Frost

Was the power of denial so strong that it could completely prevent David from seeing the truth? Maybe the drive for self-protection trumped logic, rationality. When David talked to Celeste, though, when he heard the paranoia in her voice, he’d have to come to terms with what was really happening. He just needed some time to let it sink in.

And where would that leave us? The loneliness that lay ahead of him made my chest ache. It made me want to tell him that I’d be there, in whatever way he needed. Did he know that? I couldn’t believe how strongly attached I’d grown to him in such a short time.

You know that can only hurt you. Once he doesn’t want you.

“No,” I said. “He’s going to need me. He’s not going to have Celeste anymore. He’ll need me.” I rubbed my temples. More and more I’d been getting these deep, throbbing headaches.

Don’t you see? He’s sick, too. He’ll never want you the way he wants her.

“Why do you say that? That’s awful.”

In here is the only place you get the truth.

I’d had enough of the truth these past couple of days. I was exhausted from it all—the revelations, confrontations. And though usually I loved the way I felt in here, right now, I couldn’t handle any more insights into my sometimes ugly subconscious.

It took an enormous amount of energy to push myself up and out into the blinding light of my room. And the minute I was out there, I almost went back in. Somehow the open space of the room was overwhelming. Not contained enough. I needed an activity. Something to occupy me until David got in touch. Something physical—there was no way I could concentrate on homework. The furniture was happy in its arrangement. No space on the walls to hang more pictures. Maybe the garden needed something.

I crossed the room to look outside. The angle of the light coming through the window brought out the layers of dirt that had built up on the pane. Ugh. How had I not noticed this before? I ran a finger down the cold glass. Dirt stuck to the tip.

I got a pile of newspapers from the common room and the Windex from under the bathroom sink. I started at the far right window—just as dirty as the other. I sprayed the cleaner and began wiping with a wadded-up clump of newspaper.

I breathed in and out with the strokes of my arm. Okay. I didn’t need to think about David’s part in this. About his strange reaction. Or what was going to happen to us. No good could come from dwelling on the possibility of losing him, the way I always seemed to do in the closet.

I rubbed circles of streaky liquid round and round the next pane. My wad of newspaper bumped up against the wood frame that had splintered when I’d been hanging the blinds with David. It had been ready to fall apart, that piece of rotten wood. But it took me drilling into it for the large chunk to splinter off. What had happened to Celeste, to make her mind splinter like it had?

I thought back to the beginning of the semester, to the bad things that happened to her right off the bat—the ripped skirt, the broken vase. One possibility, of course, was that she had unknowingly caused these things to happen herself. But maybe she hadn’t. Maybe someone else had done these things, and that had been part of what had instigated Celeste’s paranoia. She thought someone was out to get her because, in a way, someone was out to get her. Was it possible that a mental disorder could be set off by something like that? Or had the mental disorder itself caused the things to happen? Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

I didn’t hear from David until late that afternoon. I was about to lose it, wondering whether he had talked to Celeste yet, when my phone finally flashed his name.

“Can you have dinner at Tonio’s?” he said.

“Tonio’s? Sure, why?”

“I’m hungry.” I thought I heard laughter in the background.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

I was surprised that David was hungry at all, let alone in the mood to go to a romantic, off-campus restaurant. I was even more surprised when I picked him up at his dorm and found Celeste there with him. He slid in the front, Celeste and her crutches in the back.

“Where should I drop you off?” I asked her.

“I’m coming to dinner,” she said. Even in the small reflection in the rearview mirror, I could see that despite the dark bags, her eyes sparkled like they hadn’t before. Her whole expression was entirely different from yesterday’s.

David’s face was more serious than hers, but not nearly as morose as when I’d left him. A disturbing new idea wiggled its way into my brain. Was it possible—at all possible—that this whole thing had been a joke? Or some kind of sick Lazar family test? Well, if it was, there was no question—I was done with both of them.