Shit.
That’s it.
She’s going to fail me.
She’s going to kick me out of the class.
I’ll be formally charged, and then everyone in Mount Ivy will know, and the last month will have been for nothing!
“She’s right,” Stephanie says. “All the tools you need to get to a better place are in your hands; you just have to know how to use them. For me that means regular NA meetings, counseling, phone calls with my friends from this class who actually get me . . .”
I cast a quick glance toward Iris and see her nodding along.
“Whatever your tools are, you owe it to yourself to find them and use them, because without them you’ll never be okay with yourself, and then you’re no good to anybody else.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Bates affirms. She hoists herself out of her seat and strides over toward the podium while the rest of us clap in appreciation for Stephanie’s testimony.
“Dang, that was powerful,” a misty-eyed Burty says as Bates gives Stephanie a hug and then sends her on her way. “I swear, she could be one of them motivational speakers. Like we used to have at school assemblies.”
I nod. Yes, she’s definitely motivating. Unfortunately, though, her attagirl speech can’t magically make more words appear in my journal.
“Okay, ladies.” Bates reassumes her position at the podium. “I’ve got one last journal entry I’d like you to complete, in class, before I send you back into the world. And while I’m not going to review it, I want you to put some serious thought into it. Like Stephanie said, you may need it someday.”
Whether it’s the inspiration still lingering in the air or the promise of impending liberation, my classmates quickly whip out their notebooks while I squirm, empty handed, in my chair.
She’s dragging this out.
She’s intentionally making me suffer.
Waiting until the very last moment to tell me I didn’t pass before she drops the ax—it’s payback for Chavez!
“The prompt is: What I am most looking forward to doing after this class . . .”
I see Iris and Burty scribbling down the prompt and can hear the pens and pencils of the rest of the class gliding across their papers, but I can’t do anything—
“Holliday.”
My breath catches beneath the terse sound of Bates calling my name. In my periphery, I see Iris’s hand stop mid-pen-stroke.
“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispers.
On wobbly legs, I make my way up to the podium, where Bates is waiting for me with a flat, unreadable expression on her face.
Shit.
This is it.
Shit.shit.shit.
She stares at me for a painfully long and uncomfortable beat—brown eyes boring straight into my soul—before she says, “You know, Stephanie wasn’t kidding when she said there’s a lot of good stuff in here.”
I blink hard, confused.
“I’m . . . sorry?”
She hands me my notebook. “There’s good stuff in here,” she repeats, her expression still as deadpan as it was a moment ago. “Now get to work and use it.”
I stare down at the book, brows burrowing into my forehead.
Wait—
What?
“So, does this mean . . . did I pass—”
“Sit down and respond to the prompt, Holliday. It’s the only way you’re going to pass the class.”
“Oh . . . okay.” I nod quickly, scared if I don’t shut up she might change her mind.
“And make it more than one word,” she adds, confirming that she did read my journal.
“Yes. I will.”
Heart hammering, I hustle back to my seat and flip open my notebook.
PROMPT: WHAT I AM MOST AFRAID OF IS . . .
ANSWER:
Me
My heart wrenches as I stare down at my most recent journal entry.
Me.
The twenty-two-year-old waitress who still wonders if sacrificing her happiness for stability is the better choice.
Me.
The thirty-nine-year-old mother who questions whether joint custody can ever be the right answer.
Me.
The big sister who shudders at the thought of not solving her little sister’s problems.
Me.
The daughter who can’t let go of a lifetime of resentments.
Me.
The woman who treated someone she cared about like an afterthought.
Me.
The terrified soon-to-be divorcée who wonders if she can actually do this on her own.
Through blurry eyes, I see an impression of blue ink pushing up on the back of the page, like someone’s written on the other side.
Confused, I turn it over.
You can’t be scared of someone you don’t know, Holliday.
Take the time to figure out who you are.
You’ll be glad you did.
And so will the people you’ve hurt.
CHAPTER 22
Eight weeks later . . .
“So, how did Avery respond to Dan’s big question last week?” Dr. Deangelo asks. I level her with a hard look that makes her grin. “That good, huh?”
“She told him that she’d rather get eaten by a shark than meet his boyfriend.”
She winces. “How did Dan take it?”
I sigh. “The same way he seems to respond to everything these days: he played it off like it didn’t bother him, but I could tell it hurt his feelings.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
I drop my head, ashamed by the answer that’s tickling my lips.
“Jane,” she prompts. “Remember, feelings aren’t wrong. You’re entitled to have them, whatever they are.”
“I know.”
It’s not the first time she’s told me that.
I stare down at the crocheted goat that’s attached to the tip of my pointer finger—a therapy puppet, Burty calls it—and tug on his little horn. Just like the rubber band, he provides my brain a necessary redirect when I’m feeling stressed or uneasy about something. I relied pretty heavily on him when I first started seeing Dr. Deangelo seven weeks ago (poor guy, he used to have two horns), but now he serves more as a reminder of the cheering section I’ve got outside these walls. An unexpected smirk tugs on my lip as I think back on the first time I saw one of Burty’s creations. That poor elephant . . .
