No Good Deed

As the movie ended, Lena felt a great sense of relief. She had enjoyed the film, no question and, as always, was guiltily gleeful at having finished - but for the unpopped kernels - a medium buttered popcorn and a medium soda. It was a full-on treat night for her. And, yet, she felt the flutter of her anxiety working its way from her stomach to her throat. “Impeded, no doubt, by popcorn and carbonation,” she thought to herself.

She looked at Nicholas, still staring at the screen, beside her. He may as well have been asleep for all she could detect from his seemingly bored demeanor. This was odd as it was usually he who was up and ready to leave the very second something had ended, and clearing out was expected. Not wanting to start so much as a monosyllabic exchange, she stood up and brushed the errant bits of popcorn from her top. Of course, there were butter (or whatever grease the concession stand used) stains all over her light blue t-shirt. Every item of clothing she had, that included a top - but for two ‘best’ dresses for ‘occasions’ – was stained across the bosom, hers being so bloody huge and always in the way. As she did at least once a day, she cursed her genes and her lack of funds for a breast reduction. And the plastic surgeon who refused to do the procedure on her because, as he commented snidely while pointing to her midsection, “You’re too fat. What are you going to do about all that? You’d need at least a tummy tuck as well.” He’d offered to do a breast sculpt and tummy tuck for $20,000 which, of course, would not be covered by OHIP.

Lena still cursed him, inwardly – with the venom befitting his loathsomeness - every time she beheld her naked self, something she avoided. How insensitive! How arrogant! She had composed three or four acid-laced and vitriolic letters of complaint to The College of Physicians and Surgeons about him, and how she’d been treated. She wanted desperately to send the letters, to show him up for what he was, to destroy him if possible. Lena had a vengeful nature, but it was one she’d cultivated to protect herself against the frequent ignominies she had suffered, particularly in childhood. She’d learned to retreat into herself, nursing the hurt and humiliation, trying to assuage the damage to her self-confidence, to her very ego. But, rather than healing the cuts and barbs, she picked at the scabs until they bled, drained them, then let them putrefy into a toxic need for revenge.

In the end, cowardice and common sense stopped her from mailing the last of the letters, already enveloped and stamped. There was no doubt in her mind that it would come back to bite her in the arse (she hadn’t seen that naked in decades) because word would spread among the contingent of doctors in her area, that she had badmouthed, or bad-‘typed’ about, a member of the medical elite and she’d be forever blackballed from the profession. She didn’t care so much for herself, but knew her sister and family would be scandalized and not a bit pleased were it divulged they were related to her.

With her strict Catholic upbringing, Lena was only too aware that this character flaw – this eagerness for her tormentors to suffer - was sinful. She should have prayed long and hard for the strength to overcome it, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. It was that which preserved the thing that steeled her in the tortured moments, when death seemed the only release. She wouldn’t let them defeat her. Her bitter need for vengeance, unattractive as it was, was her shield. That shield had seen its share of battle, during Lena’s bouts of rage or despair, or the times when grief and remorse laid her low for periods the duration of which were totally unpredictable. It was perhaps a tad battle-scarred and longing to be retired, but it had never failed her. She relied on its metallic comfort, cushioning her every descent into that place from which she feared she’d never return. But return, somehow, she always had. So far, anyway.

Her returns from these bouts of deep depression and suicidal ideation would, sometimes, be apologetic and simpering. She hated those, and her shield hung its inanimate head in shame. Sometimes she returned in a rage, directed at those whose very existence had caused her misstep. And, sometimes, she got it right. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t rage. She hid her true feelings – at least those she could understand – somewhere deep inside, grabbed her figurative shield and marched back into the world she so dreaded.

Lena was (though never specifically diagnosed among her other many and specific diagnoses) anti-social. Very anti-social. People were the cause of all the world’s problems. Of this she was certain and, truth be told, that’s a truth that can be told. But most people – the vast majority – just dealt with it, ignored it when it didn’t matter to them, and took care of things when the world summoned up some problem for them to solve.

It was, for them, all so bloody simple. Lena often didn’t know whether to resent them, or pity them for their superficial understanding of this world they shared.

It had taken all of 30 seconds since she had risen from her theater seat for this thought tornado to whoosh its way through her head. The movie, just for that brief interlude, had been forgotten.

Oh yes, the theater. Time to leave.

