She created a Twitter account. She named herself Zoey W., left her profile photo the little white egg. It made her sad, the lonely little egg, but this was not about Zoey—or if it was, it was about creating the world she would have wanted her Zoey to live in.
She wrote about Miles, one tweet, another, another, all with the same hashtag so many other women had used, to tell secrets like this, to try to move past What if no one believes me? and into What if there are others? Soon, she forgot about the why. She lost herself in the comfort she found in sharing her story with these other women, even if they were far away, even if she didn’t know them. Of telling them it had happened to her, too. Of telling them that no, they weren’t crazy if it had happened to them. She had heard people say, “This has gone too far.” But she knew exactly what too far really meant.
Are there others? she wrote. Has Miles Markell done this to other women? I need to know. #MeToo.
She was about to log out and attempt to cover her tracks when she noticed something in the margin of the page.
Trending:
#HurricaneChristineMayanRiviera.
#PrayForMexico.
Then a voice. “What are you doing?”
“Where are you off to this morning?” Ben said to Johanna. He was smiling and tender. She tried to be the same.
“I have a session with Grace. You?”
“Miles,” he said.
“How’s that going?”
Ben was shaving. He rinsed the razor and set it at the side of the sink and Johanna noticed he wasn’t quite meeting her eyes now. “Good,” he said. “Intense, you know?”
“I do,” Johanna said, and couldn’t explain why her breath hitched and she walked into the other room and stared out the window at the ocean, feeling nothing but panic. Ben left first, kissing her too deeply and possessively, and Johanna stayed behind, brushing her tangled hair, then abandoning the task, half-finished. There was only one direction her session with Grace could go. She had started her story, and it was time to finish it. Outside, the air was muggy and heavy, full of rain. It felt like a struggle to get enough oxygen. Her chest felt heavy, her body not quite hers. She headed down the path toward Grace’s office, but then she stopped and turned away. She walked toward the ocean instead. The sound of her flip-flops on the brick beat a pattern. I can’t say it. I can’t say it. I can’t say it. I can’t.
The surf pounded, loud and hard, but it didn’t silence the voices in her head, calling her names. In the distance, she could still see Grace’s office window—and two shadowy figures, facing one another.
The panic intensified, but it wasn’t just herself she was afraid for now. Suddenly, she felt frightened for Grace, too. She moved away from the beach and back the way she had come. With each step she became brave. With each step she realized how close she had come to missing her chance, skipping her session, forgoing her time with Grace when they had so little time left.
She was on the path again, in front of Grace’s office, when Grace herself burst from the door, gasping for breath, the way Johanna had been just moments before.
She didn’t see Johanna at first. She charged forward, toward the beach path, and Johanna didn’t know what to do but hold out her arms. When Grace stumbled into her, she gasped and recoiled and it seemed to take a moment for her clouded eyes to understand it was Johanna. Her hands were in fists. She was holding the lava rock, Johanna realized.
“Grace, are you all right? You weren’t at dinner last night...”
“Oh. I’m fine,” Grace said. “I think I ate some bad ceviche, is all.” They stood staring at one another. Johanna knew she was lying.
“So—should we?”
“Yes. Our session. I have an idea. What if we had an outdoor session today? Let’s walk.” She didn’t wait for Johanna to answer. She seemed to want to get as far away from her office as possible. Johanna followed. They didn’t speak, but that was okay. Johanna heard Grace’s breathing become more even and knew hers was becoming that way, too. Soon, the resort was far behind them.
“Up there,” Grace said. “See those rocks up ahead? Why don’t we sit there?” The rock was like a bench, and faced the sea. After they sat, Johanna glanced down at the rock Grace was still holding tight. Who was in your office with you, she wanted to ask. Why did you seem so scared? Then, Grace handed her the rock. “Ready?”
Johanna felt happy they were outside. She could get more air into her lungs and the space felt big enough, the sky and ocean limitless enough, to contain everything she needed to say to Grace. But, still, she felt unsettled. Johanna remembered how Miles had left the restaurant the night before with a domed platter in hand she had presumed was for Grace. She thought of how uncomfortable he always made her feel, even though everyone else seemed to think he was some kind of saint. Or a god. Had he been the figure in the window with Grace? Had they argued? Johanna thought of the man, coming down the path to meet Grace in the cenote. Had Miles found out that Grace had a lover? Even the thought, the word, did something to Johanna’s heart. An ache. One that didn’t belong. Lover. Grace.
She watched Grace fiddle with the long-sleeved tunic top she was wearing—long-sleeved despite the heat. Grace saw her watching. She said, “Johanna, I’m really fine. It’s not me we’re here to discuss. We had started talking about some big issues in your last session. You need to work through those things. We might be running out of time.”
Those words echoed her own thoughts. Out of time. Johanna tried to imagine the day that would come, and soon, when she would not be able to come and sit near Grace and talk. “I’m scared,” she said.
“You’re safe here.”
