by Cecilia Lyra
“What’s this?” He held up an empty pint of Häagen-Dazs in my hand. Chocolate Midnight Cookies—an old favorite, though that day it tasted like salty cardboard.
I slowly sat up, my mind muddled because of the pills.
According to Patrick, I struggled to finish a sentence. All I remember is feeling exhausted. I remember Patrick asking me where I’d gotten the ice cream. He looked concerned, which made sense. It was probably the first time he saw me eating ice cream since we’d gotten married, or sleeping during the day.
“Bought it.” I didn’t say it was my second pint. Food eased the pain.
I went back to sleep. It was better this way. If I was awake, I’d cry. Knowing Patrick was home soothed me. As a girl, I didn’t always have my dad around. But as a woman, my husband came home to me every evening. It felt steady, reassuring.
I tried to reach my dad, but all I got was his voicemail. I knew he’d broken up with his girlfriend a while back (Clara? Clarisse? I never got around to meeting her) and I didn’t like the idea of him being alone after losing his mother.
I felt sad, of course—but mostly I felt guilty. I hadn’t seen Nana in so long. After I got married, I stopped spending whole summers with her in Montauk. An understandable change—Patrick never took time off work, and I couldn’t spend weeks apart from him. That’s not how our marriage works. Still, for the first few years, I had made it a point to visit Nana for a few days, always during the week. But soon our social calendars became too busy—or rather Patrick’s did. It seemed like every week there was a fundraiser, a book launch, an exhibit. Patrick sees these gatherings as networking opportunities, which I suppose they are. But he also takes it to an extreme: everything is about career advancement to him. He’s the most ambitious person I know. And I wanted to support him—good wives are supportive. And so I cut back on my days in Montauk. Eventually, I stopped going altogether.
Before I knew it, three years had gone by. Nana and I spoke often on the phone, but when she passed away, I hadn’t seen her in three years. Three years.
How had I let that happen?
The guilt was crushing, overwhelming. It felt like drowning. The pills helped, but only because they made me sleep longer. I hoped I’d dream about Nana, but I never did.
In that moment, I would’ve given anything to have another summer with my grandmother. Or even a day, an hour. Anything. I wanted to call Cassie. She was the only person who would be able to understand what I was going through. Hearing her voice would somehow make it better, mend the hole in my heart. But, of course, that was impossible. And that just made me hurt more. Eat more. Sleep more.
The call from the lawyer’s office came the next day. I was expected to go in for the reading of Nana’s will. Both Cassie and me—when I heard that bit, it felt like there was a flock of birds trapped inside my chest. I’d get to see Cassie. We’d be in the same room together for the first time in fourteen years! The meeting was set up for the following week. Now, I was guilt-ridden and anxious. My fairy tales just weren’t enough anymore. And I had no energy to exercise. So I walked to Convenience City and stocked up on junk food: pints of ice cream, candy, cans of condensed milk—I was hoping to recreate the dessert Nana used to make. For the record, I failed. I drank the condensed milk straight from the can.
Four days later, Patrick pointed out, not unkindly, that I had gained weight.
“It’s all the ice cream,” he said, eyeing the spoon I had in my mouth at that very moment. “Lately, it feels like all you do is eat and sleep.”
“I just lost my grandmother,” I said.
“That’s no excuse for stuffing your face and napping all day.” His tone was affectless, but the disapproval was written across his face.
His words stung. Not because they were untrue: I had gained weight, and I was sleeping a lot more than usual. Still, I felt he was being unreasonable. These were unusual circumstances: I was hurting, grieving. It’s not like I did this sort of thing all the time. Back in school, I’d often indulge in a midday nap or a bag of Doritos. But ever since we moved in together, I’d slowly phased out of these habits. Patrick has never been shy about criticizing what he perceives as unhealthy behavior. And I have always been eager to please him. But right then, I didn’t care about staying healthy. I didn’t care about my weight. I told Patrick as much.
“We have the benefit on Sunday,” he reminded me. “At the Museum of Fine Arts.”
“That’s the day before the reading of the will. I can’t go.”
“I need you there. The governor is coming.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Patrick has social anxiety. He denies it—he thinks it makes him seem weak. But he does. I, on the other hand, am an extrovert. Having me on his arm at these sorts of functions makes everything easier. I didn’t mind my role. In all honesty, I loved it: it made me feel purposeful, needed. But, in that moment, I resented it tremendously.
“Wear the silver dress I love so much?”
“Sure,” I said.
But I didn’t stop eating the ice cream. A minor act of rebellion.
The next morning, I tried on the dress. The zipper wouldn’t close. The extra weight wouldn’t have made a difference in a different gown—but the silver one was particularly form-fitting. Patrick walked inside my closet and winced.
For a moment I wanted to push him out the window.
“I’ll go on a diet,” I said.
I expected him to dismiss my suggestion. To point out that I had a closet full of couture. That I could go shopping.