Without a second glance at Nicholas, Lena began to exit the row of seats. The anxiety that had knocked on her emotional door as the film was ending had been usurped by Lena’s latest bout of bothers but, as always, the knocking resumed. Now, two anxious thought processes were competing for preeminence within her, both having sidetracked the entirety of all she had consumed during the movie. They were now threatening to set up hyperventilation camp in the general vicinity of her chronic post-nasal drip. Every time this happened her in public, she wondered anew why she kept forgetting to put a few of the strictly-allotted anti-anxiety pills in her purse. No, she knew why. She didn’t want to exceed the number she was allowed in any given time period. No matter how strenuously and pitiably she requested a few more, 30 a month was her lot.

Suddenly, Nicholas was behind her, giving her a nudge in the waist. “OK, go,” he said into her hair, which annoyed her. When they were first a couple, she had nearly swooned when she felt his warm breath in her hair. The appeal of that had long since run its course and, without thinking, she shoved her elbow back at him and said, not quite loudly enough for the people behind to hear, “For fuck sake, just wait a second.”

Lena thought for a brief moment that she could tell him she wasn’t feeling well and head for the ladies’ room, just to steady herself before having to deal with him. She knew he wouldn’t understand her hesitation and agitation because he never did. He coasted through life, rarely evincing much of anything – emotion, humor, interest, curiosity – and she’d stopped looking for any trace of the man she had once believed he was. This new man, the one he’d been now for 20-plus years, lacked all of those traits but had substituted in their stead, hair-trigger anger. And a very, VERY loud voice when the two would disagree.

No, she decided, let’s just get out of here, and go home. Her sleep medication was beckoning to her. She just wanted to take her sedative, go to bed, revisit and dissect for herself the film they’d just seen, then fall asleep before he set a foot on the stairs up to the bedroom. Lena wondered if he even appreciated the novelty they had just experienced?

Did it even register with him that this was the first movie they had seen, in a theater, in more than 18 months, thanks to the pandemic that had literally, and quite effectively, shut down the world?

Lena had missed the movie theaters probably more than anything else that was verboten during the one-and-a-half-year quarantine. Ever since she was old enough to go to the cinema on her own, she did. Often. Movie theaters were her refuge, her escape from everything that tormented and annoyed and upset her in her own life. She loved it most when she were the only – or but one of a few – in the huge dark rooms, all the better for imagination to run amok. And the ritual indulgence of popcorn and soda was one she jealously guarded for her alone. It didn’t taste the same, nor was there the sublime satisfaction of consuming it, when anyone else was with her. Especially Nicholas.

But that wasn’t quite true. She absolutely loved going to any movie, any time with her sister, Stella. Stella was everything Lena was not. Tall, slender, great at sports, popular without an ounce of shyness, the center of attention and always in the right place at the right time. Had she not been Stella, the person who had been Lena’s protector for so many years, Lena may have resented Stella her good fortune. But she couldn’t. Any thought of Stella, her ‘star’, would bring a smile and, often, an inward chuckle to Lena. They had had so much fun together growing up, Stella two years her senior and happy to explain to her little Magdalene whatever her sister wanted to know.

Their mother, Sylvie, was as staunch a Catholic as it could possibly be possible: Daily Mass, weekly Confession, nightly Rosary said at the foot of Lena’s bed. The sisters hated most of it, but Stella was much better at hiding her displeasure. Lena, on the other hand, would become so distraught - for what reason she didn’t know – that she’d often start crying mid-Mass, in the Confessional, and even mid-Rosary. This did not sit well with Sylvie and, eventually, she let slip an uncharacteristic, “Merde!” and announced she would do her own Rosary alone, at her bedside. But, for the foreseeable future, all Mass and Confessions were still requisite for both girls.

Sylvie had chosen her daughters’ names from the annals of Christendom. Stella was named for “Stella Maris”, the Latin for “Our Lady, Star of the Sea”. Her Magdalene she had, of course, named for Mary Magdalene, the contemporary of Jesus and a most revered saint, indeed the embodiment of Christian devotion for many centuries. Sylvie hated that Stella had nicknamed Magdalene, ‘Lena’ but, she could never be too cross with her older daughter, the one in whom she saw more of herself. Though Sylvie would never call her youngest ‘Lena’, she eventually conceded that others could use the shortened version, but only IF Stella and Magdalene promised to tell everyone the religious origin of Lena’s proper name.

Their father, Cameron (though he insisted on “Cam”) had more or less abandoned his daughters when he left Sylvie for no reason other than the stark realization he was not a family man. That and selfishness. He only cared about having a good time, and quickly realized marriage and two daughters precluded his preferred lifestyle. Stella was seven, and Lena five when their father left. What they remembered of him wasn’t pleasant. There were fights and shouting almost every night, threats and recriminations hurled between Sylvie and Cam and, often, the girls trying to comfort their sobbing, heartbroken mother.