Grateful for the memory, I inhale a deep breath, then raise my head and get back to the topic at hand. “It made me feel good,” I admit. “Validated, if that makes sense?”
“It does.”
“Not that I like Avery being in a position to have to feel that way. I hate that we’ve done this to her,” I continue, shaking my head with the same regret I do every Thursday between 10:00 and 11:00 a.m. “It just seems like he cares more about what she thinks than anybody else, which sort of feels like a slap in the face, considering I’m the one he cheated on, and I’m now covering his lying ass, but I don’t know . . .” I sigh. “I guess so long as someone can make him feel bad about what he’s done, that’s a good thing, right?”
She does that psychiatrist thing where she doesn’t actually answer my question; she just stares at me in that contemplative way of hers while she waits for me to come to the conclusion myself. Which I do. Yes, it’s a good thing that Dan feels some guilt for what he’s done to our family. Lord knows I can’t bear that burden on my own—something Dr. Deangelo has helped me realize.
“Does Avery ever talk to you about Dan and his relationship?”
I shake my head. “Not much. She’ll say little things in passing, but we don’t have any deep conversations about either of them. I think she saves all of that for Dr. Tidwell.”
Dr. Tidwell is the child psychologist Avery’s been talking to. She sees him once a week to help her deal with all the changes, but mostly they seem to be focusing on her anger issues (like mother, like daughter), and thankfully it’s working. Rather than acting o
ut at school, she’s learning to convey her feelings through her words: like telling her father she’d rather be chewed apart by a vicious animal than meet his special someone.
“Well, that’s still good,” she says. “So long as she’s talking to someone, and working through all those feelings, that’s the important part. We just want to keep her talking.”
Yes. Just keep her talking.
“And you’ve got the big gala coming up soon, right?”
“Tomorrow night,” I say with some trepidation.
“That’s a big day for you.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you ready?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. Part of me is terrified, because there’s so much riding on this and we still don’t know how it’s going to play out”—the Hoffstras have confirmed they will give something to the hospital, but they’ve yet to announce the actual amount; they’ll be making the announcement at the gala—“but then there’s this other part of me that’s . . . excited. Is that wrong?”
“Not at all. The gala doesn’t just have an impact on the hospital; it’s also the starting point for your new life. It makes sense that you’d be excited for that.”
I nod. I am definitely excited for the next chapter.
I’ve already spoken to an attorney in the city, who is more than happy to take on our case when the time is right, and thankfully Dan’s conceded to the plan. He’s as eager to put some distance between us as I am.
“How does Avery feel about you getting divorced?”
“She’s okay with it,” I say with a surprising amount of confidence. “I mean, she knows things are going to change again, but she seems ready for it. Like she’s eager to get on with life, whatever it looks like.”
“I think a more permanent routine will be good for both of you.” She nods encouragingly, then takes a sip of her tea and says, “And how about your journal?”
She’s referring to my notebook from the first-offenders group and the last prompt—what I’m most looking forward to—which I’ve still yet to answer beyond the pathetic placeholder I scribbled down that day: To be determined. Thankfully, Dr. Deangelo doesn’t incorporate journals and writing prompts into her treatment plans, but she is really big on “tying up loose ends so you can move forward,” so she’s been encouraging me to respond to it ever since our first appointment. Despite my many attempts, I’ve yet to come up with a more thoughtful answer.
I shake my head.
“That’s okay. The answer will be there when you’re ready.” I sigh. We’ll see . . . “Any luck finding a shelter?” she asks, which unsurprisingly brings a smile to my face.
“Yes, actually there’s one down in Cannon Park just a couple of miles from my mom. I’m going to serve lunch there on the weekends when Avery’s with Dan, and then stop in and visit with her and Julie after.”
Even though I know that Reggie, my toothless friend from the city, is safe under Chavez’s watchful eye, I still find myself thinking about him, and feeling grateful for the little rays of sunshine he brought to my life on those dark and unsettling days. In the grand scheme of things, serving up macaroni twice a month isn’t going to change the world, but my hope is that it will bring a smidge of that same kind of “Reggie light” to someone else’s life, and maybe give me a sense of purpose along the way.
“It sounds like a perfect fit,” Dr. Deangelo says. “I’m really proud of you for looking into that.” I nod, feeling a little proud myself, as she takes another sip of tea, and then she finally poses the question I’ve been dreading ever since I got here. “And how about the detective? Last time we spoke, you said you had an apology text ready to go; you just had to hit the ‘Send’ button.”
I sigh. “No.”
“How come?” She tips her head thoughtfully. “You’ve been talking about doing it for a couple of weeks now. What do you think is holding you back?”
“I don’t know.” I return my attention to the goat and start tugging on his lone horn again. “I guess I’m . . .”
“What?”
“I’m not sure exactly.” I give my head a frustrated shake. “Scared, maybe?”
“What is there to be scared of?”
More than a few responses come to mind:
That he’s moved on.
That he hates me.
That I snuffed out any spark there was between us.
But I end up saying the one that weighs heaviest on my heart. “Rejection.”
