13. Jessica

Phil was asleep. He'd exited the bathroom approximately seventeen seconds earlier, and just like that he was curled up on his side, snoring.

Jessica didn't know how he did it. She had a very specific routine that she had to follow if she was to have the slightest hope of drifting off. Make sure the house was clean and tidy, take out the garbage, check every door and window to ensure it was locked. Once that was done, she showered and put on pajamas, brushed her teeth, took her Lexapro and melatonin tablets, applied her serums and moisturizer. Then she placed her phone on charge, told Alexa to turn on white noise, and got into bed to read a chapter of her book before turning off her lamp and staring into the darkness for hours until her body finally relented.

Tonight, as she slid between the sheets, she suspected it would take a while. Disturbing vignettes from her childhood circled in her brain—swimming pools and basements, birthday parties and horses. And fear, of course. Lots and lots of fear. It was a mistake to go to Port Agatha—Jessica knew it in her bones, in her blood. It wasn't just the memories the visit would unearth, either; it was more than that. After all, the police weren't just looking for information. They'd found human bones. If they determined that the cause of death was suspicious, they'd be looking for a murderer… and they were foster children. Adults, technically, but always foster children. If people started pointing fingers, Jessica knew in which direction they'd be facing.

She rolled over in bed, wishing Phil would wake up. She understood the irony. She spent most waking hours ignoring Phil—too busy with work and her sisters to properly engage—but the moment he fell (instantly) asleep, she became desperate for his attention. She knew she could wake him. He wouldn't mind. He'd listen to her explain everything, and then say, "It'll be cool, Jess. The cops will believe you. Want me to come to Port Agatha?"

But she wouldn't wake him. Even after all these years, yearning for the love and attention of someone who couldn't give it to her was much more comfortable than actually receiving it.

She looked at him sleeping. So cute. People often referred to Phil as "cute." He was small and athletic, with earnest brown eyes and a warm smile. The two of them had been babies when they met—both of them working at an upmarket Italian restaurant in Melbourne. Jessica was the ma?tre d'; Phil was a busboy. Jessica had been exceptional at the job. If her upbringing as a foster child had taught her anything, it was how to people-please. She knew how to adapt to people's moods, how to charm and please, how to make things look easy when they were extremely difficult.

Phil was also good at his job. On top of his day-to-day duties, he would do things to make her day easier, like bringing her a glass of ice-cold water as she stood at the front desk on a busy night, or quietly standing behind her in those few instances that customers became aggressive. It was nice knowing someone had her back.

"It's my job," he'd say, whenever she thanked him.

But one night, when they'd both stayed back for a couple of drinks at the end of their shifts, he'd made an admission.

"It is my job," he said, looking into his half-drunk glass of beer. "But I'll admit, I'm more diligent about it when you're on shift."

"Why?" Jessica asked. She wasn't fishing for compliments. Back then, the idea of someone doing something kind specifically for her was not something she was accustomed to.

"Because I like you."

He'd said it as if it were obvious—like she was an idiot not to have known. And so they started dating. Jessica never thought to ask herself if she liked him too. It didn't seem relevant. Being loved had been the goal of her life. Loving someone in return… that was just showing off.

She rolled toward her bedside table and picked up her phone, saw two new voice messages waiting for her. This was against the rules of her sleep routine, of course. It was too stimulating. According to an article she'd read, every minute spent looking at your phone in bed delayed sleep by six minutes. But tonight she couldn't help herself. It wasn't like she was going to be sleeping anyway.

She played the first message. Phil didn't so much as stir.

"Jessica, this is Debbie Montgomery-Squires."

Just like that, the uncomfortable face-off with Debbie over the pills came back to Jessica like a punch to the gut. It had only happened this afternoon, she realized in wonder. It felt like another lifetime.

She glanced at Phil; he hadn't so much as stirred.

"… I have searched high and low and cannot find my pills. I even moved the shelves to check they hadn't fallen down the back of them. I am one hundred percent certain they were in the cabinet when you started. I was starting to think I was going mad when one of the ladies mentioned that her cousin used your services and had also noticed pills missing afterward."

Jessica's stomach dropped like a stone.

"We were planning to go straight to the police, but I thought I'd do you the courtesy of speaking with you first. If you could give me a call at your earliest convenience, I'd appreciate it."

Fuck,Jessica thought. Fuck fuck fuck.

Panic feels a lot like excitement,she reminded herself, thinking of Mel Robbins's podcast. I'm excited that Debbie Montgomery-Squires wants me to call her to explain what happened to her Valium. I'm glad her cousin also noticed pills missing from her bathroom cabinet.

