Little Secrets(11)
There’s no protocol in place for how the news about Sebastian is to be revealed to her, should that day ever come. They’ve never discussed it. The only thing Vanessa Castro has ever said—and it was more in passing than anything else—was that if she learned something crucial, she would call Marin immediately.
With shaking hands, Marin replies.
I’ll be there. —MM
Four hundred eighty-six days. Would today be the day?
It can’t be. Their meeting’s at ten, and it’s only eight thirty. If the PI was going to tell Marin that her son was dead, surely she wouldn’t make Marin wait ninety minutes to find out.
Then again, maybe she would. Maybe this is how it’s done. If her son is dead, what does it matter if she learns the news now, or in an hour and a half?
Marin gets ready, trying to occupy her mind with other things. Before she leaves the room, she tidies up. It’s Daniela’s day to clean, but that doesn’t mean the woman should have to pick up clothing from the floor, or make the bed. It doesn’t take long; the sheets are still neat on Derek’s side. As she fluffs a pillow that’s already fluffy, it occurs to Marin that she has no idea what time her husband will be back from his business trip tonight. In his brief text at bedtime the night before, he never specified. Then again, she never asked. He didn’t suggest they have dinner. She didn’t offer to cook.
This is who they are now. Living parallel lives, side by side for the most part, but never converging.
As she passes Sebastian’s room, she places a hand over his door. Just for a second, same as she does every day. Daniela isn’t allowed to clean in there.
Marin had an easier time getting out of bed this morning. She always sleeps well after group, and she drank nothing last night when she got home. The difference in the mirror this morning is obvious—no bloodshot eyes, no bags, no puffiness. It might have been a decent start to the day, if not for the PI’s email.
She pads downstairs to the kitchen to start the coffee machine. The Breville is fancy, and can make everything from cappuccinos to lattes at the push of a button, using beans it grinds fresh for every cup. Sitting on a stool at the island while the coffee percolates, she checks her calendar for the day. She finds a phone number in her contacts list, and hits Call. It rings twice and goes to voicemail, as it always does. He never picks up.
“Hi, Dr. Chen, it’s Marin Machado,” she says after the beep. Her voice is a bit hoarse, as these are the first words she’s spoken this morning. “Something urgent has come up, and it has to do with my son, so I won’t be able to make my appointment. I understand I’ll be billed for the late cancellation, and of course that’s fine. Thanks.” She pauses, wondering if she should mention rescheduling, then decides against it. She disconnects. She can always call again later, but for now, she’s not sure she wants to see her therapist again.
There’s nothing wrong with Dr. Chen. He’s fine. He’s calm, soothing, understanding, easy to talk to, all the things you’d want your therapist to be. But therapy is hard. You have to do the work, and it demands a lot from you before it starts to give back. And at the last appointment, things got … argumentative.
Marin finally told Dr. Chen her secret.
She went into the appointment with the plan to reveal it, in small part because she did want to talk about it. It was something she’d never dared tell anyone before. But more than that, she was testing him, gauging his reaction, to see if he’d “allow” her to continue doing it, or if he’d try to get her to stop.
When she finally spoke the words out loud, Dr. Chen’s normally neutral face had registered surprise, which quickly morphed into concern. Still, it took him a long moment to speak, and when he did, his tone was gentle but firm. And then he said all the things Marin knew he would say. And maybe that’s why she told him. So that he’d tell her it was wrong. So that he’d tell her not to do it anymore.
“What you just told me, Marin, it’s not productive.” Dr. Chen’s voice was measured, but there was no mistaking the alarm behind it. It was in his body language, which was a degree stiffer than it had been a moment earlier. “It’s not healthy for you. In fact, I think you should stop. Immediately.”
“I don’t do it every night,” Marin said. “Not even every week. Just … when I can’t stop thinking about him. When I can’t stop worrying.”
“I understand. But this isn’t the way to go about it.” Dr. Chen leaned forward. He only did this when he felt compelled to make a point. “It’s … very not okay. I am very concerned that engaging in this behavior will exacerbate your thoughts of self-harm. Not to mention,” he said, in his infuriatingly calm way, leaning back in his chair once more, “it’s illegal. You could get in serious trouble. You could get arrested.”
She knew this was what he would say. She just needed to hear him say it. She defended herself, her voice growing louder while his stayed at its normal pitch, until her time ran out. His frustration, however, was obvious. Therapists aren’t impervious to emotion.
After leaving the message with Dr. Chen, Marin texts Sadie. I won’t be in this morning after all, she types. Sorry, I know I promised to go over the vendor contracts with you.
No worries at all, Sadie replies. Everything OK?
Not sure, she writes, which is the truth. Am meeting with the PI.