The Diary

by Julia Derek

  All the color has disappeared from her face as she keeps glaring at him. “Stop lying to me. I’m not fucking stupid! I saw with my own eyes how you were kissing that slutty waitress and how you disappeared into her apartment. I know where she lives.”

  He is speechless now. What is Lexi talking about? He has done no such thing. But the way she is glaring at him, the whispers of alcohol rushing up his nostrils each time she opens her mouth, tells him that she firmly believes this. Why is she thinking this?

  He remembers then that she experienced an alcohol-induced hallucination during her detox the first time she disappeared. She thought that Herman had been coming to visit her. Jason had been forced to not only find the bum again, but then also to get him on the phone to make Lexi understand that it had just been her mind playing games with her. She immediately did understand this. The doctor at the facility she had been staying at had explained to Jason that it was common for patients to sometimes experience hallucinations during alcohol-withdrawal, so he hadn’t been all that shocked.

  It must be a hallucination related to alcohol this time as well, he decides. She must have taken up drinking again and been extremely good at hiding it from him. The only reason he can imagine she’d take up drinking again would be Matt’s stillbirth. Is it possible that she has been drinking all along since then and kept it hidden from everyone despite them watching her so closely? He supposes it is, even though he thinks that he would have noticed something being off much sooner in that case. Noticed that she was drinking on a regular basis. He needs to talk to Dr. Meyer. She is the only person who can help him figure out what’s going on.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he tells Lexi, who is just glaring at him with black eyes. He doesn’t doubt for a second that she sincerely believes what she has just accused him of.

  “Don’t fucking bother,” she hisses at him as he walks to the door and opens it. Ignoring her, he exits and tells Rutherford to make sure Lexi doesn’t go anywhere while he makes a phone call. Rutherford says of course and assures Jason that he has nothing to worry about.

  Since Dr. Meyer knows of Lexi’s disappearance Jason isn’t surprised when she picks up the phone despite that it is almost three in the morning. She has already told Jason to call her at any hour whenever he needs to; she’ll be having her cell on. Dr. Meyer is as perplexed as everyone else that Lexi has decided to disappear when she was doing so well, having stopped therapy weeks ago. There had really been no need for it, though Dr. Meyer had suggested it might be wise for Lexi to come once every couple of weeks just to be sure everything stayed well. Lexi had told her she would, though for the next month she wanted to focus on work.

  “I’ve found her,” Jason says into his cell when Dr. Meyer responds, surprisingly alert despite the late hour.

  “Really? Thank goodness! Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s just drunk. We’re at the New York Presbyterian Hospital right now. Someone found her passed out on the street earlier tonight and brought her to the ER here. My investigator kept calling all the hospitals and eventually was notified that she’d been taken in at this one.”

  “Have you spoken to her? Is she awake?”

  “Yes. And she is furious with me. She’s accusing me of having an affair with some young waitress. She even claims to have seen me kiss this woman and then disappear into her apartment somewhere.” Jason inhales, frustrated. “I have of course not done any of this. I’m thinking that she’s having hallucinations caused by alcohol, even though I can’t see how I could have missed her having slipped back into drinking again for so long.”

  “Hmm. Excessive drinking could be the cause for her having hallucinations again. And I suppose she might have started drinking again without you knowing it. But it’s unlikely. I’m wondering if it might not be due to another reason.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Let me come over and talk to her before we jump to any conclusions. No need to upset you if I’m wrong. Are you at the New York Presbyterian on the Upper East Side?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  ***

  I’m still furious and drunk when Dr. Meyer suddenly comes into the hospital room I’m in. I have no recollection whatsoever how I ended up here, but I’m too exhausted to really care at the moment. The last thing I remember after I woke up in this bed and some nurse was sticking an IV drip into my arm was leaving Finnerty’s, so drunk I could barely walk. Rick had turned out to be a total asshole, just laughing at me as the bartender finally told me I’d had enough to drink and that I’d better go home. At first I told him to go fuck himself whereupon he made sure I was escorted out of the bar. Rick had remained on his barstool all along, chuckling loudly as two men made me leave. After that everything is just complete blackness.