Nope. Mel Robbins's tip was bullshit.

What was she going to do now?

She thought about waking up Phil. "So what?" he'd say. "You took some Valium! They shouldn't have left it lying around."

It didn't matter that Jessica was in the wrong—not to Phil. His loyalty was blinding. Once, when they were first married, Jessica had reversed into a parked car. They hadn't had much money back then, and she'd been furious with herself for being so stupid.

"What kind of idiot leaves their car parked somewhere?" Phil had said when she told him.

She'd laughed and laughed. That was the point. But she'd stopped laughing somewhere along the line. Not just at Phil. She'd stopped laughing at all.

What she needed, ironically, was a Valium, to help her think. She'd been prescribed benzodiazepines three years ago, after having what she later discovered was her first panic attack. She'd been helping a client sort through her deceased mother's attic when it came on quite suddenly.

It started with acute, overwhelming nausea. Within minutes she was breathless, her palms were damp, her mouth dry. There was a pain in her chest: a sharp, stabbing pain that she thought might be a heart attack. She told her client—Mrs. Souz—not to call an ambulance; Jessica had never liked a lot of fuss. Sure enough, by the time Mrs. Souz fetched her a glass of water and asked if she might be pregnant, she was already feeling better.

She'd assumed it was one a one-off thing, a "funny turn." But then, three weeks later, it happened again.

"Panic attacks are very common," Dr. Sullivan told her, when she finally made an appointment. "But they can be quite frightening when you don't know what they are. If you do nothing, they will go away on their own. But if it's impacting your livelihood, you might want to consider medication."

"I don't want pills," Jessica had said. "I have a business to run. I can't be in a daze."

"It affects people differently, but many people find that all it does is the edge off. In any case, I think you should fill the script, Jessica. Some patients find just having the bottle with them makes them feel more secure. Knowing it's there if they need it is enough."

Being the rule-follower that she was, Jessica had the prescription filled. And the next time she had a panic attack—in the car on the way to a client—she pulled over and took the pill. The result wasn't instantaneous. By the time it kicked in, twenty minutes later, she'd all but recovered from the panic attack. Still, she felt it. Like a blanket of calm. Her thoughts slowed, her chest became loose. It was a fucking miracle. And it was available to her whenever she needed it.

It carried on this way for a while. She'd have a panic attack every so often, take a pill, and then have a wonderful day. After a while she started taking a preemptive pill before a busy day, just in case. They were excellent for sleep, too, she found. When she took a pill, she slept like the dead. She started to yearn for that feeling she got when the pill slid down her throat. The knowledge that calm was coming. No amount of meditation, yoga, or journaling could bring her that same sense of peace.

The pills ran out surprisingly fast, and at the speed Jessica was consuming them, the doctor was reluctant to prescribe more. But one of the great things about being a home organizer was that you had access to a lot of people's medicine cabinets. Jessica only took a few here and there. She had a reputation to protect, after all. Lately, though, she'd become a little more cavalier—hence the hullabaloo today at Debbie's house today.

Jessica sat up. For heaven's sake—if there was ever a time to take a pill, this was it. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, a difficult day, and she needed a good night's sleep if she was going to be on her game. In the morning, she'd call Debbie and smooth things over. It would be fine. Everything always looked brighter after a good night's sleep.

She opened her bedside drawer and fished out an emergency bottle of pills that she'd placed there for moments like this. These were heavy-duty. Extra-strength. The label read EMILY MAKIV. Nice woman. Jessica had organized her pantry last year.

Jessica tipped two pills into her hand and reached for her water bottle. Sleep is coming, she told herself as she lay back down. Sleep is coming soon.

THE OFFICE OF DR. WARREN, PSYCHIATRIST

My next session with Dr. Warren starts much like the previous two—with him pointing at the vacant chair and then making me wait several minutes for no discernible reason before he appears to remember I'm there. This time, I don't sit in silence till he tells me to speak. I am a little short of people who are prepared to listen to me lately. And when no one will listen to you, the idea of an open forum stars to look quite appealing.

"Where was I up to?" I say.

His gaze is already back on his file. "The church ladies came to your house to help you out with your financial situation."

I might have been flattered that he remembered had I not spied the words "Church ladies / money problems" written on the notepad in front of him, under the date of our last session.

