Anyway, I think you’d like Brooklyn. As my friend.
Love, Nat
Seven
Dr. D’Antoni always kept a box of tissues on the coffee table in her office between the stack ofPsychology Todaymagazines and a small plastic basket of stress balls and sensory trinkets. We typically weren’t tissue people, but Nikki leaned forward in the cushy armchair she sat in and picked up one of the squishy sensory toys with little dots you could pop like bubble wrap.
It was clear Dr. D’Antoni made an effort to make her office a cozy space for her patients, but the couch Mom and I sat on felt too worn and too lived in, and I was almost afraid I wouldn’t be able to get up when we were done.
“It’s important thatyoutalk about what happened this week,” Dr. D’Antoni said to Nikki, who kept her head down as she flipped the little popping dots back and forth on the sensory toy. Her pink zip-up hoodie hung off her shoulder, bony and protruding through her T-shirt.
Mom and I had a vague understanding of the topic of conversation today since she had spoken with Dr. D’Antoni earlier, but that didn’t change the way my stomach jumped into my throat in anticipation.
“Nothing’s happened.” Nikki shrugged. “I’m just living the dream here, what with the gourmet meals and the constant attention and tending to. It’s like I’m at a five-star resort.”
“It’s okay to be frustrated, Nikki. But you can talk to us.” Mom reached over and put her hand on top of Nikki’s. “Who’s going to understand better than me and your sister?”
Nikki finally brought her eyes to mine, and she squished her face up like she was trying to clog the pipeline of tears before it burst. “But you don’t understand. Ifyouskip a meal, that’s okay, you’re just not hungry. But ifIskip a meal, it’s nuclear fucking meltdown, and everyone’s gonna die.”
Drama had been and always would be a linchpin of Nikki’s personality. She did theater all through middle school to high school, and everything in her life was a show. In fact, she was such a good actress that she’d fooled us into thinking she was okay for as long as she had. But this was not the Dolby Theatre, this was her psychiatrist’s eucalyptus- and lavender-smelling office, and my sister’s dramatics made me squirm uncomfortably in the deep cushions of the couch.
Dr. D’Antoni, being the professional she was, took notice.
“Natalie.” She addressed me in a soothing, even tone. “When you hear Nikki talk about her treatment and recovery like that, how does that make you feel?”
It made me want to scream and shake Nikki until whatever chemical imbalance in her brain was knocked loose, reverting her back to the person she’d been before all of this.
Instead, I said, “I wished she took it more seriously, sometimes.”
Here I was, telling her to take it more seriously, when I was clogging up my own feelings, too, not taking it seriously in my own way.
“All the sarcasm and deflecting is because she’s still not really accepting of what’s happened and why,” I continued. “So then how can she even begin to get better if she’s still in denial?”
Nikki lurched forward in the armchair beside me. “That’s rude. I learned sarcasm and deflecting fromyou.”
While that wasn’t directly true, Nikki certainly hadn’t been the sarcastic sister of us two—not until she was really in the depths of her disease and it was her way of answering questions about her long trips to the bathroom and her change in appetite.
Mom gently touched my forearm as I was winding up a response, and it was just enough time for Dr. D’Antoni to step in to extinguish the fuming tension.
“Okay.” Dr. D’Antoni gave us both a calm nod. “I hear both of you. Natalie, I’m hearing that you’re frustrated because you want to see Nikki engaging more seriously with her recovery. And Nikki, I’m hearing that you think the way you are currently handling things isn’t being validated, which feels unfair.”
Nikki leaned back into the armchair with a sigh. “Life isn’t fair, is it?”
“Okay, that’s not—” I paused when I realized I was about to sayfairand give credence to exactly what she was saying. In any other scene in my life, it would have almost been funny. “It’s not that you don’t have a right to go about your recovery in your own way, but—”
“But I’m not doing thingsyourway,” she muttered, and her words were like sandbags on my chest.
I exhaled slowly, trying to recenter myself. “Nikki, I understand this is hard for you. Really, I do. But maybe if you start taking it a little more seriously, you might find that everything else starts to come easier.”
“Your sister makes a great point,” Mom added. “All we want is for you to feel better.”
A stagnant pause filled the air. Dr. D’Antoni was only a guide in these family therapy sessions—Emotional Focused Family Therapy, she called it—and she’d only speak when she felt it was truly necessary, meaning she intentionally wanted us to marinate in the silence. Silence forced you to hear your thoughts.
“I’m not in denial, you know.” Nikki’s fingers tensed around the little sensory toy, then flicked one of the dots back and forth with a faint popping sound. She sighed again and pulled her knees up into her chest, curling inward like a turtle would for warmth and protection. “But sometimes, no matter what I say or do, it feels wrong.”
I exhaled again, feeling the weight on my chest ease up slightly. “Well, that’s not true, Nikki. I—” I forced myself to pause and to sit in the uncomfortable silence like I was sure Dr. D’Antoni wanted instead of rushing to give an explanation. “I don’t know how to help because sometimes it feels like you don’t want me to.”
Dr. D’Antoni nodded and turned back to Nikki. “What do you think of what Natalie said?”