The coup de grâce came, quite literally, the night Cam, drunk from a day of partying with his buddies, punched their mother, knocking her to the floor, where she hit her head on the side of a kitchen cupboard; blood immediately spurted in a seemingly-confused stream. The girls had seen it all, from the spot where they always hid during these episodes. The second Sylvie fell to the floor, Stella leaped out and charged at her father, head first into his waist. When he caught his balance, he threw her from him as if she were a rag doll. She landed nearly on top of her mother, and the pair of them wept and clung to each other, as they glared at Cam, unable to think what to do next.

It was then that tiny Lena, always so afraid of her father, stormed into the kitchen, demanding he leave. “Get out of here. We don’t want you. Leave us alone,” she screamed, her tiny face blazing red and tear-stained. As Sylvie and Stella looked on in disbelief at this hitherto unimaginable turn of events, orchestrated by a tiny, timid five-year-old, oblivious to the possibility of physical attack, Lena stood mere feet from her father. She was close to hyperventilation, her breathing was so intense. The look on her face was startling. Rage, defiance and disgust had organized themselves into a formidable mask where once freckles had been the predominant feature.

Stella and her mother were terrified for Lena, each imagining Cam’s brutal response to what he would have deemed insolence and cheek. He stood, swaying slightly, quite possibly stunned. Then, slowly, the anger in his face began to fade, eventually giving way to a rueful smile.

“OK, big shot,” he slurred at Lena. “You want me gone so bad. You got it.”

With that, he left the kitchen and made his way through the house, obviously collecting what things he wanted. As Sylvie and her girls gathered close together at the kitchen table, they could hear his progress from room to room. After a very few minutes, they heard the front door slam, reopen, then slam again even louder.

For a minute or so, no one spoke. Finally, Sylvie said, “He’ll be back, girls. Don’t worry. He’s your father. He loves you.”

“I don’t want him here,” Lena shouted. “I hate him. He’s a bully and he makes you cry.”

“No, Magdalene, you must not hate. Not your father, not anyone. He has a bad temper and, when the liquor takes hold of him, the worst comes out. He’s not a truly bad man.”

Stella finally spoke. “I agree with my Leeny. He does nothing but scare all of us. We’re always afraid to do anything in case it makes him mad. We don’t need him, the three of us. We’re a good family, just us.”

Her eldest daughter was right, Sylvie thought. The three of them were a good family. But simply being good didn’t pay the bills. She didn’t want Cam back either. She had loved him so much, and been overjoyed when he wanted to marry her. He was a good earner, and a good-looker. All her friends had agreed she was lucky. She was still somewhat smitten with that superficial attraction, but she was afraid of him, not so much for herself, but of what he might do to her girls.

That night, all three said The Rosary kneeling at Lena’s bedside. When she left the girls for her own room, she dropped immediately to her knees again, saying a second Rosary and a Novena to St. Jude and St. Joseph, the former being the patron saint of impossible causes, the latter the patron saint of families. Sylvie had come to the point that she didn’t care what happened as long as she and her two little girls were safe and happy.

Lying in bed, light turned out the instant she heard sounds that suggested Nicholas was putting away the wine he usually had before bed, Lena turned over on her side, facing away from her husband. She hoped she had been convincing in claiming a migraine was setting in, because she knew Nicholas wouldn’t want any conversation or discussion of the movie when she was in migraine mode. These migraines came on, as far as Nicholas could tell, any time Lena had been out in public, especially when she’d had to make conversation with strangers or mere acquaintances. He did feel a bit sorry for her, as everything he’d read about migraines sounded like they were hellish and could usher in a grim myriad of symptoms. What Nicholas didn’t know was that Magdalene had never had a migraine in her life.

Seeing his wife’s back to him in the dim light, he thought he might ask her if she’d like a cool face cloth for her head. What could it hurt? Just as Nicholas was about to form the words, Lena sighed loudly, tugging the bedclothes up and around her head. He was fairly certain she was crying. It was a safe bet. She did a lot of that. Instead of offering the cloth, he went into the en-suite, did whatever ablutions were necessary, put in his earphones to block all sound - including weeping and sniffling - and got into bed. He patted Lena on what was likely her shoulder, then turned back to wait for sleep to draw the curtain on yet another unpleasant evening.

“Nicholas,” Stella had announced to Lena. “His name is Nicholas. He’s a friend Pete’s known since childhood. And he’s just broken up with his girlfriend. Pete said it sounds like he might want to meet you, “if she’s anything like Stella,” he’d said. Lena groaned. “Well, shit, Stell, that’s just perfect. I’m nothing at all like you. Pete’s probably more like you. Shit. And Nicholas could be in love with Pete and you’ll make a great threesome someday. And, before you ask again, NO!” she had nearly shouted. “I don’t want to meet him; and don’t try fixing me up.”