"That's right.… Well, the week after the church ladies showed up, they came back with the parish accountant, a man named John Wagner. He was there to help Mum go through the bills and get an idea of our financial situation. John was a big, tall man and he wore a shirt and slacks, which was unusual for the country. He reminded me of a strict schoolteacher." I grimaced at the memory of him. "He spoke very formally to my mother. He didn't even look at me. He and Mum spent the entire day in the formal dining room, going through boxes of bills, and looking at statements and payments from past years.

"Every few hours, John would yell out, ‘Can we get some coffee in here?'; ‘Can we get some tea in here?'; ‘Can we get a sandwich in here?'

"I remember being surprised. I'd never made my parents tea or coffee or lunch before. Still, if John was helping Mum, I was happy to oblige—even when he failed to thank me for my efforts.

"After he left, Mum was more animated than usual. She heated up some soup for our dinner and, as we ate, she told me she was hopeful that, with John's guidance, she might be able to get on top of things. I threw my arms around her when she said that, which is saying something. Mum was so surprised she almost forgot to hug me back.

"‘John was a bit weird,' I said to Mum when I'd resumed my seat. ‘He didn't even make eye contact with me once.'

"‘Really,' Mum said, frowning. ‘I didn't notice. I thought he was nice.'

"‘Oh, he is nice,' I said quickly. ‘Helping us with our finances out of the goodness of his heart? He doesn't need to look at me. I'll always be grateful.'

"Mum looked relieved. ‘Well… good. You can bring some of that gratitude with you to church tomorrow.'

"I blinked. ‘Church?'

"‘It's the least we can do after what they've done for us.'

"I groaned. ‘Fine. As long as it doesn't become a regular thing.'

"But it did become a regular thing. Week after week we went to church every Sunday and listened to the pastor drone on about being a good Christian. We sat in a pew with the women who'd come to the house, and afterward we stood out front while the members of the congregation chatted. John, who played the organ during the service, joined us, and he and Mum would stay talking long after everyone else had left. At first, I was glad to see this, hopeful that his influence would keep Mum on the path toward financial competence. But by the fourth week, when I once again found myself waiting for my mother to finish up a conversation with John, I started to feel irritated.

"‘Mum!' I whined, pulling on her arm. ‘You've been talking for ages. Let's go!'

"‘Do not speak to your mother like that,' John said, so sharply that both Mum and I startled. It was, I realized, the first time he'd acknowledged my existence at all, and the rage in his eyes felt incongruent with my infraction. I was just a child.

"‘Don't just stand there gaping,' he said. ‘Apologize to your mother.'

"I looked at Mum, who appeared as surprised as me. But after a moment, she nodded.

"I'd never felt so betrayed.

"‘I'm sorry,' I said, looking at my shoes.

"After that I stood quietly while John told Mum that she'd allowed me to take advantage of my father's death. At my age, he said, I should be doing at least as much as she did around the household, and I should be speaking to her respectfully at all times. Mum listened without contradicting him.

"‘Can you believe that guy?' I said, when the two of us were walking home. ‘Asking me to apologize? Who does he think he is—my father?'

"Mum winced. ‘He is very strict,' she conceded.

"‘And then saying I've taken advantage of Dad's death! That I needed to do more around the household!'

"‘He doesn't have any children of his own, so I think he's a bit of out step with his expectations,' my mother allowed. ‘But I could hardly tell him that after everything he's done for us. Better to be polite. Besides, he's right—you could be doing a little more around the house.'

"‘I don't like him,' I said sulkily. ‘Why do we have to go to church anyway?'

"‘Because the church gave us money—'

"‘So now they own us?'

"‘No. But we need to be respectful.'

"‘To John?'

"‘Yes. To John.'"

Dr. Warren listens avidly as I relate this, straightening in his seat every time I mention my relationship with my mother. I wonder what it is about her that interests him so much.

"And that made you angry?" he says. "Having her take his side like that?"

"I guess."

"Must have been lonely," Dr. Warren says. "Losing your father and then, in a way, losing your mother."

"Yes." The tears that spring to my eyes are born of surprise as much as anything else. "It did."

A long silence ensues. I'm not sure what is happening, but I sense that Dr. Warren is pleased with me. And even as a fully grown woman, I have to admit, there is something about pleasing people that still makes me feel good.

"I'm afraid our time is up," he says, a second before the knock on the door. He closes the file in his lap and opens the brown leather briefcase by his feet. It contains an alphabetical file organizer. A filing system in a bag. He flicks through the dividers until he gets to F for Fairchild.

"I'll see you next time," he says as he slides my file inside.