Chapter 24 - The Woman of the House

Brian isn’t home when I wake up the next morning. My head is pounding. It hurts to open my eyes. I hear a noise at the window. Something is tapping against the glass. The sound is sharp and intentional. I want to pull the covers over my head, but I know that won’t drown out the noise, so I sit up in bed and see a crow pecking its black beak at the bedroom window. He stops as soon as he sees me. He cocks his head while we stare at each other. He wants in and I want out. His beady eyes shift before he flies away.

I look around the room for signs that the woman has been here, but everything is how it should be. Even if she did come last night, I think, I was too drunk to notice. I’m still in the same clothes as yesterday and two Advil are on the bedside table. Brian. The perfect wife Brian married would see the Advil as a kindness and be thankful her husband was looking out for her, but the real me finds the two small pills spiteful and patronizing. I check my phone. There are two missed calls from him: 11:32 p.m. and 12:02 a.m. I check our text messages. The last message was from me. Sorry I missed your call. I’m with Frances. Don’t wait up.

I don’t remember texting Brian. I don’t remember how I got home. Did the booze cloud my memory, or was it something else? Was my blackout my own doing or someone else’s? My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a text from Brian. I’ll pick you up at 2 to go to the doctor.

My stomach flips. The doctor’s appointment is today. I pinch the top of my nose as if that’s the only thing holding my brain in place. The night comes back to me in flashes. Me leaning over the dining room table, telling Deborah about how Angela disappeared from the house. The burn of vodka in my throat. Brian’s arms at his sides as he called me crazy. The door slamming behind me. And now, Brian is going to admit me to a psych ward. I barely make it to the bathroom before the vodka comes up the same way it went down.

When I’m emptied, I lie down on the bathroom floor. The tile is cool against my cheek. I eventually get into the shower and turn the water as hot as it can go, hoping it will burn away the hangover. After I dry off, I reach into the back of my drawer and feel for my familiar plastic container. The thought of swallowing anything sends a wave of nausea down to my fingernails, but my birth control isn’t there. I empty out the contents of the drawer, but it’s no use. It’s gone. I think back to yesterday. I’m sure I took it in the morning. I must have misplaced it. Then I turn around, grab the toilet by the sides, and vomit again.

Downstairs, Frances is waiting for me in the living room, smoking a cigarette. Before I can ask her how she got in, she says, “You look like shit.”

I grunt while I grab a glass of water.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple of days so I thought I’d drop by,” she says. “So, how were they?” A cloud of smoke appears in front of Frances’s face.

My mind is blank. I shuffle to the doors that lead out to the porch and open them. A cool breeze brushes across my face. Frances follows me across the room until she’s standing next to me.

“How was what?” I ask, unable to think as fast as Frances, or at all.

“The cupcakes?”

“Right, the cupcakes.”

“What?” Frances asks.

She must have noticed the lie that was about to cross my face.

“I didn’t have any,” I say as I ease my way into a chair. “Brian and my in-laws ate them all before I could have one. But thank you, they looked delicious.”

“You’re welcome,” Frances says, but she looks like she’s trying to hide her disappointment.

“I almost forgot, I met Paul Reid last night.”

Frances sits down next to me. “Angela’s brother?”

“The one and only. Brian and I got into a fight,” I say, waving a hand in front of my face. “Anyway, I ended up at the bar and saw him there.”

“And?” Frances rocks back and forth in her seat in anticipation.

“We talked about Angela. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he knew more than he was letting on. He seemed—”

“What?”

“Scared.”

“Shit.” Frances looks out at the lake, deep in thought. “We should go down to the docks and talk to him again. Today.”

“I can’t,” I say as I shake my head. “I have that doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Brian is picking me up.”

“Oh.” Frances’s eyes are downcast in surprise, like she wasn’t expecting me to say no. “Some other time, then.”

“Definitely,” I say, my mind preoccupied with what the afternoon might bring.