Seeing the very real look of disappointment on Stella’s face, Lena purred in her best Garbo, “I vant to be alone.”

“I think Nicholas may be worth the effort of dragging yourself from the house, even if only for a few minutes. Just sashay into the restaurant,“ Stella started planning, “casually notice us, then breeze by and do the general ‘fancy meeting you here’ bit. You’ll see him. He’ll see you. You may even shake hands, and hear each other’s voices. And, then,” Stella swung around from the mirror where she’d been admiring her perfect eyebrows, “you can fade mysteriously into the night.”

“I thought you were having lunch,” interrupted Lena. I’d have to do a very long fade if I have to wait for the night.”

“You know what I mean, mad-a-leen” her sister pouted. “Fade into the upholstery. Say you are about to pee your pants and head to the toilet. You know. A graceful, charming sort of exit.”

“You know bloody well I might just do the toilet bit. It is very me when the moods start cycling about my cranium.” Lena crossed her eyes as she moved her face an inch away from her sister’s.

Stella let it drop. “OK. For now, we’ll put Nicholas on ice. Maybe he’s just hot enough to melt his way through the ice and into your cold, dark heart.”

Good, Lena had thought. She just couldn’t summon the energy and good humor it took to face a set-up or a date or dig through her closet in hopes of finding something that not only was decent, but that actually fit. Her size never remained the same for long, tending toward the larger sizes more often than not. And makeup. And doing her hair. It was just far too much. She had plenty of books to read and, if she finished them – possible as she was a speed-reader, self-taught – there was always something on TV that could keep her relatively engrossed until bedtime.

Back in the days they had shared a bedroom in Sylvie’s house, Lena tried hard to stay awake to hear everything Stella would report and describe about her dates. There had been so many boys over the years, all smitten with her sister. Sylvie would agonize over each one and his intentions. She would quiz them mercilessly; intent on uncovering the Achilles heel she knew was set to derail her firstborn. By the time she’d done with them, each would-be suitor felt most deflated, and assumed any hope he’d had for a good time with Stella was dashed. That certainly was what Sylvie thought.

But, Stella had proven time and again that, what her mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She played on her mother’s soft spot, knowing that she was Sylvie’s golden star. Lena thought it was mean, the way Stella lied to her mother, telling completely fabricated stories of chaste and wholly celibate dates with the lads Sylvie had been certain she’d discouraged. The lies themselves were bad, and the actual fact of what had really transpired during the evening was worse. What bothered Lena the most, however, irking her because of how petty they felt, were the embellishments Stella would add to what could have been just a very straightforward tale, all that her mother needed to hear, with description of every possible detail – of things that were, of course, non-existent – commenting on someone’s new haircut or color, repeating conversations she’d never had, and places she’d never been – just to string her mother along into her world of deceit. Surely, Stella’s logic ran, only someone who had seen things in such great detail could describe them, and where they were. Of course, Stella and her fella were somewhere else entirely, and Lena doubted if she’d even seen anyone with a new haircut. More likely, she’d seen no one but the guy and the inside of his car.

Yes, they all had cars. Stella would consider no one else. Of course, this fact, too, was shielded from Sylvie. On the odd occasion Lena summoned her courage sufficiently to challenge her sister on her lies, Stella said blithely, “It’s for her own good; I don’t want her to be hurt, and it would hurt her if she knew, right, my mad-a-leen?”

And that was it. Lena was no match for Stella, love her desperately though she did. But she adored her mother, too. Her mother, so devout and pious, profoundly kind and deeply spiritual, would never utter a bad word about anyone. She had a fiery temper when crossed, but she’d always apologize, even to her daughters, when the flames had died into smoldering embers. And everything was always forgiven. Mother and daughters were in constant states of forgiving and having been forgiven.

Almost all things. Almost always. As much as she loved her Stella star, Lena hated the ease with which she blatantly deceived their mother. That she could never forgive.

Nicholas was gone when Lena awoke the next day. He hadn’t wakened her as he normally did and, now, she was going to be late for work. Either late, or devoid of makeup and clean hair. Neither was a good choice, so she turned on her back, closed her eyes, and did a few breathing exercises she knew would help her contend with what lay ahead. She’d got into the habit of trying to think of one good thing before she got out of bed, to make it somewhat less of an ordeal.

No masks were required any more in the small workplace where she was employed as office manager. After nearly two years, that was a plus.