  What truly made me wake up now, though, was when my son-of-a-bitch husband dared to show up. Thankfully, the bastard left almost as soon as he’d come.

  Dr. Meyer pulls up a chair next to my bed now, eyeing me carefully.

  What is she doing here? The nurse who came in to change my drip a while ago told me it was three thirty in the morning.

  “Hi Lexi,” Dr. Meyer says, still considering me with a concerned face. “How are you feeling?”

  I manage to give a little smirk. “I’ve felt better. Though I’m feeling surprisingly well considering my circumstances.” Something about the way she looks at me tells me she is aware of what Jason has done. He must have told her, put his own spin on things, and then asked her to come here to talk to me. Most likely to assure me it’s not true or something, but I know it is. I’ve seen it all with my own eyes. I suppose I can’t blame her for taking Jason’s side; all that he is guilty of is pretty unbelievable and my sweet husband sure doesn’t seem like a cheating killer.

  “Why did you take your father’s gun?” she asks me all of a sudden.

  “Because I was going to kill the pig and his mistress and then myself,” I blurt out. I want to bite my tongue off when I realize what I’ve said, how I have just confessed that I was about to commit a murder, but then I decide that it doesn’t matter. As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to kill myself anyway. Maybe not with my dad’s gun, but somehow I’ll manage to do it. I’m thinking pills.

  To my surprise, Dr. Meyer simply nods at my shocking statement, as if my words are completely understandable. “I see. Was that why you decided to disappear on everyone again? So you could kill Jason and his mistress?”

  I think about her questions. Then I shrug. “I guess that pretty much sums it up, yeah.”

  “How long have you been drinking?”

  I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re drunk. I thought we decided you needed to stop drinking. And you agreed and, well, as far as I know, have not been drinking for several years. When did you take up drinking again?”

  I shrug again. “What does it matter?” The voice I use is casual, neutral, but I can feel how my face is heating up and how tears begin to form in my eyes.

  “It matters a lot, Lexi,” Dr. Meyer says in that soft, soothing manner she always uses when I’m close to getting emotional. “When did you start drinking again? A while ago or recently?”

  “When I found out that Jason killed his first mistress.”

  Dr. Meyer’s eyes widen and I can tell that she is struggling not to gasp. She clears her throat instead. A tear is outlining my left cheek.

  “When did you find that out?” she asks in an even tone.

  “About a month ago.”

  “Why didn’t you call me to talk about this?” Dr. Meyer asks. “You know that what you tell me stays between you and me.”

  “Not if what I tell you could help get my husband convicted of murder,” I say in between sniffles. “I doubt you would have been as forgiving as I was in the beginning. At first I wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. I was just going to keep his secret. I know that’s horrible and makes me almost as bad as him.” I l
ook away and give something between a snort and a chuckle when I think about that day. “I suppose I’m just a weak, weak woman…” Then my gaze finds Dr. Meyer’s again. “What made me change my mind was when I realized that he’d gotten another mistress—a horrible, horrible girl who doesn’t deserve to live”—I’m snarling those last words—“and that he was most likely a psychopath. But at that point I was so upset about the whole situation that I decided that I would just kill the two of them myself and then commit suicide.”

  I’m overwhelmed with emotion suddenly, so I grab Dr. Meyer’s hands. “Trust me, these two don’t deserve to live!”

  Dr. Meyer nods. “How do you know he killed his first mistress? How did you even find out he had one?”

  “I found his diary in his drawer. It was hidden under a bunch of sweaters. He writes about all the times he was with Celeste there and how they met. He talks about what they did—nasty, depraved stuff—how he must choose between her and me and how hard this is for him. How I’m the one he loves the most. Then, after all those notes, he’s written I killed her across one entire page.”