“You think he’ll reject your apology?”
Along with her belief in tying up loose ends, Dr. Deangelo also encourages patients to right wrongs when the patient feels it’s necessary. And I do. Even though I know it was the right thing to do, I still haven’t forgiven myself for the way I treated Chavez.
“Or is it possible there might be more to the conversation?” she astutely wonders.
My cheeks flush with heat, prompting a nervous laugh to feather my lungs. “I don’t know.” I tug a little harder on the horn. “Lately I’ve been missing him, I guess.”
“The physical intimacy?”
“That, yes,” I admit. “But also, the way I felt when I was with him.”
“How was that?”
I smile a little. “At ease. Special. Happy. I laughed a lot.”
“So, you think you might be interested in reconnecting on a more personal level?”
“Maybe. I . . . I don’t know.” I tug the goat off my finger and set him down on the leather cushion beside me. “I’d like to see where it could go—if there was more to our connection than just high school memories and our shared love for smashing things—but I’m not sure I can run the risk of getting rejected. I don’t think I could handle that right now.”
“Why are you so sure he’d reject you?”
I raise my head. “You didn’t see the look on his face when I broke things off with him. He was so upset.”
She shrugs. “People get upset all the time; it doesn’t always mean their feelings change.”
I’d like to believe that what she’s saying is true—that hurt feelings don’t always equate to a change of heart—but in this case, I can’t.
I shake my head. “If he still felt the same way, he would have called me by now, and he hasn’t.”
“But you haven’t called him either,” she reminds me over a pointed look.
“Yeah, but my feelings have changed,” I counter. “And that’s the problem.”
“Whoo-wee! Somebody’s lookin’ good tonight!”
Julie ogles me from the corner of the sectional as I walk into the room. I roll my eyes.
“You do look really pretty, Mom,” Avery adds over a sweet grin.
“Well, thank you.” Despite my mood, I grab the hem of my glittery midnight-blue cocktail dress and give a little curtsy.
Julie laughs while Avery turns back to the TV, groaning.
“So, big night tonight.” Julie climbs off the couch and joins me in the kitchen, where I’m grabbing a glass from the cupboard and filling it up at the sink. “Are you ready?”
I sigh. “No, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
I take a quick sip of water to wet my tongue, then tuck a little white pill into my mouth and swallow it back with a big gulp. Seventy-five milligrams of Paxil once a day—not Zoloft, and most definitely not ecstasy. “Just enough,” according to Dr. Deangelo, “to take the edge off.” And she’s right. It’s been a tremendous help.
“It’ll all be okay,” Julie reassures me over a sympathetic smile. “Even if they don’t give the hospital the money, it’ll work out. Dan may be a dick, but he’s still a good doctor. He’ll find a job somewhere else if he has to.”
I nod in agreement, though just the thought makes my heart ache. The last thing I want is to make Avery earn air miles traveling from one parent’s house to the other’s. Across town is one thing, but different cities are a different ball game.
“Speaking of the dick . . . ,” Julie mumbles, her gaze darting over my
shoulder.
I turn and see Dan striding into the house through the side door, something he does from time to time, though usually when I’m not home. Of course he looks runway ready in his tuxedo, like the Marlboro Man decided to snuff out his cigarette and join the party.
“Hello, everyone,” he says.
“Wow, Dad, you look really good,” Avery calls out.
“Thanks, sweetie. You think this monkey suit will land me some big bucks?” He waggles his brows and tugs on the edges of his bow tie.
“Eww, not if you do that.”
He chuckles in that unnerving way of his, then turns to me and says, “You look very nice, Jane.”
The compliment is for Avery’s benefit, not mine. Even though she’s aware of our animosity for each other, we still try hard to be civil.
I force a smile. “Thanks. So do you.”
“Well, isn’t this fun,” Julie mutters under her breath.
I cast her a knowing glance as I empty my glass in the sink, then set it on the drying pad.
Yeah. This is fun, all right.
“We should probably get going,” Dan offers. “Jackie’s got us on a tight schedule.”
“Yeah, I know,” I groan.
Besides having us dine at the head table with the Hoffstras and some other hospital bigwigs, Jackie has also mapped out some other potential donors she’d like us to woo at the predinner cocktail reception.
I grab my little clutch from the counter, then head over to the couch to say good night to Avery.
“Love you, sweetie.” I plant a kiss on the top of her head.
“You too,” she mutters back.
I turn to Julie. “Hopefully it won’t be too late.” A look passes between us. Over the past few weeks, my sister has become my emotional backbone, supporting me in ways I never would have imagined. And only she knows my plan for the night: As soon as the Hoffstras announce their gift, I’ll be feigning a headache and catching the first Uber off the premises. My time pretending to be Dan’s devoted wife—his devoted anything—will officially be done. “I’m guessing by ten thirty at the latest. I’ll text you if I get hung up.”
“Yeah, no worries,” she says. “We’re just going to eat ice cream and watch Footloose—”
“No, we’re not,” Avery cuts in. “I told you I don’t want to watch that. It’s old and looks stupid.”
See Jane Snap Page 28
