How many sleepless nights did she lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much he’d manufactured to get Myron? Had there been any truth between them at all? He said he loved her on the lawn. Why would he say that now? Unless it was still part of his stupid undercover operation? Or was he just doing the British thing and being very polite? “Yes, of course I loved you, but you do understand that it was all in the course of my work, there’s a love.”
It was a question that ate at her, and several times she thought to pick up the phone and call him. But she didn’t. Her phone had been disconnected for starters. And she didn’t feel quite the confident, sexy young thing she had when she was casting ridiculous, meaningless spells left and right. Nope, she felt like a poor wallflower who was desperately clinging to a fantasy and a lot of stupid knight-in-shining-armor dreams. How lame! He was just another cop with a job to do, and she had been the convenient way to do the job. That was it!
Maybe the worst thing about all of it was that Rachel had to admit Dad was right about her all along. She had been living in a dream world. For thirty-one years, she’d been living in her own little world with blinders on that kept her from seeing the truth about everything and everyone. The whole thing had left her mightily depressed and completely rudderless. She holed up in her home, going out only when absolutely necessary. Even Mike, who might have been a port in the storm, lost patience and quit calling. His last message was very cold: “Look, I’ve tried to get in touch. You wanna see me again? You call me.”
She put Dagne off with the excuse that she was cleaning her house. At least that part was truthful, for she had begun to view her house as a symbol of her life—a lot of junk with no place or purpose, just scattered around to obscure the truth about who she was.
As the days trudged by, Rachel had no choice but to face the truth about who she was and what she had become. She had languished too long, hiding away in Providence, and it was time she got on with her life. For the first time, she wanted to. She really wanted to. She just couldn’t seem to find the motivation to get off her couch, which was beginning to show permanent impressions of her butt. A noticeably flabbier butt, as she had stopped going to the gym, too.
Dagne grew more and more impatient with her, but Rachel didn’t care. She didn’t need friends; she had Ben and Jerry to keep her company. She didn’t even need a phone. It was great not to have to actually talk to anyone about what had happened. It was fabulous not to have to hear or say Myron’s name. And it was wonderful that she didn’t have to wonder each time the phone rang if it might be Flynn on the other end, then the ensuing panic over what to do.
Yep, the life of a hermit was perfect for her. And in fact, she managed to finish her prospectus for her dissertation, which her professors loved: The Use of Art in Political History: How Medieval Craft Guilds Shaped Future Unions and Pseudo-Governing Bodies in a Commercial World.
She tried to resume her weaving class, but really didn’t have the heart for it. She sort of wandered from loom to loom, with a lot of “That’s great,” or “Really nice,” and the ever popular “Looks good.”
Chantal and Tiffinnae tried their best to cheer her up by complimenting her. “Girl, you looking good,” Chantal said one evening when Rachel had worn her fat jeans.
“And I think that’s a new hairdo, too, ain’t it?” Tiffinnae added, peering curiously at the pile of hair on the top of her head.
“No. Same old, same old,” Rachel had sighed, and wandered over to where Mr. Gregory was working with Jason. “That’s great,” she said, and jumped a little when she realized Chantal was behind her.
“Something is stuck to the bottom of your shoe, honey.” Rachel looked down; saw a neon-green Post-it was protruding from the back heel of her Doc Martens. She stooped over, peeled it off, and looked at it. It was an old reminder to send the Tantra book to Robin that had fallen out of her bag. She felt close to collapse, and canceled the weaving class until mid-January with an excuse of the Christmas holidays.
As the class filed out, Chantal tried once more, putting her arm around Rachel’s shoulders and squeezing tightly. “You’re better than this, Rachel,” she said. “You way better than this. Now you need me or Tif, you call us, you hear?” she asked, and scribbled down her number. “I mean it, girl. We’ll be there for you.”
Rachel smiled weakly. “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m all right.”
“Well, if you’re feeling a little down, let me know,” Sandy said. “I’ve got some real good antidepressants. You look like you could use a bunch.”
And of course, Jason shuffled around, waiting until everyone had gone. “If you need someone to help you move the tree, I can do it,” he said. “I have an axe.”
“Thanks, but that’s okay,” Rachel said. “I sort of like it there,” she muttered, and let Jason walk her to her car.