Page 51 of Clever Little Thing

“Uptight.” The lighting was giving me a headache. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. When Blanka was a baby, or maybe even when you were pregnant, did you ever feel like you were going crazy?”

Irina snorted. “Many time.” I waited warily for Irina to say something about how many women had trouble after giving birth, and she soon felt better. Instead, she said, “My mother’s mother says bad spirit gets inside.”

“A bad spirit.” I nodded. This sounded like a way of describing depression, but I preferred the sound of it. If there’s a bad spirit inside you, thenyouare not the problem, and all you need to do is get it out, like a tapeworm. “How did you get rid of it?”

“I show you,” says Irina, and I nod, my heart lifting. I still thought Stella was the one with the tapeworm, but there seemed no harm in this, and I would try anything.

Irina picked up an ornate brass salt cellar from the table, unscrewed the lid, and dumped out the salt. “You sit right there,” she said. I had no idea what she was up to, but I felt relief at putting myself into her hands. Next to the salt, she set a glass of water. “This is not holy, but maybe works anyway.”

Her eyes glinted as she traced something in the salt: a cross. She stood and sprinkled water in my hair, making me flinch. She took a pinch of salt, closed her hand, circled it above my head, and muttered something. It was another language. “Is that Russian?”

“Armenian.”

“I thought when the Soviets controlled Azerbaijan, they made everyone speak Russian.” I’d gathered this from my research after the Thanksgiving dinner.

“We don’t forget our own language,” Irina snapped. “Besides, after Azerbaijan, Blanka and I live in Armenia for many years.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”

She dusted her hands off. “Doesn’t matter, it is finished.”

I shook salt from my hair. “That’s it? That got rid of the—the bad spirit?”

Irina chuckled, her eyes cold. “Of course not. I’m just—what’s the word—”

“Messing with me,” I said, to stop her from saying something worse. She’d let some of the salt fall down inside my shirt, and every grain stung.

“You took my wedding dress,” Irina spat. “Then like that!” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, I’m not good enough.”

“I admitted I shouldn’t have thrown you out of my house.”

“Words,” she scoffed. “And now I throw you out of my house.”

As I got up, something stuck to her fridge caught my eye: some kind of list. The writing was familiar. It didn’t look like the English alphabet. “Who wrote that?”

Irina snatched it before I could get a closer look. “Who do you think? Old shopping list, but I cannot throw away.” She clasped the paper to her chest, as if it were infinitely precious. My heart filled with dread. The round loops. The careful spacing. I recognized that handwriting. I thought I recognized those symbols too.

Now

28.

Creamy candles crowd the Georgian mantelpiece, and whale song plays through speakers set high on the claret walls. In the fireplace is a big earthenware vase full of budding branches. They must be top-of-the-line in faux flora, because I don’t knowhowI can tell they aren’t real. But I know.

Rain, my massage therapist, scoops something from a pot and warms it in her hands. “This is a body butter we make on-site, with calendula, aloe vera, and rosehip oil.”

“Lovely,” I say. But my leg jerks when she touches my calf.

“You’re very tense,” she murmurs.

“I’m working on that.” I keep my voice sweet, but scowl through the face hole in the massage table. After I burst into Dr. Beaufort’s room earlier and interrupted her break, she insisted I get a relaxation treatment. “It takes time to build the trust you need to be completely honest,” she said.

True. Had I been completely honest in the first session, shewould have prescribed antipsychotics without a second’s hesitation. I have to build up to it, to make my case. But it’s taking too long. I can’t wait until tomorrow. I wonder if I can tell the front desk that it’s an emergency, demand her number.

“Try taking deep breaths,” says Rain as her bony digits poke my flesh.

“OK,” I say, but I can only take in little sips of air. This room was designed to be womb-like, but instead of feeling safe, I feel horribly vulnerable, face down and clad only in towels. I don’t even know where my shoes are.

“Try to put your shoes out of your mind,” says Rain, and I realize I’ve spoken aloud.

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