Goodnight Beautiful

by Aimee Molloy

  “Hello,” Sam says, greeting the patient standing by the couch. “Come on in, sit wherever you’d like.”

  Chapter 6

  “A typical female can lay between 500 and 600 eggs,” I read on the website, repulsed. “Brown and yellow, with a skull shape on its thorax, it’s known as the death’s-head hawkmoth.” I take a closer look at the illustration, wondering if these could be the annoying things that came out of Agatha Lawrence’s boxes, eating their way through the linens. “In many cultures, they are thought to be a bad omen, and—”

  Someone’s outside. I peer out the window. It’s Sam, sitting on the bottom step of the porch, reading. By the time I open the front door to join him, he’s on his feet, the book tucked under his arm.

  “Shoot,” I say. “Was about to join you for a cup of coffee. Am I too late?”

  “Yeah, I have to get downstairs. Was trying to get in some reading.”

  “What’s the book?” I ask.

  He holds it up. “Misery, by Stephen King. It’s totally deranged.” He lowers his voice. “Speaking of deranged, back to work.”

  I shoot him a playful look and watch him retreat down the path. Back inside, I click the dead bolt into place and head to the study. He’s right: back to work.

  * * *

  I know his routine by heart:

  He makes a cup of coffee in the waiting room.

  Walks to his desk and flips on the radio, depressing himself with politics on Morning Edition while waiting for his first patient to arrive.

  The bell rings, and he goes to the closet, where he keeps his blue Brooks Brothers sports jacket.

  Jacket goes on, radio goes off, door opens.

  “Good morning,” Sam says.

  “Hi, Sam.” It’s Numb Nancy, right on time for her ten a.m. She’s the head of development at Meadow Hills, a private boarding school twenty-three miles north, recently lost her lust for life.

  “Come in, have a seat where you’d like,” Sam says. He says this a lot. Allowing patients to choose where to sit is all part of the work (I’ve been reading up on therapy techniques in my spare time, and people in the biz would see this as diagnostic). Nancy takes a seat on the far side of the sofa, the farthest point from Sam’s chair (and directly under the vent). It’s the spot chosen by a majority of patients. Only the Pharmacist’s Wife chooses the opposite end.

  Nancy unzips a bag. “Give me a minute to set up,” she says.

  She has a health condition. Tarsal tunnel syndrome. It causes numbness in both heels and treatment includes rolling the soles of the feet along two hard, spiky balls at least three times a day. What better time to do this than the next forty-five minutes, which, if last week was any indication, Nancy will spend grousing to Sam about Angela, her seventeen-year-old daughter.

  “Angela asked me this morning if she can invite that boy on vacation with us,” she begins. Bingo. “That boy” is what she calls her daughter’s boyfriend, despite the fact that he’s twenty-two.

  Nancy knows about the relationship only because a few weeks ago, she set her alarm for four in the morning and snuck into Angela’s room to snoop through her phone. She discovered their texts, as well as her daughter’s secret Instagram account, which, to be honest, is pretty damning. I’ve looked. The account is private, and I had to create a fake account, pretending to be the brooding but attractive seventeen-year-old girl whose photo I copied from the Facebook account of someone in Brisbane, Australia. It worked: Angela accepted my request the next morning, allowing me access to all two hundred and six photos, which prove that she and “that boy” seem to like each other very much.

  To be clear, I know it’s wrong what I’m doing (i.e., binging on Sam’s therapy sessions, five days a week for the last month), but who wouldn’t? The things I’ve heard. The Lipstick Painter’s impotent boyfriend! The Pharmacist’s Wife’s waning interest in the Pharmacist! The Somber Superintendent of Schools, who I often see at the grocery store, and her existential anxiety. How am I supposed to stop?

  And it’s not only them I’m interested in, it’s him, too, Dr. Statler. Hearing the way he speaks to his patients—the comfort with their vulnerability, the sympathy—I can’t turn away. And just because something isn’t right doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s not like I’m putting children in cages. In fact, I think what I’m doing is good for Sam’s patients, another dose of positive energy, as I am genuinely rooting for every one of them.