Instead, he said, “You have four days.” And then: “And no more pills. You need to stay awake to exercise. I’m going to count how many are in the bottle. If I see one missing, you’ll have to explain yourself to me.”
“Fine,” I said, through gritted teeth.
My diet consisted of starving myself. It was easier than I expected. As it turns out, both overeating and starvation are effective ways to deal with pain—they’re both numbing. I subsisted on oxygen and coconut water, which Sophie had taught me to be both filling and a laxative. I laid off the Xanax, reasoning that they wouldn’t go well with my empty stomach anyway.
By the day of the party, I was one pound lighter than I was before Nana passed away. Patrick beamed with pride when he saw me wearing his dress of choice. Here’s the thing about Patrick: he’s generous with his compliments—as long as I follow his rules. That night, he spun me around and said I’d be the most beautiful woman at the party.
I agreed: I looked stunning.
I started feeling dizzy in the middle of the governor’s speech. At first, I thought it was because I was bored—the man was very dull. I tried distracting myself with a fairy tale, but I couldn’t. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I felt lightheaded, and I was both shivering and sweating—a combination that had me alarmed. Patrick and I—along with the senior partners at the firm—were standing close to the stage. I wanted a glass of water. To sit down. I remember looking for chairs nearby.
The next thing I remember is waking up to the sound of my name.
“Julie?” a female voice was saying. “Julie?” She used the American pronunciation.
I opened my eyes. A woman was standing in front of me, her frowning face uncomfortably close to mine. She was wearing a simple black pantsuit and an earpiece.
“Are you her husband?” the woman said.
I thought she was talking to me. Her question made no sense—how could I be my own husband? But then I heard Patrick’s voice.
“I am,” he said.
“Can you hear me, Julie?” Our eyes met.
“Yes,” I said. My throat was dry. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You fainted. We were worried about you. How are you feeling?”
“Did I interrupt the speech?” I looked around. We were in a different room. Had I been carried here?
“Don’t you worry about that,” she said.
“I’m really sorry,”
I said again. I was aware I sounded like a parrot. But I just felt so awful.
“Stop apologizing, silly,” the woman said.
“Could I get some water?”
“Right away,” the woman said.
I reached out for Patrick’s hand as soon as she left. He looked tense, wound up. I felt awful. I knew how embarrassed he must feel, having me faint in the middle of an important speech. Patrick was too self-conscious to be able to laugh it off. I understood that about him. I knew the vulnerable side he didn’t share with anyone else.
Seconds later, I had my water. I drank it in one gulp. It was pure relief.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize to me again,” the woman said. “You did nothing wrong.”
“How are you feeling, darling?” Patrick asked.
The kindness is his voice lifted my spirits. I felt such gratitude towards him, such love. I knew it wasn’t easy for him, being so understanding. Over the years, there’d been countless moments when I’d accidentally embarrassed him in public. He’d turn beet red with the smallest things. If I mispronounced a word. Or accidentally cut in line. If I walked into a door before someone walked out of it. To most people, these are oversights, inconsequential mistakes. But to someone with Patrick’s crippling self-awareness, they are catastrophic events.
“I’m better now,” I said. “Maybe a little weak.”
Patrick decided we should leave early. I told him I was OK to stay, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I was touched by his concern. I knew what a big deal these functions were to him. But when we got in the car, his demeanor changed.
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Patrick, I fainted. It’s not like I did it on purpose.” And then, because it needed to be said, “You were the one who wanted me to wear this dress. I haven’t had anything solid in days.”
“This has nothing to do with dieting. You always do this, slip away into God knows where inside your head. If you’d been paying attention, you wouldn’t have fainted.”
“You think I fainted because I wasn’t paying attention?” I half-laughed, though I wasn’t amused. “To what, gravity?”
He sighed heavily. “Grow up, Julie. Get your head out of the clouds.”
It’s something I’d often heard as a child, too. Get your head out of the clouds. It used to hurt me, until Nana confided in me that her parents used to say the same thing to her when she was a kid. Don’t listen to them, Julie, she used to say. You can’t beat the view from up here.
But Nana wasn’t there anymore. She was gone.
“What were you thinking?” he continued.
“I wasn’t. I was passed out.”
“In front of all my colleagues. They’re probably talking about it right now.”
“Patrick, these past few days have been hell for me,” I began, my tone incredulous. This was a new low, even for him. Had he forgotten that I was mourning the loss of my grandmother? “All I’ve wanted to do was cry and sleep—”
“Is that what this is about?” He glared at me. “Have you been popping Xanax like some drug addict?”
His words struck me like an open palm across the face. “No,” I managed to say.
We went quiet for a few minutes. I kept replaying his comment in my mind, silently seething at his cruelty. Have you been popping Xanax like a drug addict? Who says something like that?
After a while—five minutes, maybe more—I heard him clear his throat. I assumed he was about to launch into an apology. Or at least that he’d say something nice. Pay me another compliment.
But that’s not what happened.
“That was really embarrassing, Julie,” Patrick repeated. “I hope it never happens again.”
