The Chrysalis by Heather Terrell

Author:Heather Terrell
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
ISBN: 9780345500298
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-05-15T04:00:00+00:00

nineteen

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

MARA COULD NOT REMEMBER MAKING HER WAY TO LINCOLN Center, greeting Michael, locating their seats, watching the opera house’s famous rock-candy crystal chandeliers rise, or listening to the melodic strains of Puccini. Son venuta al richiamo d’amor. She could see and feel and hear only the roar of questions in her own head.

A surge of emotions accompanied the roar. At first, she wanted to rage at Michael, confront him with her suspicions, and physically hurt him. But her fury faded away in place of shame, as she began to feel that everyone around her must know her secret. She must somehow bear the mark of her naïveté, her foolish, unknowing participation in Michael’s deception. She looked down at her hands. She saw that they clapped, just like everyone else’s. She felt the fingers touch. But there was no sound.

As the crowd rose, she did, too. She could almost see herself through another’s eyes, following Michael’s lead and Michael’s smile and touching Michael’s hand as they exited through the throngs. Oh God, touching Michael’s hand. Why were the people around her not staring? Worst of all, what would her grandmother think?

She must have allowed herself to be led into the cab. For, with a jolt, she came back into herself, just as Michael leaned toward her with a kiss and they approached her building. She recoiled, winding herself into the corner of the cab. His eyes anticipated the usual invitation upstairs, but Mara quickly muttered something about not feeling well and rushed inside.

Once upstairs, her door bolted shut, Mara reached into her fridge for a bottle of white wine. She knew that she really shouldn’t, that she needed to remain clearheaded. But her confusion and pain were too much to bear. Hands shaking, she poured a second glass, and a third.

She awakened hours later on the couch, with a bone-dry bottle on the coffee table. For a moment, her consciousness was free of the specter of the e-mails, but when it rushed at her in a deluge, she returned to the fridge again and opened a new bottle, the pit in her stomach growing. Just one glass to take the edge off, she told herself. Then she could face it. Then she could decide what to do. But, of course, it wasn’t the one glass.

It was still dark. She proceeded with her normal motions, washing her face, brushing her teeth and hair, changing into pajamas. She padded back to the family room, picked up the half-empty bottle, and poured the rest of it into a tall glass. She downed a good portion of the wine, crawled into bed, and, as she flicked through the channels, finished off the rest.

Early the next afternoon, she returned to herself. Foggy, but strong enough not to head back to the fridge, she checked into her impersonation of a life and reviewed her messages. At work, all seemed under control—just a few voice mails from legal assistants and junior associates, all excuses to let her know that they were working on Saturday.

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