“Am I supposed to narrate my life? Add captions to all my actions?” I grinned, not looking up from my work in progress.
“No. But tooting a horn every once in a while wouldn’t hurt—and it doesn’t even have to be your own horn. But making no noise at all when you, oh I don’t know, need help, or see others in need, isn’t leading by example. It’s living with your head in the sand, or . . . No, that’s not right. It’s living with your emotions bottled up. You shouldn’t let people walk all over everything you believe, take advantage, or discount your feelings. If you don’t prioritize your feelings, no one else will.”
Everyone had stopped knitting and was staring at Sandra, including me. I’d learned long ago to always pause and reflect whenever Sandra offered an opinion; I was doing that now.
So I was surprised when Elizabeth said, “That wasn’t very nice.”
“What?” Sandra cast a wide-eyed gaze to Elizabeth.
“You just accused Fiona of living her life with her head in the sand,” Marie supplied, frowning at Sandra.
“No. I didn’t. I just accused her of living with bottled-up emotions,” Sandra countered.
“Well, that’s not nice either.” Marie poked Sandra, her frown deepening.
“She didn’t say it to be mean,” I defended my friend. “She said it because she’s concerned.”
“See?” Sandra lifted her hand toward me. “Look how reasonable she’s being. That’s not normal. And she doesn’t have the excuse of being a psychiatrist, like I do. Non-psychiatrists shouldn’t be that well-adjusted, it’s a problem.”
“Still . . .” Marie continued to glower at Sandra.
“Don’t give me that face. I know you care about Fiona, too. I know you’ve noticed how exhausted and stressed out she is. Someone had to say something.”
I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise with those two arguing. Yet, even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to say. Of course I needed to prioritize my own feelings, but I hadn’t quite figured out how to do that, not yet, not with two kids and a frequently absent spouse. In truth, I thought I’d been doing rather well over the last few years handling everything on my own, and still squeezing out time for myself.
For example, Tuesday night knit night was sacred, something I did for me, for my sanity, and I recognized how essential it was. I never missed a week if I could help it.
Presently, I was convinced recent events beyond my control—interrupted sleep being the major factor—had disturbed the delicate balance, which in turn had caused the headaches, which in turn had caused the exhaustion, which in turn had caused the loss of appetite.
I just need an extra eight hours in every day for the next four weeks to get everything back on track. Yep. Just eight hours.
“It’s her own business.” Marie shook her head.
“Says the agnostic.” Sandra stuck her tongue out at Marie.
Marie giggled. “Real mature, Christian.”
Marie and Sandra continued to mock-argue. I took the opportunity to marinate in Sandra’s observations and check my phone for messages from Greg. Still nothing.
His lack of response was starting to piss me off.
And based on Sandra’s observations about me, I decided to give in to those feelings. I was pissed off. I was angry with Greg. I was angry because I’d apologized and been honest, and he was giving me the silent treatment, and that was unlike him.
Not cool.
Not only that, but Greg hadn’t done the dishes on Saturday like he’d professed. He’d made muffins with the kids then piled everything into the sink to soak. That wasn’t doing the dishes. That was leaving the dishes in the sink for someone else to do the dishes.
As I was scowling at my phone, it rang, the number read RESERVED. My heart leapt to my throat; international calls frequently came through as reserved numbers. All thoughts of unwashed dishes fled.
I didn’t excuse myself from the conversation, knowing my friends would understand; instead, I jumped from my chair and moved to the window as I accepted the call.
“Hello? Greg?”
A short pause followed, a slight hissing coming through on the other end, and then, “No, Fiona. It’s Spenser.”
I frowned, standing straighter, glancing out the window and backing away from it. The last person I’d expected to hear from was Spenser Banks. He’d been my handler at the CIA when I’d resigned. I’d considered him a friend, but when I left the service nine years ago he’d cut me off, and stopped returning my phone calls.
Over the years I’d heard bits and pieces about his wellbeing from mutual friends. He’d never married, never had a family; I wasn’t surprised. He was a company man all the way.
“Oh, uh . . . Hi, Spenser. What-I mean . . . how can I help?”
The line was quiet for several seconds, I heard him sigh. Now I was worried. Spenser Banks never sighed. He was the least expressive person on the planet. If there were an Olympic sport for being the least expressive, he would win the gold medal.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.”