“Not for me it wasn’t.” My tone was defensive. “People faint. It happens.”
“So why were you constantly apologizing to that woman?” he asked. “People heard you, you know.”
“Because I knew you’d be upset,” I said. “My first thought when I woke up was ‘Patrick is going to be mad at me.’ It sucks to see that I was right.”
“Of course I’m upset, Julie. You acted like a child in there, fainting like an unprepared girl. And, to make it worse, you had to keep apologizing until the minute we left. You made it seem like I’d be angry at you for fainting. They’re probably talking about me right now. Calling me insensitive, cruel.”
His words felt like a slap in the face.
In that moment, all I could think was, That’s exactly what they should be saying about you.
But I kept it to myself.
I remember thinking I’d never be able to tell anyone about our evening because if anyone were to hear about his behavior, they’d tell me to run for the hills. What kind of man reprimands his wife for fainting?
Except now I’m telling Janette everything. I half expect her to get up, drive to Boston, drag Patrick out of the apartment, and slap him senseless. Instead, she reaches over, cups my hand, and threads her fingers through mine.
“I’m sorry that happened.” There’s a gentleness to her tone. But there’s something else, too. A muted impatience. A total lack of surprise.
“He didn’t used to be like this,” I say. I don’t mean it as a defense, but as a statement of fact. Patrick didn’t used to be this way. He’s always been too self-aware for his own good: image-conscious and overly concerned with others’ opinions. And he’s always been particular about his routine. But, over the years, his fixation on appearances has become pathological. I used to think that the more power he amassed—I met Patrick when he was still an associate, and now he’s a senior partner—the more secure he’d become. But the opposite has happened. Lately, his insecurity has bordered on paranoia. It’s turning him into a cruel man.
I watch as Janette bites the inside of her cheek. “I have to ask,” she begins, her tone tentative, “do you think it’s going to get better?”
Silence stretches between us. I don’t know how to answer her question.
Not without crying.
Eleven
Cassie
Sunday, July 1st
Christina has ordered the quinoa bowl. It looks tasty, but insubstantial.
“Is that all you’re eating?” I ask.
We’re sitting on the patio at Babette’s, a restaurant on Newton Lane that Christina promised would be worth the drive. And by the look of the cinnamon swirl French toast in front of me, she’s right.
“Don’t mock, Cass,” Rachel says. “Not all of us can be born with your metabolism.”
“You’re both way tinier than me.” I’m a magnet for petite people. I feel like a female version of Gulliver when I’m around my friends.
“You’re tall.” Christina takes a swig of her mimosa. “Weight distribution is on your side.”
“You know what? I apologize.” I take a bite of my French toast. It tastes even better than it looks. “We shouldn’t be talking about food, or our weights.”
“Or else the patriarchy wins,” Christina adds.
“Exactly.” I nod.
“Drink,” Rachel says with a smile. “She said ‘patriarchy.’”
We all laugh—and drink. Christina’s unapologetic feminism is one of her many admirable qualities.
“Cassie, don’t keep us in suspense. We both want to know how things are going with your sister.” Christina says sister like one would say pet dragon or unicorn.
I roll my eyes—it’s rude, but I don’t care. Must everything be about Julie?
“Come on.” Rachel leans forward. “We’re curious. We drove all the way from Boston for this.”
“It’s been so weird,” I say. “She keeps offering me food. Compulsively, I mean.”
“That’s kind of sweet,” Rachel offers. “She’s probably missed you.”
I definitely don’t think this is true. Julie had fourteen years to reach out to me, but she never did. We live in the same
city.
“No, it’s weird. It’s like she’s trying to be Nana. Plus, she looks like a Stepford wife.” I don’t add that this is particularly disconcerting because, as a teenager, Julie had a laid-back, bohemian style. Now she looks like a magazine cutout: glamorous, polished, but ultimately artificial. “It’s whatever. She’s changed. I’ve changed. It’s been forever.”
“But now you’re living with her,” Christina says. “You two share a history.”
“And a house,” Rachel adds.
“And a dad,” Christina finishes.
The last one is patently false. Not that I’d ever be able to explain it to them.
Julie and I have the same father—biologically speaking. But we didn’t have the same parent. From what she’s told me—and this was something we discussed at length as kids—her father was a happy person. Flawed, of course. Absent and untrustworthy—but loving and cheerful. A pleasant person.
My father was an altogether different individual.
I did not have an absent father. He traveled a lot on business—which I later learned was a lie: he’d been staying at Julie’s house. But he was a constant figure in my life. He never missed a music recital or a track meet. He came to parent-teacher conferences and Father’s Day events at my school. He also spent every summer with my mom and me at Nana’s house—he only stopped after Julie and I met and began coming by ourselves. I do not remember sitting at the dinner table until the early hours of the morning, hungry because I refused to eat until he showed up—which is something Julie had done quite a few times.
What I do remember was his explosive temper. I was terrified of my father.
“We could stop by the house, you know,” Rachel says. “Meet her for ourselves. Since you won’t tell us anything.”