That thought led her to think about visible mouths and lipstick. From there, makeup followed and, as she rubbed her eyes and decided she’d had a pretty good sleep, it seemed to Lena as good a time as any to get up and put in some effort…maybe try something different in the makeup department. She had quite the collection of makeup, mostly unused bronzers and contour things in tubes and palettes of eye shadow designed for different ‘moods’. And lip colors touted to enhance her smackers no matter the day’s adventure or life event. She had Stella to thank for these, Stella who had sold every brand of toiletry and cosmetic and all the ‘haves’ of ‘what have you’ from the comfort of her home since the oldest of her children was a baby. She thought of her sister, seated amid an assortment of cushions on the leather couch Lena loathed, happily skimming through new catalogues or online websites for the next big thing in the world of cosmetology and all accoutrements the woman (or person) must have to be desirable and/or primed for the day ahead. Beside her right hand would be a cup of coffee or glass of white wine, depending on the time of day. Lena wasn’t sure at what exact point caffeine gave way to sulfites, but it seemed that the switching hour was becoming earlier.

And Stella could really sell. Of course she could. She had the confidence of a rampaging Gordon Ramsay and the allure of Mata Hari or, for those too young to get the connection, a Beyoncé or J-Lo. Dua Lipa perhaps?

Whatever ‘it’ was, Stella had it by the truckload. Lena did not, try though Stella doggedly had, but in vain, to get her into her pyramid enterprise. When she’d finally acquiesced, her sales savvy was as doomed as Lena told Stella it would be. She didn’t have the nerve to suggest to her friends they might enjoy trying whatever it was Stella wanted her to promote. She hardly had any friends, anyway, and the few she had eschewed all manner of cosmetic enhancement.

Stella, however, made a killing, cornering all the markets within – at the very least – their city limits.

“Stella, Stella, she can sella. Lena, Lena, barely seena.” Those words would drift through Lena’s mind for no particular reason, like some sort of backwash across the canvas of their lives.

Lena showered and, for a change, spent a bit of time blow-drying her hair properly, as opposed to leaving the windows down – whatever the weather – in her car as she drove to the office. She decided, as usual, that the brown/rust palette was what her eyelids and rims demanded, dabbed the contour cream under her eyes to hide the purplish rings (was that what contour was for? No matter, it worked), applied about four coats of mascara, then went to dress. Her choice of outfit spanned which of the black things she owned would she put together today. Navy was a possibility but people would think she was trying to draw attention to her makeup if she wore that. So black pants, shirt and blazer it was.

Lena took a long look at herself in the mirror, wondering how she must appear to others, then immediately remembered Sylvie’s admonition whenever the sisters would gaze too long into the mirrors. Vanity! And, if she were to stare too long at herself, she would see the devil looking back at her, Sylvie always threatened. Lena had been terrified, believing it as a child and, even now that the superstition and Catholic rigor had long left her, she rarely looked in a mirror. When she did, it was just a quick glance to ensure nothing was tucked in to the wrong place, or sticking out where tucking in was requisite. Of course, Stella would just stare into the mirror all the longer when they were children, sticking her tongue out at their mother as soon as Sylvie looked away. Lena did often wonder how they could be related. If Sylvie hadn’t given birth to both of them at home, with a midwife in attendance, Lena would choose to believe there had been a mix-up at the hospital.

After ensuring she was properly put together, and had gathered everything she needed for the day, Lena locked the townhouse door, and walked to the guest parking area where she had to keep her car, the allotted space being only one per unit, and Nicholas had claimed that. Of course. She noticed the slow leak in the left rear tire had been busy over the weekend and felt a surge of rage that, now, she would have to stop to fill it. A minor thing, yes but, on those days when her anxiety and depression were particularly heightened, it seemed oppressive, yet another thing that threatened to overwhelm her. She checked the rear view and side mirrors, turned around left and right to ensure the blind spots were clear, and backed the battered 15-year old Honda out of the space she had used illegally for three years, then headed toward the exit of the complex.

“SHIT!” The prescription!

She tried to remember how many days it had been since Nicholas had given her his prescription to drop off at the pharmacy that was nearer her office than his. This was Monday. It must have been last Tuesday or Wednesday. He always ordered well ahead of time, so never ran out, unlike her. She sighed very loudly. With annoyance. Now her lunch break would be ruined by a trip to the pharmacy and to the service center to fill the leaky tire. Damn!

The pandemic, and the quarantine it had imposed on them, had been particularly difficult for Nicholas because he was such a social animal; and, she well knew, enjoyed being free of her for the time he spent at his job, and the frequent after-work get-togethers. While she resented him for the money he wasted at bars and buying rounds, she never worried about an involvement with another woman. If interrogated, under threat of torture, she would freely admit she was happy having the house to herself and, if he did enjoy an extra-marital dalliance or two, she honestly didn’t care. They had long ago stopped acting as a couple. They were two very different, very separate individuals cohabiting and – she regretted her naïveté – sharing a joint bank account.

