Page 134 of Woman on the Verge

Many of the women here say things like “Maybe I’m not cut out for this” and “I love my kids, but I hate raising them.” The therapists assure all of us that maternal ambivalence is normal, that we would all be better off if it was more socially acceptable to admit to its existence.

“Do you miss yours?” she asked me.

I sensed she wanted me to say something similar to what she had, but that wouldn’t have been true for me.

“I do.”

It is Monday, and I am sitting in Crystal’s office. I know who her other four clients are, and I like to think I am her favorite. I suppose she would say that’s me craving external validation again, so I don’t inquire about whatever hierarchy of favorites she may or may not have.

“You look good,” she says. “More rested, maybe.”

“You think?”

She nods.

“Does that mean you’re going to start going harder on me with the therapy?”

She laughs. “Just to be clear, my intention is never to go hard on you. But yes, I do feel like you’re ready to start exploring some things a bit more.”

Exploring some things.She’d warned me of this in our last session.

“Sounds terrifying.”

She laughs again. “It might be, just a little. But that’s normal. We can pull back at any time.”

I shove my hands under my thighs, clutching myself, bracing for whatever conversation she has in store. There are so many topics to choose from. She must have an extensive checklist in the binder that’s on her lap. I imagine her spinning a wheel, making a game of the disaster that is my life.

“I know most people start at the beginning,” she says, “but I was thinking we could start at the end.”

“The end?”

“Why don’t you take me back to the day of the accident, and then we’ll go from there.”

Chapter 26

Nicole

I am in a hospital bed. I am wearing a gown. I have an IV hooked up to a clear plastic bag of unknown fluids. The room is dim—overhead lights off, curtains on the window drawn. There is light in the cracks around the window, though. It is daytime.

My body hurts. My right leg is in a cast, but it’s not my leg that hurts so much as my midsection. It aches with each breath.

“Well, look who’s up,” a voice says.

It hurts to turn my head. It doesn’t turn as much as I’d like, but I see a woman, a nurse, coming toward me. She goes to the little computer station next to my bed, types something in.

“I told your husband you’d be up today,” she says. “I’m Jocelyn, your nurse.”

“Hi,” I say.

“Your husband will be back soon. He just stepped out for a bit.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

Do I? When I close my eyes, I see the car, my dad’s car, barreling toward a tree.

“A car accident?”

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