I was furious. “That’s a complete breach of client-lawyer confidentiality,” I told him.
“I think JB was acting as a friend, not a lawyer,” Stan said. “He didn’t even tell me what you wanted . . .”
His voice trailed off like I was going to volunteer what I was there for, but I was damned if I was going to tell him what I wanted even if Daphne was right. I mean, if he knew he’d no longer profit from me dying then I suppose I’d be safer but it’s not like I’m going to let him do anything to me and I’m leaving anyway. Daphne’s provided me with the perfect solution. I reread Daphne’s last email to me about the job in the Catskills. I’d ignored it at first because it sounded dull but now it occurs to me that it’s the perfect place to hole up until I can have my money transferred to another lawyer and divorce Stan. I’m going to send Schuyler Bennett an email and apply for the job. If I weren’t so mad at Daphne I’d call her up and thank her.
August 8, 20—
The papers came yesterday and I went to the notary to sign them and then express mail them back to JB. I also took out as much cash as I could. Weirdly, I find that I can’t leave without saying goodbye to Daphne. I’ve really been wrong about her. When I emailed Schuyler Bennett, she wrote back asking if I’d changed my email address and was I still planning on arriving on the fifteenth. Quelle surprise! Daphne applied for the job for me! I need to thank her. And I guess I should apologize for how I acted. I can see now that she couldn’t possibly be in on Stan’s plan. Now that I’ve stopped drinking that “vitamin water,” I’m thinking much clearer. I’m going over there right now.
I’M IN FRONT of her house right now, but Daphne’s car isn’t here and Chloë is sleeping in her car seat, so I thought I’d pass the time by reading over these entries. What a bitch I’ve been! It’s like I’ve been someone else since Chloë was born and I think I know who—my mother. It’s like as soon as I became a mother I thought I had to be like her. Well, I can be better than that.
I feel bad about letting Simone go. She cried and said she’d lose her visa. I gave her all the money I’d taken out of the bank. She tried to give it back to me but I told her I didn’t need it where I was going. And I don’t. I see that now. I can see everything more clearly now.
For instance, I’ve just seen Esta coming out of Daphne’s house. Quelle surprise! I think I’d better go in and find out what’s going on. If Peter’s there, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. I’ll bring my suitcase in so he can see I’m serious about leaving and that he’ll never see a penny of my money. And I’ll tell him what I think of how he treats his wife and that if he keeps bullying Daphne I will personally pay for a divorce lawyer who will make sure he never gets to see Chloe again. That will be my parting gift to Daphne.
Chapter Twenty
I remain calm. I don’t make a scene. I don’t fall to pieces. Because that is clearly what they expect of me. I can see it on Dr. Hancock’s face. He’s watching me like a boy watches an ant under a magnifying glass, waiting for it to go up in flames.
“Esta,” I say calmly, “look at me closely. I’m not Laurel; I’m Daphne. I know we look alike and you aren’t expecting to see me.”
Esta gives me a long, steady look, giving me a chance to observe her. She’s looking good. Laurel used to make fun of her shapeless hippie clothes but I notice she’s given them an upgrade. Eileen Fisher instead of J.Jill. She’s gotten a younger, sharper haircut. The crystal earrings might actually be diamonds. Her skin glows like she’s recently had a salt scrub at a spa.
“Actually,” she says, “I never thought you looked all that much alike. Daphne, poor thing, had a sweetness in her face that you never had.” Then she turns to the trio of doctors. “Forgive my tone. I can’t help blaming Ms. Hobbes for Daphne’s suicide, although perhaps I should blame myself. I saw how Laurel was influencing Daphne, first in how she dressed but then also in how she thought. She filled her head with horror stories. I saw that Daphne was suffering from postpartum OCD and was internalizing Laurel’s stories. I warned Laurel not to tell them—”
“No!” I shout, unable to stay silent any longer. “That was me you told.”
The doctors all look from Esta to me. Dr. Hancock smiles. The woman doctor quickly jots down a note. I bet she’s thinking she can get a paper out of this: “The Woman Who Thought She Was Her Own Best Friend.”
“Of course it was you,” Esta says, smiling a dazzling smile. Has she had her teeth capped? “I just said it was you. But you didn’t listen, did you? You told your horror stories of women jumping from windows with their babies, women drowning their own children, women leaving their babies in the backseats of running cars in closed garages—until poor Daphne was so afraid she would kill her child that she took her own life.” She shakes her head and then turns back to the doctors. “Classic borderline personality disorder. You should be careful who you expose to her.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree,” Dr. Hancock says. “I gave her greater freedom this past week and the patient she’s been spending the most time with just had an episode in the lounge.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I object. “All I did was sit by her as she drew.”
“Here’s
