Chapter 3 - The Gaslight Routine
Dawn broke over the city in streaks of bruised violet. Sarah drove me to my apartment, refusing to leave my side until she had seen me swallow two painkillers and change out of the silk dress that was ruined with dried blood. My head throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological vertigo gnawing at my gut.
At seven in the morning, my phone chimed on the nightstand. It was a group message from my mother, Eleanor, addressed to me, Vanessa, and several aunts.
*Vanessa’s send-off brunch is at ten at the Grandview Manor. Everyone please be punctual. Let’s put yesterday’s awkwardness behind us and celebrate the newlyweds properly.*
No mention of the hospital. No question about whether my skull was fractured. Just a clean, calculated sweep beneath the family rug.
I stared at the screen, my hands trembling with an anger that felt brand new. For years, I had acquiesced to Eleanor’s demands for peace. When Vanessa cut the power cords to my science fair project in middle school, my mother said Vanessa was merely seeking attention because she felt unloved. When Vanessa lied to my college boyfriend and told him I was cheating, my mother claimed Vanessa was simply overprotective. I had spent my entire life being the shock absorber for Vanessa’s cruelty, all in service of maintaining the illusion of an enviable family.
I pressed call on my mother’s contact. She picked up on the fifth ring, her tone clipped and sharp.
“Emily? I hope you’re dressed. The photographer from the society column will be at the brunch, and you need to wear foundation over whatever scratch you have on your forehead.”
“It wasn't a scratch, Mom,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I received six stitches. And I had a CT scan.”
A brief, icy silence hung on the line before Eleanor sighed with exaggerated exasperation. “Must you always be so dramatic? Vanessa was holding a champagne glass in one hand and the microphone in the other. It was an unfortunate slip. If you hadn't been standing there looking like a martyr, it never would have touched you.”
“Mom, the doctor found something else.” I took a breath, watching my reflection in the dark television screen across the room. “He found a titanium plate screwed into my skull. Right behind my ear. He said it was put there when I was four years old.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I waited for her gasp, for her confusion, for her to tell me the doctor was mistaken.
Instead, when she spoke, her voice had dropped several octaves. It lost its performative maternal lilt and became low, cold, and razor-sharp. “Doctors at emergency clinics make mistakes all the time. They look for billable charges. Stop inventing fantasies to steal attention from your sister on her wedding weekend.”
“He showed me the scan, Mom! There is a titanium plate in my head with a serial number on it!”
“You fell off your bicycle when you were four,” Eleanor snapped, her words coming too fast, too rehearsed. “You took a tumble down the driveway. A minor procedure was done at an outpatient clinic to fix a hairline fracture. We didn’t discuss it because there was no reason to traumatize you with the memory. It was completely insignificant.”
“Brain surgery isn't insignificant!” I cried out.
“Watch your tone with me,” she hissed. “You delete those hospital photos, and you show up at the brunch. If you embarrass Vanessa in front of Richard’s family today with this ridiculous delusion, I will never forgive you.”
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The line went dead. She hadn't asked if I was in pain. She hadn't asked what the serial number was. She had hung up because she was terrified.
***
