CHAPTER 3 — What the Cabinet Held
Rachel came in with a garment bag over her arm and a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I brought you something nice to wear for the meeting," she said. "You should look put-together. It makes these things go smoother."
As if I were going to my own sentencing.
"That's thoughtful," I said. "I'm going to shower first."
Daniel and Rachel exchanged a look. I pretended not to see it.
I locked the bathroom door behind me and turned on the shower to cover any sound. Then I opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Daniel kept his things there. Razor. Shaving cream. An old toiletry bag I'd never paid attention to.
I unzipped it.
Inside was an orange prescription bottle.
The label had my name on it. Claire Whitmore. Prescribed by Dr. R. Collins. A sedative I had never heard of. Take one tablet at bedtime.
I had never met a Dr. Collins. I was certain of that.
Beneath the bottle was a folded sheet of paper. A printed calendar of the last month. Some dates were circled in red pen. Beside them, in Daniel's neat handwriting, were short notes.
Confused at dinner — mentioned to Megan.
Forgot appointment — told Mom.
Crying episode — Rachel witnessed.
I read it twice before I understood.
It wasn't a diary.
It was a script.
He had been writing the story of my breakdown before it happened. And every circled date was a day he had told someone about it.
Megan.
My best friend since the fourth grade. She had stopped calling about two months ago. Daniel told me she had gotten busy with her new job. He told me she said I'd been "hard to be around lately."
I had cried about that for a week.
Now I wondered what he had told her about me.
I took out the little phone and photographed everything. The bottle. The label. Every line of that calendar. My hands were so unsteady that I had to take some pictures three times.
Then I put everything back exactly where it had been.
I stepped into the shower and let the hot water run over me. I wasn't really washing. I just needed somewhere I could break down where no one could hear me.
I thought about my father.
He had been a quiet man. A carpenter. He built half of this house with his own hands after my mother died. When he got sick, he used to sit on the back porch and watch the maple tree he planted the year I was born.
"This house will always hold you, Claire," he told me once. "Whatever happens. Remember that."
Six months after the funeral, I met Daniel at a grief support group.
He said he had lost his mother.
He knew exactly what to say. He knew when to be quiet. He knew how to make me feel like the only person in the room.
Now, standing under the water, I wondered whether his mother was even dead.
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When I came out, wrapped in a towel, Rachel was sitting on my bed.
"Took you long enough," she said. "Mr. Pierce is early."
