Алекс Михаэлидес - The Silent Patient

“You don’t know that.” I sounded as pathetic as I felt. “She might feel terrible.”

But even as I said that, I didn’t believe it.

Neither did Ruth. “I don’t think so. I think her behavior suggests she is quite damaged—lacking in empathy and integrity and just plain kindness—all the qualities you brim with.”

I shook my head. “That’s not true.”

“It is true, Theo.” Ruth hesitated. “Don’t you think perhaps you’ve been here before?”

“With Kathy?”

Ruth shook her head. “I don’t mean that. I mean with your parents. When you were younger. If there’s a childhood dynamic here you might be replaying.”

“No.” I suddenly felt irritated. “What’s happening with Kathy has got nothing to do with my childhood.”

“Oh, really?” Ruth sounded disbelieving. “Trying to please someone unpredictable, someone emotionally unavailable, uncaring, unkind—trying to keep them happy, win their love—is this not an old story, Theo? A familiar story?”

I clenched my fist and didn’t speak.

Ruth went on hesitantly, “I know how sad you feel. But I want you to consider the possibility that you felt this sadness long before you met Kathy. It’s a sadness you’ve been carrying around for many years. You know, Theo, one of the hardest things to admit is that we weren’t loved when we needed it most. It’s a terrible feeling, the pain of not being loved.”

She was right. I had been groping for the right words to express that murky feeling of betrayal inside, the horrible hollow ache, and to hear Ruth say it—“the pain of not being loved”—I saw how it pervaded my entire consciousness and was at once the story of my past, present, and future. This wasn’t just about Kathy: it was about my father, and my childhood feelings of abandonment; my grief for everything I never had and, in my heart, still believed I never would have. Ruth was saying that was why I chose Kathy. What better way for me to prove that my father was correct—that I’m worthless and unlovable—than by pursuing someone who will never love me?

I buried my head in my hands. “So all this was inevitable? That’s what you’re saying—I set myself up for this? It’s fucking hopeless?”

“It’s not hopeless. You’re not a boy at the mercy of your father anymore. You’re a grown man now—and you have a choice. Use this as another confirmation of how unworthy you are—or break with the past. Free yourself from endlessly repeating it.”

“How do I do that? You think I should leave her?”

“I think it’s a very difficult situation.”

“But you think I should leave, don’t you?”

“You’ve come too far and worked too hard to return to a life of dishonesty and denial and emotional abuse. You deserve someone who treats you better, much better—”

“Just say it, Ruth. Say it. You think I should leave.”

Ruth looked me in the eyes. She held my gaze. “I think you must leave. And I’m not saying this as your old therapist—but as your old friend. I don’t think you could go back, even if you wanted to. It might last a little while perhaps, but in a few months something else will happen and you’ll end up back here on this couch. Be honest with yourself, Theo—about Kathy and this situation—and everything built on lies and untruths will fall away from you. Remember, love that doesn’t include honesty doesn’t deserve to be called love.”

I sighed, deflated, depressed, and tired.

“Thank you, Ruth—for your honesty. It means a lot.”

Ruth gave me a hug at the door as I left. She’d never done that before. She was fragile in my arms, her bones so delicate; I breathed in her faint flowery scent and the wool of her cardigan and again I felt like crying. But I didn’t, or couldn’t, cry.

Instead I walked away and didn’t look back.

I caught a bus back home. I sat by the window, staring out, thinking of Kathy, of her white skin, and those beautiful green eyes. I was filled with such a longing—for the sweet taste of her lips, her softness. But Ruth was right. Love that doesn’t include honesty doesn’t deserve to be called love.

I had to go home and confront Kathy.

I had to leave her.

CHAPTER TEN

KATHY WAS THERE WHEN I GOT HOME. She was sitting on the couch, texting.

“Where were you?” she asked without looking up.

“Just a walk. How was rehearsal?”

“All right. Tiring.”

I watched her texting, wondering who she was writing to. I knew this was my moment to speak. I know you’re having an affair—I want a divorce. I opened my mouth to say it. But I found I was mute. Before I could recover my voice, Kathy beat me to it. She stopped texting and put down her phone.

“Theo, we need to talk.”

“What about?”

“Don’t you have something to tell me?” Her voice had a stern note.

I avoided looking at her, in case she could read my thoughts. I felt ashamed and furtive—as if I were the one with the guilty secret.

And I was, as far as she was concerned. Kathy reached behind the sofa and picked something up. At once my heart sank. She was holding the small jar where I kept the grass. I’d forgotten to hide it back in the spare room after I’d cut my finger.

“What’s this?” She held it up.

“It’s weed.”

“I’m aware of that. What’s it doing here?”

“I bought some. I fancied it.”

“Fancied what? Getting high? Are you—serious?”

I shrugged, evading her eye, like a naughty child.

“What the fuck? I mean, Jesus—” Kathy shook her head, outraged. “Sometimes I think I don’t know you at all.”

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to leap on her and beat her with my fists. I wanted to smash up the room, break the furniture against the walls. I wanted to weep and howl and bury myself in her arms.

I did none of this.

“Let’s go to bed,” I said, and walked out.

We went to bed in silence. I lay in the dark next to her. I lay awake for hours, feeling the heat from her body, staring at her while she slept.

Why didn’t you come to me? I wanted to say. Why didn’t you talk to me? I was your best friend. If you had said just one word, we could have worked through it. Why didn’t you talk to me? I’m here. I’m right here.

I wanted to reach out and pull her close. I wanted to hold her. But I couldn’t. Kathy had gone—the person I loved so much had disappeared forever, leaving this stranger in her place.

A sob rose at the back of my throat. Finally, the tears came, streaming down my cheeks.

Silently, in the darkness, I wept.

* * *

The next morning, we got up and performed the usual routine—she went into the bathroom while I made coffee. I handed her a cup when she came into the kitchen.

“You were making strange sounds in the night,” she said. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Didn’t make sense. Probably because you were so stoned. ” She gave me a withering look and glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I’ll be late.”

Kathy finished her coffee and placed the cup in the sink. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. The touch of her lips almost made me flinch.

After she left, I showered. I turned up the temperature until it was almost scalding. The hot water lashed against my face as I wept, burning away messy, babyish tears. As I dried myself afterward, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I was shocked—I was ashen, shrunken, had aged thirty years overnight. I was old, exhausted, my youth evaporated.

I made a decision, there and then.

Leaving Kathy would be like tearing off a limb. I simply wasn’t prepared to mutilate myself like that. No matter what Ruth said. Ruth wasn’t infallible. Kathy was not my father; I wasn’t condemned to repeat the past. I could change the future. Kathy and I were happy before; we could be again. One day she might confess it all to me, tell me about it, and I would forgive her. We would work through this.