Page 39 of Play Nice

The sky cracks open, and it pours rain for three days straight.

On Friday morning, Daphne arrives early with donuts.

She lets herself into my room, sits at the foot of my bed, and says, “I’m here. I brought donuts.”

“It’s eight a.m., Daffy. What time did you leave Hudson?”

She clicks her tongue. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“Daisy made them. The donuts.”

“I’m sure they’re amazing,” I say, kicking her off the bed so I can pull up my covers. “I’m sure they taste like new love. And cat dandruff.”

“You don’t get to be mad at me. I’m mad at you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, lording over my mattress.

“I’m not mad. I have no emotions. I’m a sociopath, remember?”

“That was Leda, not me.”

“Leda and Thomas,” I say. “I’ve never felt so betrayed.”

“Dad says you haven’t left your room. You’ve just been up here. Alone. Brooding.”

“I don’t brood,” I say, which is true. But it’s also true I’ve been locked in my room all week, sleeping.

I almost put out a statement that my Instagram was hacked, but then I decided I’d just pretend like it never happened, proceed as usual.

But I haven’t posted anything since those stories.

I haven’t responded to any messages or emails either.

The longer I put it off, the less I want anything to do with it, with my life. The more I sleep.

“He says you haven’t eaten.”

“Haven’t been hungry.” I emerge from under the covers. “Wait. Why are you mad at me ?”

“Let’s save it for therapy.”

“No,” I say, reaching for her. “Tell me now.”

“Fine,” she says. “You couldn’t help yourself. You had to go and tear open an old wound. For all of us.”

“Mom died,” I say. “That’s the wound.”

“You insisted on going to her funeral. Going to the house. Reading her book. You couldn’t let it all die with her.”

“And I’m the one accused of being callous,” I say, turning my back to her. “You can leave now. I don’t want any of your girlfriend-of-the-month’s donuts. You should go eat them all to spite Mom. And to save Leda the anguish of depriving herself.”

“You know, Dad thinks you’re having some sort of nervous breakdown. But I know better. I know you better. You’re just a fucking bitch.”

For some reason, this makes me laugh. Sets me off giggling.

Daphne doesn’t say anything else. She storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The sound of her crying in the next room interrupts my fit of laughter, sobers me to the ugly reality of what just happened.

I’m making everything worse. I know I am, but I can’t stop. Daphne’s right. I can’t help myself. Watching the damage unfold feels startlingly familiar. It feels like home .

—

Leda and Tommy arrive early afternoon. Their muffled voices temporarily stir me from my nap. Our appointment is at four p.m., and I don’t intend to leave my room a minute sooner than necessary. I set my alarm for three fifteen and go back to sleep.

I snooze through my alarm and wake up to Dad pounding on my door.

“Clio? Clio, time to go.”

“Coming,” I groan. I put on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. The clothes hang off me.

I go downstairs expecting a full house, but it’s just Dad.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

“Daphne and Amy went with Leda and Tom. They left ten minutes ago. They’ll be on time.”

“Good for them,” I say as he opens the door to the garage for me.

The drive over is uncomfortable. There’s no glam rock sing-along. No conversation. At some point, he says, “Tom and Amy are there for support. They won’t be joining this initial session. It’ll be me. Your sisters. Us.”

“Okay. Whatever you say. You’re in charge.” I yawn and check my phone. I have a message from Roy saying he arrived at the house. I respond, telling him I’ll be there in a few hours. “I have to go back to the city tonight. After therapy. I have an early job tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll drive you in early.”

“I’ll catch the train tonight. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

His knuckles go white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel.

We pull into a labyrinth of an office plaza. Every building looks the same. Brown. Two stories. I know exactly what it’s going to smell like before we even step foot inside.

“Have you been here before?” I ask Dad.

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are tense. He’s nervous.

He leads me inside and up the stairs, confident in his direction, which tells me that he has in fact been here before. If he’s already met with this doctor, there’s a chance that he’s already convinced them I’m crazy.

This could be bad.

Leda, Tommy, Daphne, and Amy sit in the waiting room. Everything is taupe and there are too many ferns.

“Did you fill out the paperwork I sent you?” Dad asks me.

“No,” I say. “What paperwork?”

The door to the waiting room opens, and a woman pokes her head out.

She might be in her fifties; she has streaks of gray in her dark hair.

She wears a single-breasted pinstripe blazer—I think Stella McCartney—over a long black satin skirt and mahogany leather boots.

Swap out her chunky sterling earrings for a pair of diamond studs, add some layered chain necklaces for texture, and it’d be a perfect look.

I trust her more because of her fashion sense.

If she can put herself together, maybe she can put us back together.

“The Barnes family,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m ready for you. Come on back.”

“Clio didn’t fill out her paperwork,” Dad says.

“That’s quite all right. She can get to it later.”

