Never Lie (12)

Best,

Susan



I look away from the computer screen to the tape recorder sitting on my desk. Ever since I started holding therapy sessions in my home, I have been recording every single one of them. I ask all patients for permission prior to recording the sessions, although even when they tell me no, I still record them.

I find the tape recordings of the therapy sessions to be extremely helpful. Yes, I could take notes as many therapists do, but those could be potentially inaccurate. Tape recordings don’t lie.

Right now, I use the tapes to refresh my memory, but I envision that someday, at the end of my career, I might listen to the tapes and write a memoir of my experiences.

But not now. Not for decades. I have many, many years left in my career.

On the cassette case for each patient, I write the patient’s initials, the number of the session, and the date. The case currently lying next to the tape recorder reads “EJ #136” and then yesterday’s date.

EJ is Susan’s son. She asked me to work with him about two years ago, stating that he had “no direction in life.” Within one session, I had diagnosed EJ with narcissistic personality disorder—the characteristics of this diagnosis include a long-term pattern of exaggerated feelings of self-importance, cravings for admiration, and impaired empathy.

I press play on the tape recorder and listen to the session from yesterday one more time:

“How did your job interview go?”

“Oh, it went great. They loved me. I’m sure they’ll be begging me to come work there. But honestly, I don’t think I could do it. Everyone at the company seems so stupid. I don’t think I could work in a place where I’m surrounded by stupidity all day.”

The moment I first met this man, I immediately disliked him. But I had already met Susan and agreed to see her son. I considered telling her no, but I had given her my word. And I did believe that I could help him.

Unfortunately, I do not believe it any longer. I cannot help this man. He has no insight into his shortcomings and he never will. He has no desire to change. And now that his mother is no longer paying me, I have ample excuse to terminate our sessions.

I will never have to see him again.





Chapter 7


TRICIA



Present Day




A bologna sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise is not exactly the best dinner I’ve ever had in my life, but it fills me up and leaves me feeling only slightly nauseous. Ethan has highbrow taste when it comes to food and always manages to score a table at the trendiest new restaurants, but he demolishes the bologna sandwich without complaint.

“Do you feel better now that you’ve eaten?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I lie. Eating a cold bologna sandwich hasn’t made me forget that there could be a stranger lurking on the second floor of our house.

“Good.” He grabs my hand across the table—mine is freezing but his is surprisingly warm. “Jesus, Tricia. You’re ice cold!”

I don’t know what he expects. It’s well below freezing outside and there’s no heat in this house. We’re both still wearing our coats. “Yes…”

“I’ll tell you what.” He rises from his chair and automatically grabs both our plates off the table to clear it. His mother taught him well—too bad I never got to meet her. “Let me figure out the heat. If we’ve got electricity, I’ll bet we can turn the heat on.”

“That would be great.” I grab the two cups of water from the table and follow him to the kitchen, doing my part as well. “You are the best husband ever.”

Ethan’s face lights up. He drops the plates on the kitchen counter and reaches for me. It’s awkward since we both have our coats on, but I love how hot his breath is when he kisses me. “It’s easy to be the best husband ever when I have the best wife ever.”

Despite his good looks, Ethan was never much of a ladies' man. The day we met at the coffee shop, I was the one who made the first move. He didn’t have many girlfriends before me and doesn’t have many friends. Some of my friends warned me it’s a red flag, but I’m glad he didn’t have a gazillion girlfriends before me or a best buddy to compete with. I always dreamed of being best friends with my husband.

I hope he still feels that way after what I have to tell him this weekend. I have a terrible feeling that the conversation will not go well.

Like everything else in the house, the first-floor bathroom is tucked away and challenging to find. I finally locate it under the spiral staircase—it fills me with the vague concern that if somebody were on the stairs, they could potentially fall through the ceiling of the bathroom. But hopefully, the house is better made than that.

The bathroom is large but quaint. The bathtub has feet as well as a separate handle for hot and cold water. After I relieve myself, I run a wet piece of toilet paper along the vanity mirror over the sink, cleaning off the dust so that I can see my reflection clearly for the first time since we arrived at this house.

Wow. I don’t look so hot.

My hair is blond with honey highlights and waves courtesy of my curling iron, but right now, it’s still damp and dark from the snow, and all the waves have been destroyed—strands are clinging to my skull and my cheeks. My lips are pale, almost blue, and my face is bone white. I grab a tube of lipstick from my purse and apply a healthy coat. There—that’s a little better. I try pinching my cheeks to bring back a bit of color to my face, but it’s just making me look blotchy so I stop.