Lena’s workload had decreased as a direct result of the pandemic, and she was more than happy to stay home to do what was still needed. Totally unlike Nicholas, having no external social interaction suited her very well. In fact, she had managed to cut by half the medications she had needed since her teenage years to manage her anxiety and depression.

Nicholas, however, quickly became deflated and surly, feeling trapped and hindered in his job performance. He thrived on the client meetings and the admiration of his colleagues and superiors. And, Lena knew, what he missed most was being in charge of those who reported to him, as he seemed to equate his level of success with how many underlings he acquired. With them, he was always the big guy, on whose every word they hung; and on whose every whim their jobs depended. With the enforced cutbacks, many of their positions were eliminated and, of those who remained, the reporting structure had collapsed. He no longer had any direct reports. The wind had been taken out of the sails of his import, leaving his ego buffeted and damaged.

Lena knew the signs of depression, and saw Nicholas sinking into one. It was more episodic than chronic, but it nonetheless deepened with every passing week, and there was no estimable sign that life’s returning to whatever normal had been was possible. Although she knew she’d be rebuffed and accused of imposing her mental health history and insight on him, she had suggested he seek counseling after about four months had passed. He would have none of it. “I’m not like you. I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do.”

At the 10-month mark, Lena could no longer handle his bad temper, the increasing volume of his voice when she displeased him – often, it seemed – and the sullen, protracted silences, during which she was afraid to speak. Anything could set him off but, more often than not, it would be some COVID-related news coverage or some trifling thing he thought undermined his ascendancy in his new Zoom-constrained workplace.

Though she knew his opinion of mood disorders – hers especially – and of a dependence on medication to treat such conditions, she finally hazarded his wrath and suggested he may benefit from a mild antidepressant or sedative. Those were for the weak, not people like him who were strong and sufficiently clearheaded to deal with any of life’s trials, or so ran the ethos he’d long foisted upon her. She no longer cared what his reaction would be and, though she envisaged a red storm emerging from beneath the collar of his shirt as she spoke, she said, “I know a lot of people are afraid of taking meds because there’s such a stigma about mental health. But if you keep going the way you are, with your hypertension worsening, and getting so little sleep, you could be courting a heart attack. Or,” she added, knowing his fear of the virus, “at the very least a hospital stay.”

She was shocked when he agreed to call their family doctor, and give a mild dose of anti-depressants a try. For a few weeks, Nicholas started, and then stopped, the meds, insisting they made him worse. Eventually, for some reason Lena never quite understood, he settled into the prescribed regimen, even upping the dose. He was still ornery and spent hours watching TV, but his ‘pissiness’ – as she called it - toward her decreased and, happily for Lena, he left her more or less alone.

As happy as he was when the pandemic began loosening its grip, and quarantine restrictions eased, Nicholas continued the medication he’d been prescribed for his depression and, Lena knew, he’d been prescribed some anti-anxiety medication, too. But, she imagined that, once he got back into his job and happy place out there, the meds would eventually be dropped completely and, again, he would revert to his contention that pills to treat mental health – the kind that had likely kept Lena alive for more than two decades – were only for the weak.

He hadn’t reached that point yet. He was still in receipt of at least some of his previous medication and, now because she had easier access to the pharmacy, sometimes entrusted Lena to drop off his prescriptions.

Crap!

At the first red light, Lena rifled around in her handbag on the passenger seat, searching for the doctor’s script. When she couldn’t feel it in the main compartment, she checked in the various side pockets blindly, all the while keeping her eyes on the traffic lights. She was positive she had put it in her bag immediately after Nicholas gave it to her. She was still fumbling about searching when the light changed to green and she had to continue on her way. The prickly heat was starting to encircle her throat, and the fluttering that had begun in her chest, then moved into her abdomen, threatened the tears that came with anxiety. Her thoughts raced as she tried to recreate the prescription handoff, assuring herself that it was where she believed it to be and, once at work, she could do a more thorough check through her bag.

Or…maybe it was in her desk at work where she’d told herself last week to put it so she’d see it and remember to drop it off.

Calm the fuck down, Lena self-admonished. What purpose was there in taking anti-anxiety medication if something as trivial and likely pointless as this could set her adrenalin and heart racing? It would be fine. Just calm down, retrace your steps and think logically.

The thing Lena dreaded most was having to admit to Nicholas something that she had forgotten or done incorrectly. He so loved being right and lording it over her. It put him in control and, just as he was ‘the boss’ to some at work, so he was determined to be every bit ‘the boss’ at home. And, for this, Lena resented, but secretly ridiculed, him. With her history of mental health concerns, the origins of which could be traced to having no control over ‘situations’, the fact her husband relished controlling her was not only hurtful; she found it hateful.

