A dozen women looked at me with pity.
It was the pity that undid me. I could have handled anger. I could have fought an insult. But how do you fight a room full of kind, smiling women who have already decided you are ill?
"I never," I said. My voice cracked. "That never happened."
"Of course it didn't, sweetheart," Lorraine said, in the tone of a woman agreeing with a child.
Marge Halloran touched my arm. "Honey, you can talk to us. We're all here for you."
Derek appeared at my shoulder and slid his arm around my waist.
"We're handling it, everyone," he said warmly. "She just needs rest. Thank you for your prayers."
I felt him squeeze me gently and turn me toward the door, and I let him. I let him steer me through the fellowship hall with every eye following us, and I let him buckle me into the passenger seat like a patient.
In the car, he took my hand.
"I'm scared for you, Nora," he said quietly. "I really am."
And I cried, God help me. I cried and I said, "I'm scared too."
That's what a good manipulator does. He doesn't make you doubt your own mind. He makes you grateful for his help.
I said nothing to anyone.
That's the part I'm most ashamed of, and the part I understand best. When you think your mind is failing, you don't call your friends. You hide it. You pretend. You put on a smile and say, "I'm fine, just tired." You are terrified that if you say it out loud, it will become true.
I didn't tell my best friend, Marisol. I didn't tell my doctor. I definitely didn't tell Eli.
I only told myself I would be strong, and I would sleep more, and I would get better.
I did not get better.
Some nights I woke up at four with my heart racing and my limbs like lead and no idea how I'd gotten to bed. Twice I found dried tea rings on my nightstand that I didn't remember carrying upstairs. Once I found a blanket over me on the couch and a wet cheek, as though I had been crying and didn't know why.
Derek had started telling me about things I'd supposedly done. Small things. Harmless things. You asked me the same question three times last night. You left the freezer door open. You called me Dad.
I'd nod and apologize and add it to my growing pile of shame.
And then, on October 19th, a Monday, Derek showed me a page in a notebook.
"Alan Voss says stress can cause this," he said. "Remember Alan? From my college reunion? I called him last week to ask advice. He said it might help to keep a log of everything. Just to have a record, in case we need to show a doctor."