  Dr. Meyer is staring at me with big eyes now. I can’t blame her. I was shocked myself to say the least when I found out who my husband really is and what he has done.

  “I never knew your husband kept a journal,” Dr. Meyer says after some time.

  “He has been writing in his journal for years. But lately he’s been hiding it from me.”

  She tsks. “That’s not good. What color is this journal?”

  I think about her weird question. What does the color of it matter? But I still reply. “A grayish blue. Very well used, I should add.”

  She nods again. “So you and he both keep a journal then.”

  I frown at her. “I don’t keep a journal. Jason is the writer in the family, remember,” I add.

  “You started to keep a journal after Celeste died. At least you were supposed to do this and you assured me you did.”

  What is she talking about? “Why would I keep a journal after Jason’s girlfriend died? I didn’t even know she existed until about a month ago. I just told you this.”

  “Lexi, I’m talking about your daughter who died several years ago.”

  I laugh. Is she drunk? I’ve never had a daughter!

  But Dr. Meyer doesn’t join my laughter; she merely gives a sad little smile. “Lexi, don’t you find it odd that your husband’s mistress and your daughter were both called Celeste?”

  “Please stop saying such morbid things!” I scream at Dr. Meyer, completely outraged now. “I’ve never had a daughter and if I did, I would never name her Celeste!”

  Dr. Meyer doesn’t respond, but just stands up and leaves the room. When she comes back a couple of minutes later, she is holding something in her hand. She sits down on the chair next to me and gives me a small photo.

  I can’t resist looking at it. It’s of a dark-haired, gorgeous toddler who is instantly familiar to me, but I have no idea why. I just know that looking at her grinning face makes me cry.

  I keep staring at the photo, crying harder. Where have I seen this little girl before? She is adorable.

  I hand the photo back to Dr. Meyer. Looking at it is too painful. Besides, my tears are practically blinding me by now, so I can’t see much anyway.

  “Lexi,” Dr. Meyer says. “That’s the only Celeste there is. And she was your daughter.”

  Chapter 27

  The snow is falling outside the living room window in my parents’ house out on Long Island. I’m sitting curled up in an armchair, drinking tea while watching the pretty winter landscape. I’ve been staying with my parents since I was discharged from the New York Presbyterian Hospital the next day, a little over four weeks ago now. It’s on Dr. Meyer’s recommendation that I’m staying here, and also because I myself think it’s the best place for me to be, away from the city and Jason, until I have figured out what’s going on with me. Because something is clearly not right, though I’m not sure I agree with Dr. Meyer’s diagnosis of me and the situation. I’m not sure what to believe about anything anymore.

  Dr. Meyer claims I’m a paranoid schizophrenic. She explained this to me after showing me the photo of that adorable, blue-eyed baby girl. She believes the disease was triggered in connection with Matt’s stillbirth. Being a paranoid schizophrenic is why I’m thinking that I saw Jason jump in a cab and drive out to Queens where I saw him with this woman. According to Dr. Meyer, it was all just hallucinations. She says Jason was on a business dinner that night and that I’m welcome to check with his coworkers. The conversation I overheard between the waitress and the bartender at Capital Grille was likely an auditory hallucination, at least partly. In addition to my hallucinations and delusions, I apparently display other clear symptoms of the disease, such as apathy and catatonic behavior, but my depression managed to disguise them.

  I may have accepted Dr. Meyer’s diagnosis if it wasn’t for the fact that I still don’t believe that baby girl used to be my daughter and that I accidentally killed her. I mean, come on, it’s ridiculous! How could I ever forget something like that?

  “You’re not forgetting, Lexi,” Dr. Meyer’s voice echoes through my head. “You’re repressing the memory right now because it’s too painful to deal with. It’s not an abnormal response considering the extreme stress you’ve been under the last several years.”

  I shake my head to make her voice go away.