The minute she reached her desk, Lena flung open, and searched, every drawer. She went through the pockets of the sweaters and spare jacket hanging in her cubicle and studied the post-it board on her wall in hopes she had pinned it there. The waste paper basket? More times than she cared to remember, Lena had found things for which she’d been searching, sometimes for days, in the garbage. That flash of hope faded even before she checked there. The cleaning staff would have emptied all garbage over the weekend. Still, she peered into the depth of the very empty basket and, as she did, she could feel the blood quickening, her heart racing and the panic rising anew. Breathe. In for a count of 6, hold for 8, out for 10. Six-eight-ten. She inhaled and exhaled to the pattern she’d memorized, and had used hundreds of times. And, like so many times before, she berated herself for forgetting to put a few of her anti-anxiety pills into her handbag.

Some of her co-workers stopped by her desk to greet her and ask about the weekend. Mostly she would listen to their accounts as her own weekends often seemed a blur – more of a blank – because it was just two more days she had to get through. There was a brief group meeting at 9:15 then, gathering her notes hastily; she raced to her desk, having realized another possible whereabouts of the missing prescription.

Lena grabbed her phone, and dialed the number she knew by heart. When the pharmacy assistant answered, Lena kept her voice as steady and casual as possible, as she inquired about the prescription. They knew her well at the pharmacy, and her mental health situation was obvious from the medications they had routinely dispensed for her over more than a decade.

“Hi Crystal, its Lena Coleman. I’m fine, thanks. You know my head. I can’t remember if I dropped off a prescription for Nicholas last week? I’m pretty sure I did, so am just checking in case it’s ready. Yes, I’ll wait. Thanks.”

So ran her end of the conversation. After nearly a minute, a different voice spoke on the other end of the line. It was the assistant pharmacist whose name she could never remember.

“Mrs. Coleman, hi. It’s Janet. No, we don’t have a new prescription here for Nicholas, not one dated last week anyway.”

Lena’s heart sank. “Oh, OK. Thanks for looking, Janet. I appreciate it.” As she was about to hang up, Janet spoke, “But your husband hasn’t picked up his last two orders yet if you want to remind him.”

“Oh,” Lena fumbled over what to say next. She was about to agree to remind him, when another thought took over. “You know what? I feel so stupid. He asked me to pick those up when I dropped off his new prescription. I absolutely forgot. Nothing new for me, though.” She laughed.

Janet tittered agreeably as one would think one should in such a situation. “We all forget things, especially now with the world just coming back from Pandaemia.”

“True,” Lena agreed, then added, “I’ll be in today or tomorrow to take care of everything. Thanks. Have a good day.”

Janet obliged. She would have a good day.

Well, now. This was news. What orders were awaiting Nicholas at the pharmacy? He certainly hadn’t seemed to have been out of anything but, then, he did always remember to order well before he ran out. Still. It was odd. Now she bloody well HAD to find that prescription so she could have that obvious reason to go in and be the one to pick up these most interesting medications.

Lena had long been a cynic, though she would correct that to ‘realist’. She’d seen the darker side of too many people, heard too many lies, had her heart savaged too many times. And, more often than not, when she suspected something was not as it seemed, she was right. Whenever she’d meet someone, she just knew if he or she were genuine and basically good, or if there were something not quite right, to be distrusted. She didn’t know exactly what she felt or how to describe it, although a few times she’d seen a sort of grayish aura enveloping a newcomer. Whatever it was, it made her feel unwell. Much like this unsolicited information about Nicholas and his pharmacy orders. It may be all very innocent and easily explained, but her instincts were riding roughshod all over this situation and she felt it was an important one.

Regrettably, her acute bullshit detector had failed her when Nicholas charmed his way into her world.

“Just meet him,” pleaded Stella. “What can it hurt? And, it may just work out, you know. You’re always so negative, Lena.”

Eventually, Lena agreed to meet Nicholas at a dinner with Stella and her husband, Pete. Lena was no match for Stella. She always caved. What Stella wanted, Stella always got.

Except that one time.

Sylvie had got a fairly good job after Cam had left the family and, with both girls getting part-time jobs when they turned 15, the three of them were comfortable. Stella had been waitressing at a nearby restaurant for a year, and making good tips. Although Lena wasn’t particularly good with the sort of social interaction waiting on customers required, Stella had sweet-talked the manager into giving Lena a month’s trial period.