After Frances leaves, Brian comes home from work to pick me up. He doesn’t come inside; instead he texts me from the driveway. Once I get in the car, he puts it in gear and we drive over an hour into the city in silence.

Dr. Smith’s waiting room smells like cherry air freshener and antibacterial soap. My eyes move from the pile of old gossip magazines sitting on the square coffee table in the corner to the half-filled-out forms in my lap. Brian is next to me scrolling through work emails while his leg jitters beneath him. His thumb glides over the screen, marking emails as “read” without opening them. I reread the list of symptoms.

Headaches?

Yes.

Anxiety?

Yes.

Hallucinations?

Yes.

Drowsiness?

Yes.

Sweating, shortness of breath, fatigue?

Yes, yes, and yes.

My pen hovers between the “yes” and “no” boxes.

The receptionist behind the desk looks over at me again. I’m taking too long. My tongue is thick in my mouth. I check the “no” boxes for everything and walk up to the front desk.

The receptionist eyes the clock on the wall next to her without turning her head.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Mmhmm,” she says, flipping through my intake forms. “You can go back now. Second room on your right.”

I glance back at Brian, hoping he’ll save me from the psychiatrists waiting to ambush me behind the gray door, ready to stab me with a litany of sedatives and lock me up for good, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. Running would only make me look crazier than Brian already thinks I am. I have no choice. I push the gray door open.

The hallway is illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights. Doors line either side. Sweat gathers at my temples. My fingers tremble at my sides as my feet shuffle against the carpet.

“Come in,” a voice says from inside the room before I have a chance to knock.

I take a deep breath before I go inside. Dr. Smith is sitting in a large leather chair, facing the door. Round glasses sit on the edge of her nose and several beaded necklaces hang from her loose neck. Her long gray hair is parted in the middle and lies on either side of her narrow face. She’s well over fifty, but her eyes have a youthfulness to them. “Please close the door and have a seat,” she says before retrieving the notepad and pen that are tucked between her thigh and the chair.

I do as I’m told.

“Cold?” Dr. Smith asks.

“Huh?” I say, before realizing my teeth are chattering. “Oh yeah, a little.” I tighten my jaw and clench my hands together in my lap.

Dr. Smith makes a note on her notepad. I lean forward to see what she’s writing but can’t make it out.

“So, Rose,” Dr. Smith says, smiling. “What can I help you with today?”

She sounds like a clerk at a grocery store instead of a psychiatrist who’s about to decide the future of my marriage, my independence, and the rest of my life. As long as I can convince her I’m not crazy, then Brian will have no choice but to take me home with him.

“Well, my husband and I—”

“Brian?” she prompts.

“Yes, Brian,” I say. “We recently moved, and I guess I’ve been having a hard time adjusting.”

Dr. Smith nods while she makes another note.

“How so?”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” I say. “And when I do sleep…” My voice trails off. I’m unsure of how much to say.

“What happens?”

“Brian says I sleepwalk.” I try to make it sound like it’s nothing, but I can’t shake the feeling that the sleepwalking is a sign of something sinister. When I would sleepwalk as a kid, it was to escape Mother. Now, I’m not sure what I’m trying to escape. I remember what Vick said about how his wife, Helen, was worried that I wasn’t sleeping. I still don’t understand how a sick woman I’ve never met would know something like that.

“Hmm,” Dr. Smith says, turning the page in her notebook. “How long has this been going on, the sleepwalking?”

“On and off for the past month. Seems like it happens more when I’m stressed or overwhelmed.” I’m rambling.

“And are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Stressed or overwhelmed?”

“Oh, right. Yes. No. I mean, no, I’m not.” I try to correct myself before Dr. Smith has time to write that down in her notes. “Like I said, we just moved. You know how that is.”

“Tell me how it is for you,” Dr. Smith says, waiting for me to continue.

My eyes drift to a painting of a sunflower hanging on the wall. As if a bright yellow flower could cheer me up right now.