“Are you?” It was a whisper, and Grace must not have heard. She was silent, watching the sea. What if it rained again, Johanna wondered, would they run back to the resort together, or stay where they were and let it soak through them both? She would do either. She would do whatever Grace thought was best.
“Did you know that the average person is keeping thirteen secrets, five of which they’ve never told another person?” Grace said, breaking their silence. “Ruth told me that. She’s always doing great research for us. But the worst thing about keeping those secrets is the mental toll of it. Your secrets are like whack-a-moles. You bash them down, but they keep popping up their heads when your mind wanders. Sound familiar? And headaches—headaches that feel like migraines—those might be symptomatic of you trying to keep tamping down the truth.” She paused. “I once asked you when you got your first migraine, but you didn’t say. Is it because you don’t remember—or is it one of the secrets you keep, one you’re afraid to tell me?”
“That’s an easy one. On our wedding night. That’s when the migraines started. But that’s not really my most important secret.”
“What is your most important secret? Last session, you were so open and brave. You can do that again. I know you can.”
Johanna looked down at her hands. “Those pills,” she began. “The ones that were found in my stuff. Did anyone look at them? The name on them?”
“I didn’t,” Grace said, and something in her tone made Johanna wonder who had.
“Her name was Cleo. Cleo Von Hahn.” Johanna looked at Grace, waited for name recognition, but her expression was neutral. “Chad Von Hahn’s wife.”
“She was your friend?”
“She was my client. And—my lover.” That word again, now said out loud. Johanna watched Grace closely but she could see only her profile.
“Tell me about her,” she finally said.
“She was a beautiful mess. I met her at the gym, a few years ago. A cliché, I know. It wasn’t a cliché at all, though. Cleo was like a rainbow, and she was also like a storm. She made me feel like myself, finally. But it didn’t last. She had secrets, addictions—and a violent husband. We broke up—I just couldn’t deal with how unpredictable she was, and how I never knew
who she would be from day to day. She ended up going back to him. I didn’t see that coming. I blamed myself. Then I made a huge mistake.”
“What was that mistake?”
“I was so worried for her, I got her on my client roster. We were still friends, we’d promised to always be friends, and I told her I wanted to help her get away from him for good. It worked for a while. I was her social worker, and I was able to get her into a women’s shelter with her kids, and then an apartment. She was working, she was thinking of going back to school. But he always seemed to surface. Chad was a habit she just could not break.” Johanna shook her head, but it didn’t go away, that feeling of frustrated mystification followed by an utter sense of loss, every time she thought of Cleo now. “I think I wanted to help her so badly because I never helped my mom. I never even thought to ask if she needed help, just wrapped myself up in my bitterness, my anger at her for being what I saw as weak, for being with Ivan at all after my dad died. He wrecked my life, he wrecked me, and she didn’t even seem to notice. Cleo wasn’t weak, though. There was never any stopping her.”
“What did you want to stop her from doing?”
“Making mistakes. But it turned into the biggest mistake I could possibly make.” A pause. All she could see was Grace’s profile. She had no way of knowing how she was reacting to her words. “When I met Ben, I was with Cleo, in court. He said he had never seen a social worker so passionate about a client. He said it’s why he fell in love with me at first sight. And when I met him, I was getting so tired. I was getting so worried I’d never be happy. He said he wanted to make me happy. He said he’d make my life perfect. And I knew it couldn’t really be true—but I wanted to believe it. I wanted someone to save me. Because I felt like all I ever did was try to save other people. I wish I had waited.”
“Waited for what?”
“Just—maybe Cleo wasn’t all there was. Maybe I would have found something else. Someone who wasn’t—” But she couldn’t, not yet. Rain was falling now, but it was a gentle mist. Neither of them moved.
“Can you continue?”
“Those pills,” Johanna said, over the lump that had formed in her throat. “I know what it sounds like, but they were a gift from her. They were all I had of her, after she was gone. I don’t know how she got them, Cleo was always getting things she shouldn’t have from who knows where. I don’t even really know what’s in them—she said they were from some kind of drug trial. Ketamine, I think? But I know they worked. They made my headaches go away. I have a feeling they would have made me pretty high, if I took enough of them, but I never did. I didn’t want to be like her. But it made her happy, to be able to help me. So I let her do that. I took her gift. It was just a few weeks later that—” Johanna swallowed, hard. “This isn’t easy,” she said.
Now, Grace turned to her. “I know it isn’t. But you need to go on.”
“I don’t know what more I can say. He found out we had been lovers. I have no idea how. Maybe she told him. She must have, right? But I have no way of knowing. I can’t ask her.” She put her face in her hands. “He killed her. She died because of me.”
“How was it because of you?”
“How is it not obvious? It made him so mad, finding out that we were once together. Maybe he thought we still were. Maybe it pushed him over the edge. He killed her, and he killed himself, because of that. Because of me.”
“You tried to help her.”
“And she died.”