  Well, everyone except Christopher Zucker, VP of Idiots at a new widget company where he earns enough to spend a half hour blabbing to Sam about his blind adoration of David Foster Wallace. Skinny Jeans, that’s my pet name for him, after I saw him sauntering out of Sam’s office in those ludicrous three-hundred-dollar Diesels. He’s Sam’s only male client, and just the kind of guy I’ve always hated. Pretty boy with a model girlfriend. His is named Sofie with an f. She’s Czech and, according to Skinny Jeans, crazy in bed. Eastern European girls are known to be this way, he explained, assigning it to “all that Communist oppression,” and it took every ounce of restraint not to shout at him through the vent, reminding him that the Czech Republic returned to a liberal democracy in 1989.

  Sam and Numb Nancy talk for a while—her husband says she’s being too strict with Angela, but he’s not in touch with what today’s world is like—when the room goes suddenly quiet.

  “Something happened the other night,” Nancy says. “I was making dinner, and out of nowhere, this memory pops into my head. My mom, going out at night and leaving me and Jill alone.”

  “How old were you?” Sam asks.

  “Six, probably. Which would mean Jill was three. I can see it so clearly. Getting out of bed, finding the house empty, her bed made. I was terrified.”

  “Where do you think she was?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Sam waits a moment. “How often would this happen?”

  “Definitely more than once.” Her voice is strained. “I called Jill the other day, asked her if she had any recollection of this. She didn’t.”

  “Have you asked your mom?”

  “No. I’m afraid I’m making it up.”

  “Why would you make it up?” Sam asks.

  “You’re the doctor. You tell me.”

  “Okay. You’re not making it up. Rather, it’s an experience you’ve had to suppress, even in the moment, dealing with the fear of knowing you and your sister were in the house alone. As the oldest, you were in charge, which heightened the anxiety. It’s natural for the brain to shut down in some ways during traumatic moments like these, suppress the memory so that it can’t be easily accessed.”

  “Traumatic?” Her voice is strained. “Isn’t that a little much?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Sam pauses, and his tone takes on a more gentle quality when he speaks. “I’ve been working in the field of childhood trauma for most of my professional career, and trust me, trauma comes in many forms.”

  I imagine what he looks like right now. At ease in his chair, his legs crossed, his fingers tented in front of his mouth.

  “Let’s talk a little bit more about your childhood,” he quietly suggests. “What was it like in your house?”

  I close my eyes. My house? I ask. It was a disaster. I left as soon as I could. I do this sometimes, I pretend it’s me down there, sitting across from Sam on the couch, admitting to things I’ve never told him.

  I hate to say this, Dr. Statler, but I haven’t been completely forthcoming with you, I would say.

  For instance?

  For instance, I’m not the self-assured person I portray, the one with the sunny background and two devoted parents. In fact, my parents hated each other, and neither had any idea what to do with me.

  I want to believe that he wouldn’t be mad. Instead, he’d suggest we explore why I felt the need to lie to him. After a good forty-five minutes discussing it, we’d agree that I wanted to believe the lies I’ve told him. In fact, there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to be pa
rt of a happy family, so I devised an alternative reality.

  It wasn’t my intention to lie to him. After all, if there’s anyone equipped to handle the truth of a messy childhood, it’s the man who coauthored “Stored Childhood Trauma and Symptom Complexity: A Sample of 1,653 Elementary Students,” appearing in the January 2014 issue of the Journal of Personality and Psychology. But then I met him, and he was so accomplished and impressive—a PhD, a teaching position at Bellevue Hospital—and what was I going to do, tell him the truth?

  “This was useful,” Sam says. “Let’s be sure to come back to this next week.”

  Startled, I open my eyes and look at the clock on the floor beside me. It’s 10:46. We’re one minute over the end time of Numb Nancy’s session. I’d lost myself daydreaming.

  “It’s crazy,” Nancy says with a laugh, sounding a little less numb. “I came in here today thinking I had nothing to say.”

  “Always my favorite kind of session,” Sam says. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s good to delve into this.”

