Page 50 of The Paradox Club

“And don’t tell me you couldn’t stop him. I’ve seen you two conspiring all summer. This is as much your fault as it is his.”

“Please, Marie, listen to me. Ever since he thought we might have a chance—”

“A chance for what?” said Marie. “For more loss and more tragedy?”

As the voices continued, repeating the same accusations and the same denials, Tess realized two things. First, she agreed with Vivian. It wasn’t her fault. Once Harry had decided on something, there was no way Vivian could talk him out of it—anyone knew that. Yes, Vivian had gone along with the affair, but who could resist Harry? No, this was Tess’s fault. She could have stopped it. She could have marched into that forbidden circle and confronted Harry. She would have angered him and embarrassed him, but he would have stopped. He would have shouted at her, and maybe even not spoken to her for a few days, but that would have been a small price to pay. No, this was all her own fault.

The other thing Tess realized was that neither Marie nor Vivian was looking for her. Had they forgotten her in the heat of their argument, the depth of their despair at apparently losing Harry? She couldn’t imagine that. They must believe she was dead. And if they thought she was dead, and yet she was alive, maybe Harry was alive, too. Hope leapt in her chest, propelling her to her feet, and Tess sprinted down the hill toward the dock shouting, “I’m alive. It’s me, Tess, I’m alive.”

She arrived, breathless on the dock, still coughing from the smoke, but certain that her salvation would be a bright spot in this tragic night.

“No,” said Marie, backing away from her, her expression suddenly turning from grief to horror.

“Tess?” said Vivian, looking confused. “Is that really you? Can it really be?”

The two women stared at Tess without moving, stunned, apparently, to see she had survived the fire.

“I did what Harry taught me,” said Tess. “I stayed low and crawled, and I made it out of the house.”

“You,” said Marie, in a voice Tess had never heard directed at her—a voice of disgust and contempt. A voice Tess couldn’t comprehend. “This is all your fault. Harry’s dead and it’s all your fault.”

“Dead?” said Tess, who had known he must be but who still couldn’t coax her mind into comprehending the fact.

“But, Marie,” said Vivian, stepping toward Tess. “It’s a miracle. It’s Tess.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know who it is?” said Marie. “It’s absolute proof that this is her fault as much as it is yours!”

Tess stared at her mother in confusion. Where was the joy at her daughter’s survival? Where were the hugs and kisses, the tears of relief?

“It’s not her fault,” said Vivian, reaching out to Tess and pulling her into an embrace. “She didn’t even know.”

“Yes, I did,” said Tess pulling away from Vivian and looking beseechingly at her mother. “I did know. I heard you and Harry, and I knew, and I could have tried to stop you, but I didn’t. So, you’re right. It is my fault.”

“No, it’s not, honey,” said Vivian. “You’re just a child. You couldn’t possibly understand. And you couldn’t have stopped Harry any more than I could have.”

But Tess knew. Marie was right. This was all her fault. If she had marched out and confronted Harry and Vivian, everyone might be shouting and fighting, but Harry would be alive, and the house wouldn’t be burning down.

“Marie, look at her. She’s here. She’s alive. This is your daughter.”

But Marie turned away and looked out across the lake where the lights of a boat were approaching. “I don’t have a daughter,” she said.

At that moment, in a roar of sparks and flame, the house in which Tess had known so much happiness collapsed. But Tess only looked to the end of the dock, where Marie had stepped into Harry’s boat and was starting the motor. A moment later, she pulled away from the dock, leaving Tess and Vivian, clinging to each other in the firelight.

THERAPIST N − 3

“Do you think sometimes you worry too much about things?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can work yourself into a panic over things that aren’t that important.”

“Maybe they don’t seem important to you.”

“Last time we talked, you had a paper due in your history class.”

“So?”

“You’d finished the paper. You’d proofread it four times. It wasn’t due for another three days. But you were still driving yourself crazy with worry.”