“When you sleepwalk,” Dr. Smith says, “do you have any recollection of it when you wake up in the morning?”

“Sometimes. When I do, it feels like a dream, but more—”

“Real?”

I nod, turning away from the sunflower and back to Dr. Smith.

She makes another note. I lean over so I can read what she’s writing, but she pulls the notebook away. I close my eyes and try to remember more. Some parts of my sleepwalking have been so clear. Grass between my toes. My hand on a doorknob. The coolness of the boathouse. But others were hazy. I walk, but where do I go? I remember looking down at something, but what?

“Rose?” Dr. Smith says.

“Yes,” I say, opening my eyes.

“I asked if you had any hallucinations?”

“Hallucinations?” I shift my weight in my seat. There’s a small, framed painting of a sunrise on the table next to me. I catch my profile in the reflection of the glass, expecting to see a shadowed face and hunched shoulders. But the figure isn’t here. “No, no hallucinations.”

“I’m going to prescribe you some sleeping medicine,” Dr. Smith says. She walks over to the desk behind her chair and pulls out a smaller notepad from inside a drawer. “Sometimes, a big change in our lives can trigger things like sleepwalking, or not sleeping at all. Our subconscious is overwhelmed by a situation—or in some cases a trauma—that it can’t process, so it goes into overdrive. Your brain tries to overcompensate, making it impossible for you to relax and get into a REM cycle. And the longer you go without getting a REM cycle in, the worse it gets.”

“Worse, how?” I ask.

“It depends. Lack of sleep can affect everything from mental health to blood pressure.”

Since the team of psychiatric nurses hasn’t come in to sedate me yet, I ask the one question that’s been hovering on the tip of my tongue ever since I walked in.

“And some mental health disorders, they’re hereditary?” I ask with my hands knotted in my lap. My left leg bounces up and down beneath my hands. I cross and uncross my legs to keep Dr. Smith from noticing.

Dr. Smith pauses behind her desk. She pushes her round glasses up her nose before flipping through forms on her clipboard, the same ones I filled out in the waiting room.

“You didn’t mention any mental health history in your family,” Dr. Smith says.

“No, I was just curious, you know, if those things can be passed down.”

She puts her clipboard down, and I have her full attention. I wish I didn’t.

“Of course, any number of things can be passed down from parent to child, Rose,” Dr. Smith says, taking a step closer. She’s wearing a long suede skirt with a beaded belt looped around her waist. “The brain is a bit of a black box. There’s still a lot we don’t know. But if you do start experiencing symptoms of a mental disorder, you should come back in right away. I can help you—”

“That won’t be necessary,” I say, standing. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Smith.” I take the prescription.

“Of course,” she says. “I’d like to see you again in thirty days,” Dr. Smith says behind me, but I’m already out the door.

Inside the car with Brian, I stare at the prescription in my hands.

“We can fill it on our way home,” he says from the driver’s seat.

It says to take two pills before bed. This will knock me out cold. My tongue will be hanging out of my mouth. Drool will be dribbling down my chin. My body will be vulnerable to whatever is happening inside the house, and I’ll be defenseless.

“This is good,” Brian says, tapping his index finger on the steering wheel. “These pills will help.”

“Brian, I’m not sure I want to take something this strong…”

“You have to,” he snaps. His eyes are wide and his jaw is tight. He takes a deep breath before he faces me. “What I mean to say is, the doctor gave them to you. So I think it’s worth a shot. I mean, don’t you want to at least try?” The edge to his voice is gone; it sounds softer and more convincing now.

“I guess so. I don’t know, it just makes me a little nervous—”

“We can fill the prescription on our way home and you can take them tonight,” he says from the driver’s seat. “My mom was right to give me Dr. Smith’s number. It’s good we came here.” He runs a hand through his hair, which looks a little more disheveled than usual.

“Brian?” I ask. “Is everything—”

“These pills will help you get some sleep, and then we can finally put this mess behind us. Everything’s going to fall into place now.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me, or himself.