Play nice, p.25
Play Nice, page 25
part #1 of 2025 Series
For some reason, this makes me laugh. Sets me off giggling.
Daphne doesn’t say anything else. She storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
The sound of her crying in the next room interrupts my fit of laughter, sobers me to the ugly reality of what just happened.
I’m making everything worse. I know I am, but I can’t stop. Daphne’s right. I can’t help myself. Watching the damage unfold feels startlingly familiar. It feels like home.
* * *
—
Leda and Tommy arrive early afternoon. Their muffled voices temporarily stir me from my nap. Our appointment is at four p.m., and I don’t intend to leave my room a minute sooner than necessary. I set my alarm for three fifteen and go back to sleep.
I snooze through my alarm and wake up to Dad pounding on my door.
“Clio? Clio, time to go.”
“Coming,” I groan. I put on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. The clothes hang off me.
I go downstairs expecting a full house, but it’s just Dad.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Daphne and Amy went with Leda and Tom. They left ten minutes ago. They’ll be on time.”
“Good for them,” I say as he opens the door to the garage for me.
The drive over is uncomfortable. There’s no glam rock sing-along. No conversation. At some point, he says, “Tom and Amy are there for support. They won’t be joining this initial session. It’ll be me. Your sisters. Us.”
“Okay. Whatever you say. You’re in charge.” I yawn and check my phone. I have a message from Roy saying he arrived at the house. I respond, telling him I’ll be there in a few hours. “I have to go back to the city tonight. After therapy. I have an early job tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll drive you in early.”
“I’ll catch the train tonight. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
His knuckles go white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel.
We pull into a labyrinth of an office plaza. Every building looks the same. Brown. Two stories. I know exactly what it’s going to smell like before we even step foot inside.
“Have you been here before?” I ask Dad.
He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are tense. He’s nervous.
He leads me inside and up the stairs, confident in his direction, which tells me that he has in fact been here before. If he’s already met with this doctor, there’s a chance that he’s already convinced them I’m crazy.
This could be bad.
Leda, Tommy, Daphne, and Amy sit in the waiting room. Everything is taupe and there are too many ferns.
“Did you fill out the paperwork I sent you?” Dad asks me.
“No,” I say. “What paperwork?”
The door to the waiting room opens, and a woman pokes her head out. She might be in her fifties; she has streaks of gray in her dark hair. She wears a single-breasted pinstripe blazer—I think Stella McCartney—over a long black satin skirt and mahogany leather boots. Swap out her chunky sterling earrings for a pair of diamond studs, add some layered chain necklaces for texture, and it’d be a perfect look. I trust her more because of her fashion sense. If she can put herself together, maybe she can put us back together.
“The Barnes family,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m ready for you. Come on back.”
“Clio didn’t fill out her paperwork,” Dad says.
“That’s quite all right. She can get to it later.”
Leda huffs behind me—incensed by my free pass—as we file through the door to another taupe room. This one has couches instead of chairs, dried flowers instead of ferns. There are Rothko-esque prints on the walls, all cool tones. Dad and I sit on one couch, Leda and Daphne on another, and the woman sits on the chaise in the corner, directly facing us. She kicks up her feet, grabs a pen and legal pad from an end table. She seems unpretentious for a therapist.
“Welcome. I’m Maya. I’m a licensed psychotherapist and have my master’s in family therapy from the University of Maryland. I’ve been working as a family therapist for twenty years and have owned this practice for about twelve. During this initial session, I would like to get to know you all and hear about why you’re here, from each of your perspectives. Everything that is shared in this room is confidential. My approach is to be a facilitator of discussion, to listen, and to ask questions. My goal is to make this a comfortable environment to have uncomfortable conversations.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“Do I have your consent to proceed with the session? I would appreciate a verbal yes. Let’s start with James.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. He’s trying to sound more masculine to offset how he feels.
“Great,” Maya says. She turns to me.
“Sure,” I say, smiling. “Yes.”
Both Daphne and Leda give their verbal confirmations.
“Thank you. And it’s Clio, Daphne, Leda?” she asks, pointing to each of us as she says our names.
We all nod.
“Perfect,” she says, leaning back. “Usually this would be the point where I say I’ve heard it all before, but I know your situation is unique.”
I laugh.
“Clio,” Leda says, teeth clenched.
I wonder if Maya can prescribe sedatives.
“No, laughter is good,” Maya says, and I think Leda might jump out the window. “Laughter can be the best medicine. I’d like to turn it over to you. One at a time. Tell me why you’re here. James?”
Dad clears his throat. Twice. “My daughters’ mother passed away in April. She wasn’t in our lives, but it’s been…difficult. For my youngest, Clio.”
“Yeah, just me,” I say.
Maya cocks her head to the side. “Why are you here?”
“That’s a great question,” I say. “Come back to me.”
