Web of Angels by Lilian Nattel Page B

them again. There was the TV stand with the TV on it. The pile of cushions on a chair. A pot of yellow mums on the dresser, which matched the flowers in the scroll painting with Chinese calligraphy. She turned to look at the clock: 7:08—was that morning or evening? No sound of water running in the shower. She reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. Beside the clock was a Thermos, a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a note.
    Supper done, Josh in charge of kids. Had to run out for some things. Enjoy.
    love,
Dan.
    She smelled pizza, which meant it was Thursday. Today. She hoped it was today and not some other Thursday. She hadn’t lost time, had she? Oh God, she hoped not. Shepoured coffee from the Thermos. Hot, black, bitter. Drink the coffee. Bite into a cookie. Let time settle around her. Yesterday she volunteered in Emmie’s kindergarten class. They made spring flowers out of tissue paper. She had therapy today. She was tired, that was all, her mind on dial-up, images loading ever so slowly.
    This morning: the soothing print of water lilies on the wall in Brigitte’s office. Sitting in a plush armchair, kitty-corner to the couch, she was facing Brigitte in the recliner with her feet up, furry slippers keeping her feet warm while Sharon talked. She was explaining why the things she remembered just couldn’t be true. If Brigitte ever met her parents, she would never believe it. They were good people; everybody said so. Successful, well-spoken, friendly. One of her brothers was a surgeon, the other a dentist; her sister had gone into law like their father. Sharon was the only one who wasn’t a success, so didn’t that prove it was just her problem?
    They had a great legacy: the family name was a variation of Julius, as in Caesar. Her father had told her about the old legends; he’d taught her to dance. When she was little, she’d stood on his feet and he’d danced her around the living room. He listened to Gregorian chants. Her mother collected antique glass and took classes in ballroom dancing. She had taught Sharon to cook, for goodness’ sake, swearing by
The New Kate Aitken Cook Book
. Advice to brides: throw Hubbard squash down the steps to break open the rind. Her mother had given Sharon her own copy and had written on the title page: “From Mummy with love.” Did that sound like someone who’d lock her kid in the basement?
    She stopped talking, waiting for Brigitte to realize that she didn’t belong in therapy. She was wasting her time with things dreamed up for some crazy reason. Boredom. Or a need for attention. She needed pills to make it stop, but Brigitte said there were no pills for DID, only for symptoms of trauma like depression or anxiety. If Sharon wished, she would refer her to a psychiatrist. Sharon did not wish. She had taken pills prescribed by her family doctor after Josh was born. When she’d stopped taking them, her appetite and her sex drive had reappeared, and she was able to have two more children. Sharon brushed the basement carpet with her feet, watching the colour change from gold to beige.
    Brigitte snapped her recliner forward, the footrest moving into the base. “Where are you now?” she asked.
    “I can see her. My mother. It’s like she’s standing in front of me.”
    Brigitte leaned forward. Her cheeks were round, her white hair in a bun on the top of her head, her eyes round and bright, a snowy owl’s eyes. “What do you see?”
    “How she looked when I was little, around Emmie’s age. Maybe five? My mother was attractive. Kind of a girl-next-door only grown-up. She got breast implants that year.”
    Her mother’s hair was in a flip, her makeup perfect. She was wearing a turquoise gown, dressed up for the law firm’s spring dance. She had elbow length white gloves with lots of buttons. Sharon liked to count them: twenty-one tiny pearl buttons. Her mother was so beautiful, standing there in the doorway to the basement, smelling of Chanel No. 5. Shedidn’t have