Dear Hubby, Bro & BFF. You All Watched Me Break? Now Watch Me Leave Chapter 06
I searched the entire apartment and eventually found several crumpled sheets of printer paper in the home office wastebasket.
They were the crumpled pages of Natalie’s diagnostic report from Westbridge Behavioral Health Center.
I remembered her texting me that she had a follow-up appointment that day. When she came home, I had asked how it went, and she had said she was fine.
I read the report line by line.
[Severe generalized anxiety disorder]
[Clear warning signs of panic attacks]
[PTSD risk assessment: high]
The final line read:
[Absolutely no further forced exposure of any kind. At the current rate of deterioration, the patient is at high risk of developing chronic PTSD within six months.]
The report slipped from my hand.
It was dated the same day I had asked her to reschedule her appointment so I could drive Paige to her internship site.
Instead of rescheduling, Natalie had gone to the behavioral health center alone and brought the report home. When I asked how she
—
was doing, she had said she was fine.
I opened the photo gallery on my phone and found the pictures Paige had shared in the group chat after the party.
One of them had captured Natalie walking out of the Fear Room. Her face was deathly pale, her lips were bitten raw, and there was still blood on the back of her hand.
When I first saw the picture, my immediate thought had been that she had made it through. That had to mean she was improving.
I remembered her pounding on a door late at night. When I finally opened it, she was curled against the wall, shaking uncontrollably.
The next day, I told Paige, “The session worked pretty well. Natalie didn’t lose control of her bladder.”
I remembered her pounding on the car windows from the back seat until two of her fingernails split.
All I had thought was that her reaction wasn’t as bad as expected.
Then I remembered her wetting herself in the storage room while I held up my phone so Derek could watch.
At the time, I had told myself it was treatment. She only had to endure it for a little while.
I had never once stopped to wonder whether she was in pain or how terrified she must have been.
Behind each locked door, how had she survived every second?
—
I called Westbridge Behavioral Health Center.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re no longer listed as the patient’s emergency contact, so I can’t provide any information.”
“I’m her husband.”
“Our records show that the patient changed her emergency contact and removed your authorization to access her information. You currently have no access to her records.”
I called Derek again.
“Did you know about Natalie’s report? Her anxiety score had doubled.”
He cut me off.
“Don’t start with that. I already told you—ignore her for two days, and she’ll come back. She’s using her condition to manipulate you.”
“No, Derek. Listen to me. This was us. We did this.”
“Grow a spine, Colin. You’re letting a woman control you. If she wants to throw a tantrum, let her. She’ll get tired of it eventually. I don’t have time for this.”
He hung up again.
I sat on the living room floor with three years’ worth of photographs spread out in front of me.
They documented every renovation I had once been so proud of: the locks I removed, the curtains I hung in place of doors, and the
—
open-concept dressing room I had built for her.
I had posted the pictures online with the caption:
[I built her a home without fear.]
The post had received more than a hundred likes. Everyone in our circle had called me Husband of the Year.
I was fucking disgusting.
***
Meanwhile, Natalie sat by the window of a train heading south. Cool air from the vent above her seat stirred the loose strands of hair across her forehead.
When the train stopped at a small station, she saw a little girl on the platform eating cotton candy.
The girl smiled at her through the window.
Natalie smiled back.
She opened the notes app on her phone and added a second line.
[I spent four hours on a train today. I was okay as long as I kept the air vent on. That’s progress.]