Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [115]
“Me, too, but we both know it’ll take a while—”
She raised a hand to stop him.
“Just hear me out, please?”
He nodded, miserable, and took a large gulp of Scotch. The peaty burn slid down his throat, bringing with it the welcome promise of numbness.
She studied her hands, which were trembling. “Lately it feels like when we’re together you’re not really … there.”
“Okay,” he said, forcing an evenness of tone he did not feel. He wished he were a better actor.
“I know this case has a personal element for you—”
His head felt like a parade of ants had invaded his brain. What about the red dress?
“All cases are personal for me,” he said.
“I already thought about that, and it doesn’t help. Maybe it should, but it doesn’t. But what’s worse is I don’t feel I’m quite there either. The job I’m doing, the body identifications …” She looked away, her lips compressed. “At the end of the day all I want is to crawl into bed.” She looked back again—not at him, but at her hands, gripping the glass of Scotch, the skin around her fingernails white. “And in less than two weeks is the—”
“I thought of that,” he said quickly, knowing what she was going to say. It would be the first anniversary of the attack.
“Maybe I’m an emotional coward,” she said, “but I’ve been around some of the families, and what they’re going through…. Jesus.” She took a long drink of Scotch. “When I lost my mother I thought I would never get through it.”
“Maybe I’m an emotional coward,” she said, “but I’ve been around some of the families, and what they’re going through…. Jesus.” She took a long drink of Scotch. “When I lost my mother I thought I would never get through it.”
“But you did.”
“But I don’t want to feel that pain ever again.”
“To live is to feel pain, Kathy—you can’t protect yourself forever, for Christ’s sake!”
“There’s another thing,” she said, looking into her Scotch glass as if it held all the answers. “I don’t feel like I can talk to you about it, because of your—your—”
“My depression.” He knew she didn’t like to say the word.
“Yes. I don’t want to be the cause of an episode, and … it sounds really shitty to say it, but I don’t want to have to deal with it right now. I have enough on my hands just doing my job.”
“I understand,” he said.
“No,” she said, “I don’t think you do. I’m not like you—I’m not good at putting things into words. I’m a scientist, and we’re not good at that kind of thing. I just don’t have room for a relationship right now—not with you, anyway.”
The last phrase stopped his breathing for a moment. Not with you, anyway.
“I see,” he said, his voice tight.
“Don’t be angry,” she said.
“What the hell do you expect me to be?”
“I’m not saying this is forever. I just need some time—”
“Fine,” he said. “I thought we had something, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Don’t be a drama queen, for God’s sake—”
“When couples have problems, they’re supposed to work them out together.”
“I’ve never been very good at that. I’ve always worked things out on my own. Maybe it’s because I lost my mother young, and I didn’t have a female role model.”
They had joked about this from the first—how she was the “boy” in the relationship and he was the “girl.” But now it felt like a stolid, ugly wall between them. The sun had dipped behind the Manhattan skyline, and the only lighting in the room came from wall sconces and the occasional standing lamp. Kathy’s eyes had again changed color; now they were the shade of dark mahogany, like the burnished wood on the beautiful old bar.
“There’s something else I want to tell you,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m … going into therapy.”
“Well, good. It’s probably what you need right now.”
“But I’m scared and anxious and afraid I’ll end up … like you.”
“Look, Kathy,” he said. “Everyone’s different. Just because you’re going into therapy, it doesn’t mean you’ll become clinically depressed. There are some hard truths in everyone’s life. It may take courage to face them, and it’ll be painful, sure—but that doesn’t mean you’ll end up like me.”
“I hate the way that sounded—I’m sorry.”
“And another