that means.
The next morning, I checked the bankbook, looking for errors. There were none.
*
One of the curtains let in a thin stream of amber light from the streetlights outside our apartment. I curled against Nathaniel and nestled my head on his shoulder.
He ran a hand down my arm, leaving a contrail of goosebumps in his wake. His touch explored the contours of my hand and circled my wedding band.
“I’ve been lying to you.” Sometimes, the things I blurt out surprise me. This one didn’t.
His breath stilled, but under my cheek, the beat of his heart sped. “About?”
“The class I’m taking…” Errands hadn’t cut it as an excuse, after the first session. “I’m … I’m seeing a therapist.”
All the tension drained out of his body. “Oh, thank God.”
“That … was not the response I expected.”
He pulled me closer and kissed my forehead. “I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”
“You’re not upset that I lied?”
“Well, yes, but the relief outweighs that.” His hand found my hair and he stroked it back from my face. “And … I’ll admit to being a little hurt that you didn’t feel safe telling me. But not angry. Okay? I’m not angry.”