  As I hear Sam lead her into the waiting room, I wonder if I’ll ever be brave enough to tell him the truth and finally show someone who I am.

  Because if not Sam, who?

  Chapter 7

  Sam parks, flustered, forty minutes late to meet Annie. She’s coming from visiting his mother, and he texted her a half hour ago that a patient had run late and he was on his way, but in reality he was at home, waiting to intercept the mail. Still no paperwork from Rushing Waters, granting him power of attorney over his mother’s accounts. He dashes across the street into the restaurant. A four-piece jazz ensemble is playing in the corner, doing nothing for the headache he’s been fighting since lunch, and he notices the fireplace in the back, the French doors open to a stone terrace lit with clear lights and scattered with the leaves that have begun to fall.

  Sam can’t believe this is the same place that was once the Howard Family Restaurant, the shabby diner at the edge of town where everyone gathered after school, where the girls would chain-smoke Salem Slim Lights and dip their french fries into a shallow bowl of ranch dressing as he looked on, deciding which among them to pursue next. It was now Chestnut, owned and operated by some guy from California, on his way to his first Michelin star, chicken on the menu for $31.

  Sam scans the room for Annie, praying to God none of his patients are here. A woman in a navy suit with a baby strapped to her chest is surrounded by a crowd in the dining room. That must be her: the mayoral candidate hosting this meet-and-greet. A thirty-three-year-old mother of newborn twins, vying to become the first woman elected mayor of Chestnut Hill. Annie suggested they come.

  Sam feels on edge and makes his way to the bar for a double whisky, noticing a blond woman with wiry arms in a black sleeveless dress eyeing him from the corner seat, a coy smile on her face. Sam nods and looks away, knowing nothing good ever comes from a woman flashing that kind of smile, and spots Annie talking to an elderly couple near a table set with coffee. She’s wearing a baggy linen dress that still somehow shows off her curves, and he feels a flash of heat, remembering last night. He went to the gym to work off the stress—two phone calls from credit companies and a letter from a debt collector—and the house was dark when he got home. Five minutes later the doorbell rang, and he opened the door to find Annie standing on the porch, wearing bright red lipstick. “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, that look in her eyes. “But my car broke down nearby, and my phone is dead. Can I use yours to call my husband?”

  She stepped inside and looked around, complimented him on the lovely decor.

  “I can’t take the credit,” he said. “My wife’s the one with taste.”

  She nodded, trailed her fingers along the leather sofa, and examined the painting above the fireplace, which she’d bought herself from an artist in Bushwick before leaving New York. “What a shitty day I’ve had,” she said. “Any chance you want to pour me a drink?”

  She was naked a half hour later, didn’t even make it to the bed.

  “The chase,” that’s what she calls it, introduced him to it early on in their relationship, at the wedding he’d been shopping for at Brooks Brothers. She approached him at the dessert table as the evening drew to a close, introduced herself as if they’d never met. Her name was Lily, she said. She was a distant cousin of the groom’s, visiting from Boise, where she raised sheep and sold hats she knitted herself. He played along, offered to share a cab with her. She chatted with the driver, telling him she’d never been to the city before, never seen so many people in one place, Sam’s hand up her skirt the whole time.

  It quickly became a regular thing. The hot waitress. The accountant with a dark side. She was astonishingly good at it: surprising him, imagining different characters, role-playing them to perfection, leading Sam in a slow dance toward the inevitable finale: mind-blowing sex with a stranger of sorts.

  Annie Potter, his gloriously sexy, brilliant wife.

  He waits until the older couple walks away before crossing the room and approaching her. “Sorry I’m late,” he says, kissing her.

  “Are you late?” she asks, avoiding eye contact. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She snatches a canapé from a passing tray. “Just wishing I wasn’t married to a cheater.”

  He shoots her a look of disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last night.”

  “I’m not mad,” she says. “But I am a native English speaker, so I’m aware that geocache is a made-up word.”

  “Annie.” Sam takes her gently by the shoulders and turns her to face him. “Look it up. Official Scrabble Player’s Dictionary. Fifth edition.”

