“But?”
“Still not enough to want to kill myself. I know people get that depressed, but . . . I can’t imagine ever wanting to do away with myself. Life feels far too precious. But I don’t know who I was a few months ago, or last year.”
“Have you ever been deeply depressed?” she says, uncrossing her legs and recrossing them in the other direction. She looks at me directly.
“You mean before, in the years I remember?”
She nods, looking at me intently.
“No, never,” I say without hesitation. “I’ve been sad, sure, but never sad enough to want to end it all. At least, I don’t think so . . .”
“What do you mean, you don’t think so?”
I take a deep breath. “In high school, I was pretty down and out. I was never in the popular group of kids. I wasn’t a cheerleader type. I went to a large high school with lots of cliquish groups.”
“Did you have any close friends?”
“A couple, but I made my closest friends in college. Anyway, I never wanted to hurt myself. I certainly wouldn’t do it on a dive. I would take pills or something, just fall asleep and not wake up. Hypothetically speaking.”
“Have you thought of doing that? Taking pills and not waking up?”
“No,” I say. “Never!”
“I didn’t think so.”
My head is throbbing; the dizziness has returned. “Maybe Jacob doesn’t want me to know the truth.”
“What truth do you think that might be?” She sits very still, her pencil unmoving, the eraser end resting on her notebook.
“He’s only ever lied to me to protect me. What if I might have done something terrible?”
“Like what?”
“Hurt someone, or . . .”
“Do you think you hurt someone?”
“It doesn’t seem like me.” I look out the window, at the changing clouds, the sky transforming itself from solid blue to an angry gray. Drowning would work better. The room moves in circles, the shadows whipping around and around, as if in a blender at slow speed. “I have to go. I need to think.” I get up and make my way to the door.
“Are you all right?” Her voice is full of worry.
I turn to her and say, “Honestly, I don’t know.”
The air hangs heavy in the house, thick with unspoken secrets. Unknown secrets. This afternoon, Jacob and I have barely spoken to each other. He’s making pasta for dinner. Now and then, I cast a sidelong glance in his direction. In my office, I find no new messages from Linny. Maybe she’s out on a research vessel without access to email. Sometimes she goes a couple of days without replying. I need to write her a real letter, send it to Russia by snail mail. I check back through our messages for her contact information, and I search my computer files but I find only a defunct address in Seattle.
I sign out of email and search Google again for information about the dive, but there is no mention of what might have caused our accident aside from the treacherous currents. I turn off the computer and search through my files. I do not find a journal or any notes I wrote that might give me a clue.
In my room, I look through my books, my papers, my belongings. The only subtle indication of my recent state of depression: the clothes in muted, somber colors. Grays and browns, blacks and dark blues. It was as if I wanted to blend in and disappear.
In the bottom drawer of my dresser, beneath a gray sweater, I find a pair of form-fitting exercise pants I haven’t worn since we arrived. Did I ever wear pants so tight? Maybe I wore them for yoga or Pilates. I’m not a jogger. I pull out the leggings and a fragment of red fabric drops to the floor. I pick up the scrap of material, which must’ve clung to my pants in a dryer cycle. But it’s not a scrap at all—it’s a silk G-string with a narrow lace border. Underwear featuring a tiny triangle in the front, nothing but a string in the back.
I see my hand reaching out to take the G-string off a hanger in a lingerie shop. Silk teddies shine in a rainbow of colors on hangers. Maybe a charmeuse, I thought, looking at a loose satin sleeveless top. Or a lace corset.
Why not? He came up behind me. I would love to unlace you.
I blushed. Corsets are too retro.
No garters, either. I hate unfastening those things.
I turned to him. I touched his five-o’clock shadow. So you’ve had experience unfastening those things?
No, I’m imagining they would be hard to undo.
Uh-huh. Right. I gave him a look.
Seriously. I’ve never undone a garter, and corsets don’t turn me on. They look uncomfortable. I can’t believe women had to wear them for so damned long.
This is why I love you, I said, smiling up at him. You want me to be comfortable.
It’s my mission in life.
I pulled a black transparent lace suit off a hanger. How about a body stocking?
Looks sexy, but way too much trouble to take off.