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I push away the glass of wine and decide that it is all too much right now.
I’ll put it all aside, until tomorrow, anyway.
My gaze lands on the mystery notebook that I’d found in my old client couch, sitting on the coffee table in front of me.
I pick it up, thinking about the poor anorexic, pill-addicted woman who it once belonged to. I wonder if she went through a divorce, or if she, like me, wimped out and made the decision to accept a mundane, dull, passionless life?
Probably so, I muse as I flip open the notebook. I choose a random entry, and begin reading…
The watcher was here again. Outside my house. It was the same person I saw outside the window while I was in the gym. Someone is watching me, I’m sure of it now. I am not crazy. Today they were standing on the shore by the lake, staring up at the house, watching me. This time, I grabbed the binoculars—I’d ordered a pair from Amazon the week before—but the moment I raised them to my eyes, the person turned away before I could see their face. But not before I saw the knife in their hand. A freaking knife. They wanted me to see it. They’re messing with me. Tormenting me.
I don’t know what to do. I can’t go to the police. I can’t have them inside my home, asking questions. I can’t. I feel trapped. Worse, I feel like I can’t get out.
I don’t know what to do.
We’re scheduled to leave for Spain next week, for a month. Maybe the person will stop coming to the house. Give up on whatever it is they’re looking for in me. Is it me?
I hope they’re gone.
I hope when I return, I never see that person again.
I slowly lower the notebook onto my lap, my mind spinning.
Anorexia.
Xanax.
Spain.
Slowly, a woman’s face materializes behind my eyes. Short, brown hair, rail thin, sickly appearance, a large, dark mole above her left eye. I remember the mole specifically, because I wondered why she never had it removed.
I remember—I finally remember. I know who the notebook belongs to.
She was a client of mine for three months. Or was it four?
Her name is Cora Granger.
Cora is a social worker. She came to see me about her anxiety, which I quickly realized had spun into an eating disorder. Cora hated her job. She was grossly overworked and underpaid, as most social workers are. She didn’t care about her work, that much was obvious, and I remember thinking: but so many children are counting on you.
FORTY-TWO
AMBER
“I don’t understand why you won’t cover this. The order came directly from my son’s pediatrician, who has advised us to do the genetic testing.” I pivot at the end of the kitchen and retrace the line I’ve been pacing for the last forty-two minutes that I’ve been on the phone with our insurance company. Correction: Thirty-five of the minutes I’ve been on hold listening to staticky music that makes me want to stick a sewing needle through my eye. After receiving a “you may owe” email from Connor’s clinic, regarding the testing for which we’d already completed the blood work, I called our insurance company.
It’s only eight forty-five in the morning.
Connor is at the breakfast nook, poking around at a bowl of Coco Puffs, staring blankly at the morning news I’d turned on while waiting, pacing the floor.
“I understand, ma’am,” the agent says, “but genetic testing is not covered for the symptoms your doctor provided.”
“Who says? Who decided that it’s not covered?”
“The plan that your insurance is under, ma’am. I can send you?—”
“No. Is genetic testing covered at all? Anywhere on the plan? We already submitted the bloodwork.” And yes, I know I should have called beforehand to ensure it was covered.
“Yes, I believe it is covered under certain circumstances.”
