Here I am with chapter 22. I'm sorry you had to wait for so long again but I was struggling with the first half of chapter 23. Now, though, that's all solved and written and I decided to post this although chapter 23 isn't finished yet. I hope you're going to enjoy this chap. Leave a comment if you're up to it (I would absolutely love it if you did:)
Stay safe and healthy!

(chapter title is the same-titled song from the Musical Aida; by Elton John and Sherie Rene Scott.)

Started writing: 31.08.2020

Finished writing: 02.09.2020

Chapter 22
I Know The Truth

Santana.

Ms. Jackson is a middle-aged woman ('middle-aged' only if you'd say Mom's leaning towards 'old') with a tight-lipped smile. The tips of her blond hair are dyed in a color that screams hair-accident -it could be both dark red and something between purple and orange- and there's a tattoo underneath her left elbow that she tries (and fails) to hide underneath the sleeve of a black cardigan. The round glasses perched on the bridge of her nose tend to slip down and so, her number one annoying habit is that she's pushing her glasses up every five seconds, while her second annoying habit definitely is that she at first always thinks I'm the girl with the hamster. Long story short; Ms. Jackson is not exactly the type of woman that you'd think could be a good therapist, but actually, she's doing a decent (meaning fucking good) job.

Just her methods and the way she looks at me sometimes when I talk kind of freak me out a little.

"So," she says when we've finally moved past the awkward so you're back here greetings and offers me the chair in front of her desk. "Your mom called and said things haven't been looking good."

(Ms. Jackson is also the kind of woman that doesn't make you feel uncomfortable when talking about things like this, so I don't start wringing my hands or humming and hawing.)

"Might be because they really haven't," I nod.

"Uh-huh," she pushes up her glasses. "Do you have a theory as to why things 'really haven't'?"

My face twists into a grimace. "Did my mom tell you-?"

"Your mom didn't tell me much except that you have been falling back into old habits," Ms. Jackson interrupts me. "She wanted to leave it to you to explain."

"Well," I shift in my seat. "My father cheated on her—for three years" –"Damn!" says Ms. Jackson- "and now he's, obviously, moved out and we're kind of adjusting—but I'm not sure that's the reason for this whole thing."

Ms. Jackson tilts her head to one side. "And what do you think is the reason?"

She's looking at me from narrowed eyes as if trying to find the answer right there in my face and the way she's scrunching up her nose -to hold up her glasses- she looks a little bit like a hawk watching its prey.

"I-I'm not sure. Maybe it was, like, a mixture of everything—Dad and then -well, I told you about these before, I think- my coach organized a weigh-in and I- I weighed two pounds more."

"Mmh," Ms. Jackson leans back in her chair and looks at me for a second. "It's true that stressful situations can cause your defense system to weaken."

Somehow, I'm waiting for a but to pass her lips, but Ms. Jackson never fails to surprise me. No "But you're not the kind of person I'd think to relapse over something like this." Or "But this is not a relapse."

It can be as depressing as it can be refreshing.

"On a scale of 1 to 10, where'd you put your current situation?" the woman leans forward and pulls a blank sheet of paper in front of her, pen ready and looming just above the paper.

I can't remember being asked that question four years ago. But back then, I think, it might have been quite pointless, really, asking for the obvious. She probably took a look at me and wrote a big 10 down, twice underlined.

"I- a seven, perhaps?"

Ms. Jackson doesn't hesitate with jotting down my answer. She's not doubting my choice—my assessment. And it's something that suddenly bugs me deeply because- why would she put so much trust in my answer? Why would she put so much responsibility in my words? This is something that my mom could probably answer much better than me because she's unbiased—her brain isn't trying to push her into that damn anorexia again—and I somehow feel like she knows me better than I myself do, anyway. But Ms. Jackson doesn't ask for Mom's opinion -which might also be because she isn't in the room- and instead, looks at the number she wrote down for a moment.

"A seven," she says, almost to herself. "From just looking at you, I would've guessed perhaps a six, but I can't look into your head—you know best how you're feeling."

She closes the pen and pushes the white sheet away from her, raising her head until she looks me straight into the eyes. "Your mom told me she asked you to fill out a table about what you'd eaten last week or something. Can you tell me what you wrote down?"

I purse my lips, thinking. "I- well, I'm not one hundred percent sure, but I think I- I probably skipped lunch, like, four out of six times and for breakfast I mostly ate just some fruit and yoghurt."

Ms. Jackson nods along, pauses to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose and nods some more. Then, she sighs. "So, would you say you starved yourself? Did you restrain yourself from eating lunch and was it hard for you not to eat something?"

"I- I was hungry when I skipped lunch," I begin slowly. "But it wasn't hard for me. I just didn't eat and then, I didn't really think about it."

"Did -or do- you regret it afterwards? Skipping meals?"

Ms. Jackson leans forward, squinting a little as if struggling to see, and I look down at my hands. They're clasped, loosely folded in my lap and I think they might be trembling just the slightest bit.

"Partly," I manage to say after a while. "I mean- the part of me that wants to lose weight didn't regret it. But the part of me that doesn't want to relapse hated it."

"Mmh," says Ms. