The Night Before - Wendy Walker Page 0,49

about what he asked you to do, how he treated you. It was about power, and you kept giving it to him. You didn’t see that it was insatiable. That he was never going to give you what you wanted.

Laura: But I thought he would.

Dr. Brody: Because he fed you just enough to make you believe. And when he did, it made you feel powerful. You said it felt intoxicating, like a drug. Can you see the pattern?

Laura: And what about now, Kevin? Am I doing it again?

Dr. Brody: We need to be careful, Laura. The lines are starting to blur.

TWENTY-THREE

Laura. The Night Before. Thursday, 11 p.m. Branston, CT.

“Stop.” I don’t know that this word has ever left my mouth before.

We lie on the black leather sofa that smells of scotch, bodies pressed together as we make this treacherous journey from strangers to lovers.

I push him away and sit up. I try to straighten my hair, but my fingers get caught in a tangled mess.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

Now he is sitting beside me. He thinks he understands what’s happening as he reaches for the glasses on the floor.

“Okay,” he says. “Here…” He hands me a drink. I take a sip.

“I shouldn’t have posted those things about myself.”

“What things?” Now he gets nervous.

“Just … everything. And the pictures and tonight. I shouldn’t have worn this dress and these shoes. I never wear red lipstick.”

“But you look nice. I’m not sure what you’re saying. I get that you don’t always look like this. Made-up, dressed up. I was married for six years,” he says.

This makes me look at him.

“And what about you? What are you hiding?” I ask.

He shrugs and smiles that smile that caught my eye. “There’s really not much I can do. I shaved. Put on a nice shirt.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Then he gets up, walks to the kitchen. He grabs his keys from the counter.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you to your car. I don’t want you to be here if you don’t feel comfortable.”

I don’t move. Not one single muscle. I don’t want to leave.

Rosie never understood. I can hear the same conversation looping over and over. It’s the one where she tells me it’s not that complicated. You go on a date. You talk about superficial things. You meet again. You talk some more. Reveal some more. Little by little, you ease into the water, making sure it’s not too hot or too cold or too deep or too muddy.

There’s nothing that time won’t reveal, she said.

But she is wrong about that.

The day Dick left us, he came to our rooms to say good-bye. He came to me first. He stood at the doorway while I sat on my bed.

Has your mother told you that I’m moving out?

I nodded. Our mother told us through tears. Through desperate words and despair that our hugs could not calm. Four arms wrapped around her as she stood in the hallway, suitcases piled beside her.

I’ll see you on the weekends.

I nodded again. I knew it was a lie. He couldn’t leave my room fast enough.

He went next to Rosie. I heard him knock on her door. I heard it open and then close and when it did, I ran from my room and pressed my ear against the hollow wood. Rosie was crying and he was comforting her, making those sounds people make to babies. Shhh. He told her about the weekends and how everything was for the best.

Rosie yelled at him then. I couldn’t believe it. Sweet, obedient, Rosie—yelling at Dick.

Why do you have to live with that woman?

Dick opened his stupid mouth and said his stupid words.

Because I love her. Someday you’ll love someone and you’ll understand.

Stupid, selfish Dick. Rosie cried again. Dick said shhh again. But then he said something else, something unexpected.

Your mother is no saint.

Rosie stopped crying and I heard footsteps. I ran back to my room and closed the door. Dick left Rosie on her bed with her red eyes and wet face. He walked down the hallway and down the stairs. We both came out of our rooms, Rosie and I. We stood together in that hallway listening to the last sounds our father would ever make in our house. And to the final pleas of our mother.

Don’t go.… Don’t leave us!

I know Rosie felt it then the same way I did when we heard our mother. Nails on a chalkboard.

I never asked Rosie what Dick meant