Lena’s shift usually coincided with Stella’s (putting some onus on Stella for Lena’s performance). At first, it was a blur of embarrassment and getting orders wrong, but Stella would set everything right and Lena kept the job after her month’s trial. The better she got at it, the more she realized that Stella did very little other than chat with customers and flirt with any and all males. She would swoop in at the end of customers’ meals, customers she hadn’t served, give them the Stella Star treatment, yuk it up and leave ‘em laughing. Then, just to be helpful (of course), she’d offer to clear tables for the other wait staff and, Lena soon discovered, skim from their tips. Yes, Stella was great with people and deserved good tips when she was actually waiting on them, but Lena knew that the reason Stella’s nightly haul was more than 10 times her own had more to do with grift than gift.

To make matters worse, Stella would always take off early, leaving Lena with instructions as to what to tell Sylvie when they didn’t return together after a shift. Lying was not in Lena’s nature; she despised the very thought of it. And lying to her mother was even more reprehensible but, as always, she was putty in Stella’s perfectly-manicured hands. Lena wasn’t sure how many males Stella had on the go at any given time. Nor how old they were. Stella seemed oblivious to age or marital status. Lena may have been prudish in her behavior, but she wasn’t stupid. Her sister was, in the nicest adjectival rendering, easy. She was also a bit of a sleaze, whatever the term de jour. No. No bits about it. That’s exactly what she was.

About three months into Lena’s working at the restaurant, Stella didn’t show up for her shift Monday evening. Nor did she come home that night. Sylvie was blissfully unaware of her eldest’s absence, as she usually was, given her implacable certainty her Stella could do no wrong. When Stella didn’t show up for work again on Tuesday, Lena was not concerned – though quite annoyed because it meant more work for her - as her sister had indulged in these ‘mini-vacations’ more than a few times. She was, therefore, surprised to find a weeping Stella sitting beside her head, her body half across Lena’s bed on Wednesday morning.

Lena had never seen such worry on her sister’s face since the night Cam had pushed her to the floor. Nothing fazed Stella. Lena pulled herself to sit up beside her sister’s head, ran her hand across her light brown hair and said, “I’m going to guess.” Stella muffled a sob into the comforter. “You’re pregnant.”

“YES! Of course I am.”

“Yes. Of course you are. Have you told mama?” Stella shook her head ‘no’.

“Are you going to tell mama?”

At that, Stella shrieked, “No. I’m not keeping it. I’m not ruining my life.”

Lena said, carefully choosing her words, “You know how I feel about abortion. And you definitely know how mama feels. You never think of anyone but yourself. Forget about me. What about mama who you profess to love so much? What about this poor child you want to just disappear? Will that make everything OK?”

“I just can’t be saddled with a kid. I’m only 17 for Christ’s sake. I want to enjoy the next ten or twenty years, not be stuck with two kids like mama.”

“You will never be like mama.” Lena pulled herself out of the bed.

“I will always be here to listen to you and I’ll help you in any way I can,” Lena said to her sister. “If you don’t want to tell mama, that’s your choice. I won’t tell her. But, if you’re getting an abortion, you’re on your own. That’s just something that goes beyond what I can manage. You have a child in you. Give her or him a chance at a good life. Something we didn’t have. I don’t even like babies, you know that. They’re just going to grow into people, the bastards.

“But this is YOUR baby, Stella. You aren’t just any old prospective mother. You’re Stella Maris. You are US. We are you. This child is sacred. Please think long and hard before you decide. I love you, my star. Your child will love you even more.”

In the end, Stella had the baby. When she first learned about the pregnancy, Sylvie was shocked into silence. That was soon followed by a tirade of hysteria and disbelief, shame and disgust. Lena knew her mother would react like this, but she also knew Sylvie deserved some of the blame she was showering on Stella. She had turned a blind eye to the wayward behavior of her precious Stella Maris. Rarely was there any recrimination for her eldest when she had misbehaved or was caught in a deceit. Sylvie never even asked Lena if she’d seen her sister the days – and there were many – that Stella was AWOL.

Her mother’s reaction to learning about the pregnancy was only the warm-up act to her fugue-laced rant upon discovering Stella wasn’t certain who the father might be.

Quickly, to try and calm her mother, Stella settled on a boy she knew from school. Pete. Pete was the father. Stella had made an educated guess, summoned Pete and, confronted with Sylvie’s maniacal demands, Pete agreed to a pre-natal paternity test. Two weeks later, they were engaged. They got married a month before the baby was born. She was 7 pounds 9 ounces. Stella named her ‘Isabella Marie’, and the three of them – two-day-old Isabella and her 18-year-old parents – moved in with Sylvie and Lena.

When the next baby came a year later, and another 10 months after that, the house could take no more.