Leda huffs behind me—incensed by my free pass—as we file through the door to another taupe room.

This one has couches instead of chairs, dried flowers instead of ferns.

There are Rothko-esque prints on the walls, all cool tones.

Dad and I sit on one couch, Leda and Daphne on another, and the woman sits on the chaise in the corner, directly facing us.

She kicks up her feet, grabs a pen and legal pad from an end table.

She seems unpretentious for a therapist.

“Welcome. I’m Maya. I’m a licensed psychotherapist and have my master’s in family therapy from the University of Maryland.

I’ve been working as a family therapist for twenty years and have owned this practice for about twelve.

During this initial session, I would like to get to know you all and hear about why you’re here, from each of your perspectives.

Everything that is shared in this room is confidential.

My approach is to be a facilitator of discussion, to listen, and to ask questions.

My goal is to make this a comfortable environment to have uncomfortable conversations. ”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Do I have your consent to proceed with the session? I would appreciate a verbal yes. Let’s start with James.”

“Yes,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. He’s trying to sound more masculine to offset how he feels.

“Great,” Maya says. She turns to me.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Yes.”

Both Daphne and Leda give their verbal confirmations.

“Thank you. And it’s Clio, Daphne, Leda?” she asks, pointing to each of us as she says our names.

We all nod.

“Perfect,” she says, leaning back. “Usually this would be the point where I say I’ve heard it all before, but I know your situation is unique.”

I laugh.

“Clio,” Leda says, teeth clenched.

I wonder if Maya can prescribe sedatives.

“No, laughter is good,” Maya says, and I think Leda might jump out the window. “Laughter can be the best medicine. I’d like to turn it over to you. One at a time. Tell me why you’re here. James?”

Dad clears his throat. Twice. “My daughters’ mother passed away in April. She wasn’t in our lives, but it’s been…difficult. For my youngest, Clio.”

“Yeah, just me,” I say.

Maya cocks her head to the side. “Why are you here?”

“That’s a great question,” I say. “Come back to me.”

“I think you should answer,” she says, scrubbing any goodwill I had for her.

Why am I here?

Mom. The house. Demon of Edgewood Drive. Roy.

My apartment building catching on fire.

Daphne. Leda. Dad. Amy.

Austin.

Fiction. Truth. Belief. Doubt.

There are things I could say that wouldn’t cause chaos. But I don’t want to say any of those things. I want to say the thing I shouldn’t say. Because it’s the only way I can be in control.

“I’m here because my own father wants to have me committed for grieving my mother.”

Dad folds over, puts his head in his hands. Leda sighs. Daphne closes her eyes.

Maya, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I found Google searches on his computer for psychiatric holds in New Jersey.”

“She’s talking about demons,” Dad says. “This is exactly what happened with Alex. She saw things that weren’t there. Her behavior got aggressive. And there was substance abuse.”

Now seems as good a time as any to turn on my tears. “I’m just trying to understand her. What she went through. What she believed. The house holds so many memories…”

“Oh, give me a fucking break,” Daphne says.

“She’s faking,” Leda says to Maya. “She’s manipulating you.”

“I show any emotion, and this is what they do. I’m not allowed to feel anything.” I sniffle, reaching for a tissue. “They used to pin all their animosity on Mom, but she’s not here anymore.”

“Dude, that is so far from the truth,” Daphne says.

“Okay,” Maya says. “There’s a lot of intensity here. Everything is very raw.”

“Clio makes everything about her, just like Alexandra did,” Leda says. “There’s a reason why we cut her out of our lives. Beyond just the custody arrangement. We chose not to have any contact. We’re just lucky that decision was mutual, the cut clean.”

Leda mimes snipping scissors.

“Ah,” Maya says. “I wonder if that shared history of severing a significant relationship has had residual effects and if Alexandra’s passing exacerbated some sensitivity around that. Leda, what do you think?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says. “Daphne and I have already worked through our issues with Alexandra. We suffered more because we were older and could understand—”

“I think we should try to avoid comparing our suffering. It’s impossible for us to know what others feel. Even those closest to us.”

Leda’s turning purple, she’s so mad. She looks like she’s about to levitate. Like her head is about to spin all the way around.

“Leda’s right, though,” Daphne says. “We witnessed more. And Clio…Clio was never bothered by anything…long term. She wasn’t affected the same.”

“We can grow up under the same roof and have radically different childhoods,” Maya says. “And those experiences can manifest differently throughout our lives.”

“Yeah, but…” Daphne starts.

My phone rings. Everyone looks at me.

Roy’s calling. I silence it.

“Sorry,” I say.

“That’s okay. We’ll just need to remember to silence our phones before entering this space,” Maya says, smiling.

There’s quiet in the wake of the disturbance.

“Daphne,” Maya says. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know anymore,” she says, breaking down in tears. Real tears. “I don’t know.”

Maya nods her head. “Leda?”