I nod mutely and follow him from the bedroom, replaying the words in my head. Not again. What does he mean? Did I put the perfume somewhere and forget? The way I did with the book Valentina made? I already know I can’t trust my memory. Do I have to question my sanity now, too?
??42??
Cassandra
This morning when I went to put on the watch that Gigi gave me, it was gone. I’m hoping it’s just the stress of adjusting back to my old life in addition to the work I’m doing in therapy. I’ve decided I need to start taking my antianxiety pill in the morning. I’ve read that anxiety can make you absentminded, and even though I don’t think I’m anxious, maybe I’m more stressed than I realize. I hope it will help. I’m beginning to wonder if my brain is permanently damaged. I’m afraid to tell Julian; I don’t want him to look at me differently, when we are just beginning to rediscover each other. Valentina is off to school in the morning, and then I have my therapy session.
Until I regain my memories, I’m having therapy daily, which is quite exhausting. But it’s been a miracle of sorts. Many of the events of the year before I left have come back to me, Christmas especially. I remember the three of us choosing a live tree that we tied to the top of the car, and I remind myself to ask Julian if we will go out to get this year’s tree soon. I can remember celebrating Valentina’s birthday too, and other days and nights filled with activities both mundane and exciting. I can’t yet recall what happened the day I left, or what caused me to have amnesia. And I still haven’t been able to retrieve the dark days after Valentina’s birth, when I tried to take my life. I’ve decided that I need to know the details leading up to the suicide attempt. Maybe if Julian tells me, it will trigger the memory, and then I can deal with it and move on.
I asked our housekeeper, Nancy, to take Valentina for the night so that we can discuss it in private. Then I texted Julian to let him know, and now he’s on his way home. I pour myself a glass of wine. Julian has warned me that alcohol is not good in combination with my meds, but surely one glass can’t hurt. I need it to relax. I leave a glass out on the counter for him, go into the living room, and turn on the gas fireplace. There’s a chill in the air, so I grab an afghan to throw over my shoulders. Taking a seat on the sofa, I sip my wine and think about the questions I want to ask.
I hear the front door open and put down my glass. When Julian comes into the room, he takes the chair across from me instead of sitting next to me. He doesn’t say anything about the wine.
“I want to be able to see your face,” he explains. “Make sure this isn’t too much.”
I shake my head. “I appreciate your wanting to shield me, but I won’t break. I’m strong.” My words are braver than I feel.
“I know you are,” he answers.
I dive in. “I need to know why I did it. Both times.”
Julian clasps his hands together and looks up, as if he is turning over in his mind what to say. I try to keep from tapping my foot or squirming in my seat as he thinks. His eyes retrace their path back to me, and he clears his throat. “This isn’t an easy thing to tell you, but you have a right to know. You’ve suffered from depression for as long as I’ve known you, but the medication kept it in check. Then right after Valentina was born, things got bad again.” He pauses, pressing his lips together. “You became very jealous of Sonia. Suspicious even. You worried that she was trying to take me away from you.”
“I don’t understand.” I tilt my head. “Why did I think that? Was she flirting with you or something?”
“Not at all. She was nothing but professional. She’d done this for two other couples, and she had impeccable references. At first you were grateful to her, but sometimes your condition worsens with added stress. You can get . . . angry.”
“My . . . condition?”
“I don’t like labels. But you have suffered from paranoid delusions in the past. I’m not saying you’re schizophrenic—”
I jump up as though someone has jolted me with electricity. “Schizophrenic! That’s not possible. How could I have lived for two years off my medications and still had no delusions, if I was schizophrenic?”
He stands and gently places his hands on my shoulders. “Calm down, Cassandra. I said I wasn’t saying you were.”
“Why would you use that word, then?”
He guides me back to the sofa and sits with me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just . . . well, you’ve been somewhat of an enigma. You can go along quite normally, and then you have an episode that renders you almost a different person.”