  She squints at him, skeptical. “How do you even know that?”

  “I read it somewhere. They picked it as the word of 2014, from a contest. It beat out zen.”

  “A contest? That’s how we’re adding words to the language now?” She takes a bite of the canapé, leaving a smudge of melted brie on her lip. “Reality television. Is there anything it hasn’t destroyed?”

  “Well, if you’d like . . . ,” Sam whispers into her ear. “I’m happy to declare you the winner. We can find a broom closet somewhere, let you claim your prize.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” Annie murmurs, softening. “But I’m here to meet my candidate.”

  “You talk to her yet?” he asks, thumbing the cheese off Annie’s lip.

  “I want to, but I can’t figure out what to do first,” Annie says. “Do I meet her, or do I greet her?”

  “You greet her,” he says.

  “No. That would be a greet-and-meet, and the invitation clearly said ‘Meet and Greet.’” There’s commotion around them, and Sam turns to see the candidate making her way into the bar area, pausing to shake hands. “I guess this is it,” Annie says, finishing her wine and handing Sam the glass. “Wish me luck.”

  Sam rests an elbow on the bar as Annie walks to the back of the room and takes her place in line.

  “Well, howdy neighbor.” It’s her, the blond woman he noticed when he walked in. She looks vaguely familiar, and he’s able to put it together. She’s the neighbor from Cherry Lane, with the brown house and small dog. She’s waved at him a few times from her front yard, raking leaves in that bright red coat with the logo of the university. The Big Reds. (“Like the gum?” Annie asked on the afternoon of the first home game, insisting she and Sam show their hometown pride and attend.)

  “Sam Statler,” he says to the woman, extending his hand.

  Her eyes grow big, and she laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” She can tell by his face that he’s not. “It’s me,” she huffs. “Sidney.”

  Sidney? “Sidney Martin!” There it is. Summer, 1999. Her basement, the couch with scratchy plaid upholstery, praying like hell her father, the beefy guy with the lawn service, didn’t come downstairs for one of the beers he kept in the fridge.

/>   “I’m Sidney Pigeon now,” she says, flashing a diamond. “Married Drew, class of ’93? Anyway, I read that profile of you in the paper. Nice photos.”

  “It was the realtor’s idea,” he says, self-conscious. “She thought it would be good for business.”

  “Well, it seems to be working, if the number of cars pulling in and out of that driveway are any indication. Couldn’t believe when I realized it was you across the street, in that big mansion—” Sidney’s interrupted by a peal of laughter from behind her, and she turns, noticing Annie and the candidate, leaning in close like old friends. “Looks like someone’s pinned you down,” she says. “How long you been married?”

  “Thirteen weeks.”

  “Thirteen weeks?” she says. “That’s awfully precise.”

  “It’s a thing,” he says. “We celebrate every week.”

  “Well, isn’t that adorable. Thought you’d still be single and breaking hearts.”

  “Not anymore,” he says. “I’m a changed man.”

  “Sure you are,” she says, in a tone he doesn’t love. “Speaking of which, do you remember . . .” Sidney nods her head toward the far wall, where the bathrooms are, and yes, he does remember. The women’s bathroom at three in the morning the night of senior prom. She wasn’t even his date. “Jody still won’t talk to me,” Sidney says, referring to the girl who was his date, the one who walked in on them. “Twenty-two years, still gives me dirty looks every time I see her at the grocery store. She really hates you.”

  “Who hates you?” A woman appears next to them. She’s their age, pretty, holds two glasses of wine.

  “This is Sam Statler,” Sidney says, taking one of the glasses.

  “Sam Statler,” the woman says, nodding. “Of course.” She extends her free hand. “Becky. We went to high school together, but you never spoke to me.”

  Sam shifts uncomfortably, praying for Annie to hurry back and save him. “I’ve been hearing good things about you,” Sidney says. “It must be crazy, listening to people’s secrets all day.” She leans in. “Tell us the truth. What’s the juiciest thing someone’s ever talked about in therapy?”