“It was Chad who killed her. A person like him, abusive and violent and manipulative—he was always going to kill her. There was nothing you could do about it. No matter how hard you tried. That’s a difficult truth about the world. Something that needs to change—but blaming yourself isn’t going to make any difference.”
There was sharp pain in Johanna’s eyes, her nose, the back of her throat, a stabbing ache as if crying wouldn’t be enough—and then the secret had coursed through her body, and out, and she was sobbing. The realization of what she had revealed, and what she really wanted to reveal, was a wave that crashed into her. She had lost her footing. But then Grace had her hand.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Shhh. You’re going to be fine.”
“I don’t want to hate myself anymore. Please, can you help me?”
“Of course.” As if it were the simplest thing in the world. Grace’s palm was smooth and cool, her grip firm but gentle. The way Johanna remembered it feeling, the first time they met. Grace’s hand made her feel strong. Grace’s hand did for her what she imagined the lava rock was supposed to do, what she had always imagined keeping Cleo’s vial of pills as a memento would do. Courage. But still, she couldn’t stop crying.
“Johanna? You need to go on. You said earlier, you wished you had waited. Waited for what?”
“There have been other women I’ve had feelings for, crushes on, over the years. Nothing else that I’ve acted on, but it’s always been there.” She closed her eyes, but that didn’t make it easier, so she opened them and looked at Grace’s face, open and expectant, no judgment there. She let go of her hand and said, “I’ve always been convinced this can’t be my life. It’s so frustrating. Instead of making it easier for myself I’ve just made it harder and harder. Buried myself, tied myself up. Why?”
“Do you think you can answer that question yourself?”
Johanna thought for a moment. “I’ve always heard Ivan’s voice, or Marybeth’s voice, or any number of voices saying it can’t be what I am. But it is what I am. Why am I so scared?”
“Maybe it’s because you’ve never actually said it. Maybe that’s the first step for you. Saying it and knowing that the person you’re telling understands.”
Everyone has secrets. They take a mental toll. “I do not love my husband. I can’t love him because... I’m gay.”
Johanna thought something would happen, maybe an earthquake or a sudden storm, and she felt foolish when nothing did. She understood how big the secret had seemed, and how it didn’t seem that way anymore, now that it was out.
“Good,” Grace said, businesslike, but warm. “Now you’re finally being honest with yourself.”
“I’ve made such a mess. My job—I pretended I couldn’t go back, but really, my relationship with Cleo came out during the investigation, and I got fired. My husband has no idea. I kept it from him. And I thought it would be as simple as just walking away from him and never having to tell him. But no. I got scared and kept saying yes to whatever he wanted, instead. I told myself that Cleo’s death would make me really live, and instead, I feel I’ve been dying a little more each day. What was I doing, coming here, as if there could ever be a chance this could be fixed? I’m going to hurt him, too, and I’m just delaying it. More collateral damage.”
“Are you sure Ben doesn’t know?” Grace’s voice was soft. “Even if there’s not enough love there, or the right kind of love, he might know you better than anyone else.”
Johanna shook her head. “No way. I’ve hidden from him the most.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Why do you keep asking?”
“I just—” A shadow across her eyes. “I just know that it can be impossible to hide from the person you live with.”
“I don’t want to talk about Ben,” Johanna said.
“All right. We’re going to have to, but this has been a lot for today.”
“What’s next? What should I do?” As she said the words, she turned to Grace, and watched as she lifted her hand to tuck some damp hair behind her ear. Her sleeve slid down her wrist. Time stopped.
Johanna had seen bruises like that, so many times. Still, when she saw these ones on Grace, she forgot about everything else, even the intensity of the previous moments. She saw blood red in her vision. “Who did this to you?” She reached out and she held Grace’s arm carefully, above the bruises, but still, Grace winced.
Finger marks. Unmistakable. Moments before, her secret had seemed like the most important thing in the world. But now she understood there were things that mattered more.
“Johanna, please.” Fear in her voice, the fear from before. “You can’t save everyone.”
“Tell me, exactly why not?”
“I’m fine—it was... I bumped it.”
“Grace.”
“Don’t.” Grace pulled her hand away and stood. “We need to get back. I have another client.”
Johanna looked up at her. “Please,” she said. But Grace just shook her head.
They started to walk back the way they had come, silent again, as if none of it had happened. But they dawdled, and strayed toward the ocean. When the salt water hit her ankle, Johanna felt it sting. She leaned down.
Grace did, too. Her cool fingers were on the inflamed skin of Johanna’s ankle, her touch whispered across the painful heat of the rash and Johanna wanted to cry out, but not from pain. Grace straightened.
“Did you go to the nurse about that rash?”
“Yesterday. She gave me something, but it didn’t help. Cortisone, I think.”
“I have something I think will work. I can give it to you later.” She thought for a long moment and seemed to come to a decision. “It’s in my house. I’m finished with clients at five. Come back then, and we can go to my villa together. I’ll get it for you.”
Johanna understood. “I’ll stay while you get whatever you need,” she said.
The Last Resort Page 18
