Page 61 of Brain Damage

Did I say that out loud? I’m not sure I did.

“Charly.” The doctor is shaking my shoulder now. “Look at me. Look at my face.”

“I’m tired,” I finally manage to say.

I feel the doctor’s fingers touch my forehead. I don’t know why his fingers are so cold. They are like ice. Cold hands, cold heart.

“I think you have a bit of a fever,” the doctor tells me. “We’re going to take you back to your room and do some tests.”

I’m going back to my room. I get to go back in bed. I’m so happy. I can finally sleep.

“Is she going to be okay?” the guy next to me asks.

“Don’t worry, Jamie,” the doctor says. “She’s going to be fine. I promise.”

Am I going to be fine though? I think Jamie’s right to worry. I don’t think I’ll ever be fine again.

42

BEFORE

It feels almost ridiculous to be here. Real people don’t go to see private investigators.

I feel like I ought to be in black-and-white, smoking a cigarette with a filter, blowing elegant smoke rings. Instead, I’m sitting in a tiny office, in front of Mark Spinelli’s coffee-ring-stained desk, which is overflowing with stacks of papers. Spinelli himself is overweight and balding and has a yellow blotch on his button up plaid shirt. He’s not exactly my idea of a film noir private investigator. But he came highly recommended on Yelp.

I contacted Spinelli two weeks ago. I explained my suspicions to him, and wrote out a check as a deposit. He seemed disturbingly comfortable with the idea of spying on my husband.

“You said you had information for me,” I say. My heart is pounding as I clutch my purse to my chest.

I really hope that information is: your husband is not cheating on you. That’s probably too much to hope for. That sort of information could be conveyed over the phone.

Spinelli nods grimly. “I’m afraid you were right to be suspicious, Mrs. Douglas.”

Ever since I discovered that text message, I’ve been hoping I was wrong. I’ve been watching Clark for any signs that he’s cheating on me. I actually googled “signs your husband is cheating on you.” He wasn’t really showing any of the signs—he doesn’t make private phone calls, he hasn’t had any unfamiliar scents on him, and I wouldn’t know if he deletes his text messages because he doesn’t allow me access to his phone. Although the fact that I can’t access his phone might be suspicious in itself.

“Are you sure?” I ask. Please don’t be sure.

“Oh yes,” Spinelli says with maddening confidence. “I’ve confirmed that your husband is definitely in some sort of romantic relationship with a Miss Haley Matthews.”

“Haley Matthews?” The name doesn’t sound familiar. Which is a good thing, I guess. At least he’s not cheating on me with a friend.

He slides a manila envelope across the table. “I’ve got pictures, in case you’re interested.”

I stare down at the plain yellow envelope. I can’t believe there are pictures in there of my husband doing God knows what with another woman. Oh God, I wonder if they’re having sex in the photos.

“Mostly they’re just kissing,” Spinelli says, answering my unasked question. He must do this a lot.

I lean back in my creaky chair, feeling suddenly dizzy. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

“You’re sure?” I ask again.

“Damn sure,” Spinelli says. “You get yourself a good divorce attorney right now. I got a list of names if you want it.”

I’ll just bet he does.

Jesus. The last thing I want to worry about right now is a divorce. I thought that part of my life was taken care of. I was married. We were going to try for a baby soon. How could it all be over?

I have to see it for myself.