smoothly and I know you don’t have to do that. I just want you to know that I’m grateful. I know Tim will be, too.’
I hated her so much in that moment that if she’d been even an inch closer to me I would have launched myself at her. I almost went ahead and did it anyway. I’d never raised my hand to another person in my life, but I wanted to pummel my sister’s face in. I wanted to make her
hurt
. I could feel a throbbing sort of violence in me that I’d never suspected existed, flooding through me like wildfire, making my pulse race and my breathing go dangerously shallow.
‘I know it doesn’t seem like it now,’ she continued in the same quiet way, clearly meaning every single word, wholly unaware of the danger she was in, ‘but some day, all of this will be behind us and no matter how messy itall seems, I think we’ll all agree that it was for the best. I really do believe that.’
I hated her so much I thought my head might explode from it. So much that my throat felt like it was on fire, as if I’d ripped it to shreds with all the screams that hadn’t passed my lips. I felt consumed by it. Altered by it. I couldn’t believe she couldn’t see it distorting my face.
‘Anyway,’ she said, patting her own knees with her hands, as if to congratulate herself on such a good little speech, ‘I wanted to make sure to thank you.’
I sat there, frozen into impotent, furious immobility, because I knew if I even blinked I would try to choke her to death. With my bare hands, the very ones that shook slightly now. I sat there and watched her settle back against the chair, and pull out some cheerful magazines to wile away the time. She didn’t seem to have any trouble reading. She didn’t seem to have any trouble at all. She was stealing every single thing I loved about my life – she’d done it before I’d even known to look, before I’d had any inkling there was any danger – and now she was thanking me for my witless help in letting her go right ahead and do it.
And I wasn’t beating the life out of her because I was worried about making a scene. I was pathetic.
It was clear to me then, as all of that violence and fury sloshed around inside of me, making me feel sick to my stomach, that I knew nothing at all about my life. Not really. It had gone completely off track, and I hadn’t even noticed it was happening. I’d been wandering around insome dream of what it should be for far longer than I wanted to admit. Clearly. Carolyn had been making babies with my husband while I had been … what? Defending horrible, over-entitled rich kids like Benjy Stratton – arguing that they should be allowed to continue driving drunk through the streets? Fantasizing about winning the ongoing war with my office manager? About yoga classes and pastries? What kind of life was that? It seemed to me now, surrounded by the truth of it, of its sad detritus, that I was almost criminal in my own obliviousness.
How had this happened? How had I become …
this
?
‘I can’t remember why I didn’t go on that backpacking trip,’ I found myself saying out loud as Tim lay there in his cubicle, still so unresponsive, the same machines still surrounding him, their little sounds almost like background music to me now. The beeps and sighs, the scrape and squeak of nursing shoes on the linoleum out in the hall. ‘Do you remember? I was going to take a leave of absence and see the world. Just me and a backpack, and maybe a journal to write in.’
This was the first time I’d actually talked to him. Out loud.
I’d felt too self-conscious before – as if it would have been too forced, too much of a performance, too much the sort of dramatic thing I was sure Carolyn would both do and be really into, and what would I say, anyway? The wild need to harm Carolyn physically had faded somewhat,but my horror at how blind I’d been about my own life had only grown more intense as the hours ticked by in this latest endless day.
I hated her so much in that moment that if she’d been even an inch closer to me I would have launched myself at her. I almost went ahead and did it anyway. I’d never raised my hand to another person in my life, but I wanted to pummel my sister’s face in. I wanted to make her
hurt
. I could feel a throbbing sort of violence in me that I’d never suspected existed, flooding through me like wildfire, making my pulse race and my breathing go dangerously shallow.
‘I know it doesn’t seem like it now,’ she continued in the same quiet way, clearly meaning every single word, wholly unaware of the danger she was in, ‘but some day, all of this will be behind us and no matter how messy itall seems, I think we’ll all agree that it was for the best. I really do believe that.’
I hated her so much I thought my head might explode from it. So much that my throat felt like it was on fire, as if I’d ripped it to shreds with all the screams that hadn’t passed my lips. I felt consumed by it. Altered by it. I couldn’t believe she couldn’t see it distorting my face.
‘Anyway,’ she said, patting her own knees with her hands, as if to congratulate herself on such a good little speech, ‘I wanted to make sure to thank you.’
I sat there, frozen into impotent, furious immobility, because I knew if I even blinked I would try to choke her to death. With my bare hands, the very ones that shook slightly now. I sat there and watched her settle back against the chair, and pull out some cheerful magazines to wile away the time. She didn’t seem to have any trouble reading. She didn’t seem to have any trouble at all. She was stealing every single thing I loved about my life – she’d done it before I’d even known to look, before I’d had any inkling there was any danger – and now she was thanking me for my witless help in letting her go right ahead and do it.
And I wasn’t beating the life out of her because I was worried about making a scene. I was pathetic.
It was clear to me then, as all of that violence and fury sloshed around inside of me, making me feel sick to my stomach, that I knew nothing at all about my life. Not really. It had gone completely off track, and I hadn’t even noticed it was happening. I’d been wandering around insome dream of what it should be for far longer than I wanted to admit. Clearly. Carolyn had been making babies with my husband while I had been … what? Defending horrible, over-entitled rich kids like Benjy Stratton – arguing that they should be allowed to continue driving drunk through the streets? Fantasizing about winning the ongoing war with my office manager? About yoga classes and pastries? What kind of life was that? It seemed to me now, surrounded by the truth of it, of its sad detritus, that I was almost criminal in my own obliviousness.
How had this happened? How had I become …
this
?
‘I can’t remember why I didn’t go on that backpacking trip,’ I found myself saying out loud as Tim lay there in his cubicle, still so unresponsive, the same machines still surrounding him, their little sounds almost like background music to me now. The beeps and sighs, the scrape and squeak of nursing shoes on the linoleum out in the hall. ‘Do you remember? I was going to take a leave of absence and see the world. Just me and a backpack, and maybe a journal to write in.’
This was the first time I’d actually talked to him. Out loud.
I’d felt too self-conscious before – as if it would have been too forced, too much of a performance, too much the sort of dramatic thing I was sure Carolyn would both do and be really into, and what would I say, anyway? The wild need to harm Carolyn physically had faded somewhat,but my horror at how blind I’d been about my own life had only grown more intense as the hours ticked by in this latest endless day.
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