Chapter 5
I moved into Rebecca’s guest room.
It had pale green walls and a window overlooking the narrow backyard where she grew tomatoes badly.
Every few days she came inside carrying another plant problem.
“Something is eating them.”
“Probably squirrels.”
“No. This is organized.”
I laughed.
“You think squirrels formed a union?”
“I think they have leadership.”
Our conversations weren’t always about Luke.
That mattered.
Sometimes we watched cooking competitions.
Sometimes we argued over whether our mother’s potato soup needed thyme.
Sometimes Rebecca went to work and I stayed home alone for six hours and discovered that nothing terrible happened.
The first time she left me alone overnight for a business trip, I checked the locks four times.
Then I became annoyed with myself.
Then I became annoyed for being annoyed.
Eventually I made popcorn and watched a ridiculous romantic comedy.
When Rebecca called at ten, I answered with my mouth full.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sound strange.”
“I’m eating popcorn.”
“That explains nothing.”
“I’m fine, Becca.”
There was a pause.
“Okay.”
She didn’t ask again.
That was trust too.
Not only believing someone would come when called.
Believing they could leave when they weren’t needed.
I started therapy.
I hated it for the first three sessions.
My therapist, Naomi, had an irritating ability to let silence remain silent.
I would say something like, “I should have realized sooner,” and she would ask, “Why?”
Then she waited.
I wanted advice.
Instructions.
A checklist.
Instead she kept returning decisions to me.
Finally I complained.
“You never tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
Naomi smiled slightly.
“Would that feel familiar?”
I glared at her.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that answer.”
“You’re allowed to.”
May you like
I returned the next week.
Little by little, I stopped thinking of recovery as becoming the woman I had been before Luke.