  What about what I saw in Jason’s diary? Was that also a hallucination? It was so incredibly specific and so incredibly long. Is it really possible to have such a hallucination? And what about the article I found online about Celeste’s murder? I know that was not a hallucination because as soon as I got out of the New York Presbyterian hospital and was alone with a computer at my parents’ house, I saw it again! Which makes me wonder if Dr. Meyer is trying to cover for Jason for some inexplicable reason.

  31-year-old Celeste Hyland was murdered and the case is still unsolved.

  Besides, you’d think that if Jason is completely innocent—and if he truly loves me as much as he has always claimed that he does—he would have contacted me at some point after I was discharged from the hospital. But he hasn’t. The last time I saw or heard from him was when he left my room there, telling me he’d be right back.

  That’s it.

  Please tell me, would any husband who loves his wife as much as Jason supposedly loves me go MIA on her for an entire month? I don’t think so. Whenever I tell my mom or sister or father this, all of whom are with me pretty much all the time, at least one of them, they tell me that Jason does love me and that’s exactly why he has decided to disappear on me for some time. They tell me that I need to be patient. Everything will be okay in the end.

  I have a sip of my tea and think about how only time will tell who is right—me or them.

  My mother joins me then. She is carrying the plate of cookies that she promised me she would bring a few minutes ago. In her other hand, she is holding a worn, faded blue book. I stare at it. Is that Jason’s diary?

  She extends me the plate with cookies—my favorite, chocolate chip ones. I shake my head; after laying eyes on the book she is holding in her hand, my appetite immediately disappeared.

  “Well, I’ll put them here and then later you can have some,” she says and puts them on a side table nearby. Then she puts the worn, blue book in my lap, causing me to jerk. “I think you should read what’s in here.”

  Before I can ask her what it is, she has turned around and left the room.

  My eyes return to the book in my lap and I’m suddenly ice cold. It is Jason’s diary.

  Why does my mom have Jason’s diary?

  As if my fingers have a life of their own, they open the book. My brain is screaming no, I don’t want to read about him and Celeste again, but the rest of my body is too eager to read what’s between those threadbare covers again. The masochistic side of me wants to make me hurt again.

  And it only takes me a f
ew seconds to discover that the writing on the pages inside is not Jason’s. It’s my own.

  I begin to read all the pages filled with my own handwriting and it doesn’t take long before I’m enwrapped in the story. I learn that, if I’m to believe my own words, I did indeed have a daughter named Celeste. She was born a beautiful day in June in the year 2006.

  Captivated, I continue to read about all the things I used to do with this little girl, sometimes together with Jason. The stories are random and don’t follow a strict timeline—for example, she is speaking in complete sentences, an occasion that is written several months before the story of her first birthday. After the birthday there are several pages about how she is starting to teeth at seven months of age. At one point she is turning two, but right after that she is learning to walk, which just has to be in reverse.

  I keep reading and reading until I get to a section in which the writing is particularly hard to read even if it’s my own. It seems to have been written so fast and with so much urgency that I must not have paid attention to its legibility when I wrote it:

  I’m very busy today, so much going on that I need to have done before we’re leaving for vacation. I’m working from home while at the same time preparing for our trip. I know how much Celeste is looking forward to swimming in the ocean finally, so I want to make sure I don’t forget her favorite swimming gear. She has been so good lately, always smiling and never pouting. She deserves to have a great time. I’m running around the apartment, doing five things at once while talking to my boss over the phone. Celeste keeps wanting me to pick her up. I cover the phone and tell her all right, as long as she promises not to say a word while mommy is talking on the phone. She grins big and nods yes, stretching out her chubby arms in my direction. I can’t help but laugh a little, who can resist such a gesture?

  I bend down and pick her up, putting her against my hip. She’s become heavier in the last few months, having grown a lot. It’s more work carrying her around now, especially with the speed that I’m moving around the apartment. But she is being just as good as she promised me she would be as she sits there, sucking on her thumb while I’m talking to Angie. Thank God for headsets.