It was a curious phrase. I could kill . . . One I never used since I actually had killed before. I was a murderer, so for me it lost its hyperbolic quality. But like when you buy a car and then see that specific model everywhere, I noticed whenever anyone idly threw out murderous threats. And it was often. For me they stuck out like neon signs in otherwise dull common colloquialisms. People were always exclaiming, “I could kill you right now!” or “I want to fucking kill her!” or the classic joke, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” and on and on and on. I heard something like that said at least once a week, and I nodded and smiled and understood, like a well-adjusted nonhomicidal person.
Roman knew he had made a mistake. And he apologized over and over. But I was too hurt to accept. His atonement didn’t take away the pain of his betrayal. How could I ever trust him again? And if I couldn’t trust him, how could we ever be friends? His using me as a pawn in his quest to land Melody was second in anguish only to Ellie leaving for college. It threw my perception of the world upside down a little. Roman was my control group in a world of variables. So when he became a variable, it shook me to my core. I shuffled around campus feeling the pain of a phantom limb that had been removed. I didn’t eat much. I wasn’t hungry. I cried in the shower sometimes. I felt something I had never felt before. Shame. Shame that I had slept with another girl’s boyfriend, and shame that my best friend was the one who turned me in.
The great irony was that I had enjoyed my time with Jake because I wasn’t emotionally attached. I knew I wouldn’t get hurt. But by being with him, I was hurt by the one man I did love. And love is love. It doesn’t matter if it’s friendship or romance or family love. You are either in love or you aren’t. There are no levels. And my heart was broken.
Jake won Melody back by proposing three weeks after the scandal. An emerald-cut canary diamond with a pavé band. They were married in a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, the following year. I heard the free-flowing Champagne was expensive and the vanilla cake was delicious.
Did Roman deserve to die for what he did to me? No. Did I stay up nights picturing how I would somehow overtake his superhero frame and strangle him to death? No. I stayed up grieving for my dead friendship. And that’s when the nightmares started.
CHAPTER 12
SALT
My horrible dreams were always the same. A faceless person would hold me down and shove handfuls of salt into my mouth. I would struggle and scream and wake myself up spitting and drooling all over my bed. My whimpers were so loud even the pillow over Ameena’s face didn’t block out the pitiful sounds. By senior year most students had moved off campus, but Ameena and I enjoyed the ease and structure of dorm life. So we stayed together, nestled among the juniors.
But night after night the terrors continued, which woke her up and which gave me a waking phobia of salt. I couldn’t eat French fries or potato chips without gagging. I couldn’t watch people in the cafeteria sprinkle table salt on their food without feeling panicked. I started trying to remove all salt dispensers from my vicinity. But like the king in Sleeping Beauty, who tried to do away with all spinning wheels to protect his baby daughter from a curse, I failed. No matter how many salty things and salt dispensers I removed from my eye line, there were always more on the next table over. I became physically ill at the thought of salt-rimmed margaritas, so I avoided Mexican restaurants. I also couldn’t even think about eating fish or anything that tasted of the sea, so that ruled out Japanese. I even started to dislike mermaids, once my favorite fantastical creature.
I had, not surprisingly, finished all my required courses for my psychology major, so as well as working on my thesis, I was branching into neuroscience to learn more about the brain. The professor’s assistant in my Macromolecular Structure class, named Max, was tall with a slight frame. He had dark eyes and sandy scruff on his face. He wore V-neck cashmere sweaters and elbow-patched tweed jackets with faded blue jeans. It seemed like he’d read a manual on how to look professorial but only followed half the steps. He spoke to the class sometimes, with a low and soft voice, but mostly he lingered behind the much older professor and organized papers. After weeks of nightmares, Max made his way into my unconscious. In my dream we were making out, squished against a child’s elementary school desk. He kissed me deeply. And then, in an instant, his tongue dissolved into salt in my mouth and the salt poured down my throat. I woke up once again, spitting and screaming. Ameena looked over at me in the dark.
“Are you discussing this in therapy?”
“Yeah,” I lied. I was not discussing it in therapy. The problem was I already had an idea of what the nightmares were really about, and there was no way I could mention it to anyone. I assumed my recent salt repugnance was linked to the ocean. And the ocean was where I had killed Duncan. And that salt being shoved in my mouth was probably symbolic of him sucking in salt water until he died. Or, possibly, the nocturnal terrors could be symbolic of me shoving peanuts down Richard’s throat. Neither an option I could discuss.
I worried these new dreams were an alarm that my guilt-free time was up and a hellish “The Tell-Tale Heart” or Crime and Punishment end was inevitable for me. Maybe my unconscious was festering, feeling terrible about what I had done, needing to confess, and it wouldn’t let me sleep until my conscious caught up. But my conscious wasn’t convinced and my waking state didn’t feel guilty at all. About anything.
Many psych professors encouraged psych majors to go to therapy. The reason was twofold. One, how could we be good therapists ourselves without experiencing it from the patient’s side? And two, the experience of going to therapy might indicate the branch of psychology to which we were most drawn. I chose Dr. Alisha Goldman to be my therapist because she had recently finished her PhD. She was old enough to know a thing or two but young enough to seem like she could relate to my life in general. I had been seeing her once a month since my sophomore year. Sitting on her dark blue corduroy-upholstered sofa and chatting about this and that. She was lovely and wise and kind. I used my time with her to evaluate her methods as well as to discuss ideas and concepts and emotions. I was open, to a point. But never weepy or hysterical. I knew a murder confession was one of the few reasons a doctor could break patient confidentiality, so I could not broach my salt phobia with her. I had to keep it all to myself, and so the terrible dreams continued, now always starring Max and his tongue.
One afternoon, exhausted from yet another night of barely sleeping, I shuffled into my dorm room. I was shocked to see Ellie sitting on my bed. She took one look at me and leapt up, concerned.
“Oh, Ruby. What happened to you?”
I turned to look at Ameena, who was grabbing her bag to head out and give us sisters some privacy. She said, unapologetically, “I called her.” And she left.
Ellie held me by the shoulders, to show how serious she was. And she said, “Just tell me. Are you anorexic? Bulimic? Back on drugs?”
“No!”
“Are you in a cult?”
“What?”
“It happens. Are you in one?”
“No. Ellie, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. I expected greasy unwashed collegiate hair. And dry skin since it’s cold as fuck here. But you look like death. The dark circles under your eyes. And your posture. You’re all slumped. Like you’ve given up or something. This is not like you.”
I meekly tried to straighten my shoulders, but they were too shrouded in a heavy blanket of exhaustion to perk up. Ellie stayed rooted, and stared at me until I confessed the truth. Since I had not expected this confrontation, I had no plan about what to say.
I blurted out, “I haven’t slept in weeks. I’m having horrible nightmares. Okay? Like every single night. About salt! About salt being shoved into my mouth. Over and over. And I can’t make them stop.”
She looked at me with compassion and understanding. And let go of my shoulders.
“It must be about the slugs.”
“What? What are you talking about? What slugs?”