“I think you should answer,” she says, scrubbing any goodwill I had for her.
Why am I here?
Mom. The house. Demon of Edgewood Drive. Roy.
My apartment building catching on fire.
Daphne. Leda. Dad. Amy.
Austin.
Fiction. Truth. Belief. Doubt.
There are things I could say that wouldn’t cause chaos. But I don’t want to say any of those things. I want to say the thing I shouldn’t say. Because it’s the only way I can be in control.
“I’m here because my own father wants to have me committed for grieving my mother.”
Dad folds over, puts his head in his hands. Leda sighs. Daphne closes her eyes.
Maya, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I found Google searches on his computer for psychiatric holds in New Jersey.”
“She’s talking about demons,” Dad says. “This is exactly what happened with Alex. She saw things that weren’t there. Her behavior got aggressive. And there was substance abuse.”
Now seems as good a time as any to turn on my tears. “I’m just trying to understand her. What she went through. What she believed. The house holds so many memories…”
“Oh, give me a break,” Daphne says.
“She’s faking,” Leda says to Maya. “She’s manipulating you.”
“I show any emotion, and this is what they do. I’m not allowed to feel anything.” I sniffle, reaching for a tissue. “They used to pin all their animosity on Mom, but she’s not here anymore.”
“Dude, that is so far from the truth,” Daphne says.
“Okay,” Maya says. “There’s a lot of intensity here. Everything is very raw.”
“Clio makes everything about her, just like Alexandra did,” Leda says. “There’s a reason why we cut her out of our lives. Beyond just the custody arrangement. We chose not to have any contact. We’re just lucky that decision was mutual, the cut clean.”
Leda mimes snipping scissors.
“Ah,” Maya says. “I wonder if that shared history of severing a significant relationship has had residual effects and if Alexandra’s passing exacerbated some sensitivity around that. Leda, what do you think?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says. “Daphne and I have already worked through our issues with Alexandra. We suffered more because we were older and could understand—”
“I think we should try to avoid comparing our suffering. It’s impossible for us to know what others feel. Even those closest to us.”
Leda’s turning purple, she’s so mad. She looks like she’s about to levitate. Like her head is about to spin all the way around.
“Leda’s right, though,” Daphne says. “We witnessed more. And Clio…Clio was never bothered by anything…long term. She wasn’t affected the same.”
“We can grow up under the same roof and have radically different childhoods,” Maya says. “And those experiences can manifest differently throughout our lives.”
“Yeah, but…” Daphne starts.
My phone rings. Everyone looks at me.
Roy’s calling. I silence it.
“Sorry,” I say.
“That’s okay. We’ll just need to remember to silence our phones before entering this space,” Maya says, smiling.
There’s quiet in the wake of the disturbance.
“Daphne,” Maya says. “Why are you here?”
“I don’t know anymore,” she says, breaking down in tears. Real tears. “I don’t know.”
Maya nods her head. “Leda?”
33
We walk out of Maya’s office to the hopeful faces of Tommy and Amy. We watch the hope drain from their expressions when they see us.
They join us in our silent march out to the parking lot.
“Why don’t I take Clio?” Tommy says.
No one argues. Not even me.
“See you back at the house,” he says, the only one of us attempting communication.
He opens the car door for me, then goes around to the driver’s side.
He waits until we’re pulling out of the parking lot to make another endeavor to chat.
“The first session can be rough,” he says. “Better luck next time.”
“So, do you and Leda just sit around talking about what might be wrong with me?”
“No. Clio. Of course not.”
“Actually, I don’t care,” I say.
“Leda—”
“I said I don’t care, Tom.”
He backs off. He turns on some music. His nu metal playlist, unfortunately.
A few Limp Bizkit songs later, we pull into Dad’s driveway. I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car without saying another word to Tommy. I’m going to go gather my stuff and call a car and meet Roy at the house.
I’m almost past the kitchen table when I notice that everyone’s sitting around it. Staring at me. Daphne. Leda. Amy. Dad stands behind his chair at the head of the table, his head down.
I want no part of whatever this is, so I keep walking.
“Clio,” Dad says.
“I have to go,” I say. “I need to catch the train.”
“You went onto my computer,” he says. “This is the second time you’ve broken into my study—”
“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”
“You violated my privacy. My trust.”
“Your trust? You were trying to commit me!”
“I am trying to help you.”
“You’re trying to control me,” I say. “You all are. You want to control my feelings, my behavior. My grief.”
“What grief? You didn’t even know her!” Leda shouts.
“Because of you,” I say, pointing at Dad. “Because you gaslit her about cheating until she lost it! Because you lied about her burning me! Because you had to villainize her to make yourself the hero. The greatest dad in the world, who rose to the occasion when his crazzyyyyy jerk wife couldn’t handle being a mother. Wow. What a gem! How lucky we are!”
