Page 50 of Dark Ugly Places

“Nicola, I’m not able to prescribe you anything. I can have my colleague do it. But I need to understand. What happened to your medication?”

My body bolts forward. “How the hell should I know? It’s just gone. All of it. I don’t know what she did with it!”

A deep jab into my ribs. Stop!

“You said Emmy didn’t take your medication.”

I think for a second and collect myself. “Yes. She did. She must have. Okay?”

She writes more. My temples throb. The AC hums even louder, and I feel the chill of the cool, artificial air on my arms. It could easily be 50 degrees in here right now. If I could throw myself out the eighth-floor window into the fresh air, I would.

“When your father killed himself, what happened to your family?”

“I told you this before. Things fell apart. My mother got depressed and started smoking again. My sister developed an eating disorder. And I was … I was fine. I was the strong one, you know? And my father was selfish. He took what he wanted and left us all to rot. When I was eighteen, I left home, and I haven’t bothered to go back since, okay?”

“People who commit suicide are not well people. They are mentally ill. They need help,” says Constance. “Do you see that?”

“I see that he was a monster.”

And he had to be stopped.

My hand claps close to my left ear, as if swatting a fly.

Dr. Constance flinches at my movement.

“We don’t see mental illness because oftentimes, it is invisible until it becomes visible.”

A tingle at the back of my neck. Martha’s nails scratch at my insides. She’s right, you know.

“Fair enough. But people have a responsibility to seek help for their condition. Especially if they have kids. My father never did that. He went right on living until he couldn’t anymore, and now, here we are.”

“Here we are,” says Constance. “Do you see that your life now, after the loss of Ben, is very similar to your family’s experience after your father died?”

“Not really, Dr. Constance. My dad had his problems, okay? He lost control over his life and had to end it.”

She stares at me, letting the words sit idly in the air between us.

Constance writes something, then puts her pencil down and folds her hands. “And do you worry that you will be the same? That your father’s sickness may become yours, too?”

My throat tightens. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Really?” Constance probes. “What do you think Ben would say about all of this?”

I feel my palms moisten. I don’t talk about Ben. It’s a rule I have.

I want to tell Constance the truth, that the reason I can’t talk about Ben is that I’m too broken, and I’m too angry, that if I have to utter his name or conjure his face one more time … things start to happen inside me. I hear his voice. I see his expression. I feel his heart beating through his tee shirt, my ear pressed to his chest, listening to it slowing. I want to tell her that if I talk about Ben, I will lose my mind. That my world will fall apart, and my one true reason for living—our beautiful Emmy—might not be enough anymore.

If I tell her this, I worry she will become afraid of me, that she will have me locked up and medicated. She will take away my child. If I tell her how I lost my will to live after the accident, she surely won’t let me see Emmy again. And the worst thing of all, I fear Martha and what she will do this time.

“I don’t want to talk about Ben.”

I stare at the ground. Martha starts scratching again. You need to get better at lying, sweetie. You need to get better at a whole lot of things. Or is that why you brought me here to begin with?

“I have to go,” I say. “I’m not feeling very well.”

Constance’s eyelids flutter. “That’s okay.” She writes something on a notepad and hands it to me. “Call this number so you can see my colleague next week for your medication.”

Next week. May as well be next year.