“I did it all for you!” He’s so loud. He’s the loudest sound in the world. “And you’re nothing but ungrateful.”
“You did it for you. It’s all about you. You cheated on Mom—”
“Fine! I did! I cheated on Alex. It was miserable being married to her. She was a terrible wife and an even worse mother. Did she burn you? Let’s think about this for a second. Where’d you get the lighter, Clio? Why did you believe in demons? Because of her! She was out of her mind! She got exactly what she deserved. And sometimes you remind me so much of her, I want to—” He reaches his hands out toward me, his fingers curling in. “And I hate it. So I try to be so good to you. But you make it so hard!”
He throws his chair against the wall.
Amy screams.
Leda winces.
Tommy gasps.
Daphne buries her face in her hands and cries.
Dad stands there enraged. Chest rising and falling, fists clenching and unclenching.
This is the truth of him. Of us. It’s been here this whole time. Dormant. Hiding. Waiting.
“Yeah. Wow. I’m going to go upstairs and get my stuff and call an Uber. I’ll wait for it outside,” I say, eerily calm. “Okay.”
I walk out of the kitchen and into the hall, up the stairs.
I leave.
No one stops me.
* * *
—
When I get dropped off at the house, Roy’s car is in the driveway.
It’s humid, sweltering even now at twilight. I mop sweat from my forehead with my T-shirt. My jeans slide down my hips.
Being back at Edgewood, I’m reminded why I left. Why I called Roy in the first place.
I’m reminded of my fear.
Of the unblinking eyes observing me.
Of how I haven’t eaten anything in days.
Of how I’m alone everywhere except here.
The front door is unlocked. I open it. Cross the threshold. I expect Roy to come and greet me, but he doesn’t.
“Roy?”
No answer.
“Roy? It’s Clio. I’m here.”
The front door closes itself behind me. I hear the lock click.
“Roy?”
I put a foot on the first step up to the living room.
My heart thumps.
Another step.
Another step.
My legs shake beneath me, knees buckle.
I use my hands to help me climb to the top, clinging to the banister.
“Roy?”
He’s not up here. He’s not outside on the deck.
All that’s here is Mom’s book, the hot pink lighter resting on top.
I look up, and I see it there on the wall beside the fireplace. Exactly where it was. Where I’d patched and painted over it.
I call out for Roy again.
It’s shy of eight p.m., and daylight lingers on the horizon. Still, I flip every switch I pass. Upstairs hall. Closets. Office. Leda and Daphne’s room. The bathroom. The shower rod is on the floor; I left it there after I ripped it down, the curtain crumpled.
I step back out onto the deck and scan the surrounding woods. “Roy!”
There’s a soft squeak behind me that grabs my attention. The sliding door pulls itself closed. Through the glass, I see a figure. Someone there. I can’t quite bring them into focus—they’re lost among the trees, in the confusion of the reflection.
Whoever it is, whatever it is…it isn’t Roy.
I rush forward and yank the door open. The living room is empty, save for the ambiguous sound of movement. A clunking somewhere inside the walls or beneath the floorboards. I hold still to listen, but it’s already gone.
The demon is committed to being intangible. An invisible threat is infinitely more frustrating. An invisible threat is madness.
I take my phone out of my pocket and call Roy.
It rings. I hear it.
It’s ringing. His phone is here. In the house somewhere.
He’s not answering.
“You’ve reached Roy Johnston, demonologist. Please leave a detailed message and I will get back to you as soon as possible. Blessings.”
I hang up and call again, following the sound of his ringtone downstairs.
The cold creeps up as I descend. I feel for the light switch with trembling hands.
“You’ve reached Roy Johnston…”
Every door down here is shut except for my bedroom door. Roy’s cell phone is on the floor just outside on the carpet.
Slowly approaching, I brace myself to find him in my bedroom.
“Roy…”
I step through the doorway. My room’s empty.
I turn around and pick up Roy’s phone. I open the door to the garage, which is also empty of demonologists. And of dismembered mice. There’s no relief in this.
I try the bathroom. It’s occupied only by a few dead flies in the sunken tub.
Mom’s room.
Her bed. Her dresser. I’ve already been through everything that’s in here. Some musty clothes. Expired bottles of Advil. A receipt for a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee—no cream, no sugar. A Bible.
It’s possible that it smells like her in here. But I don’t remember what she smelled like.
I wander back upstairs, back through the house, searching for him like he’ll magically appear. Like it’s a game of hide-and-go-seek. Like it’s a big joke. Even though I know in the dark depths of my squirming guts that it isn’t. There’s no more laughter.
Only the sound of my footsteps and ragged breath and hammering heart.
* * *
—
We’re coming up on midnight. The sun has vanished.
“The house is dark because the lights won’t stay on.”
My phone is in my hands, in front of me, facing me. I whisper into it. I’m filming. For proof.
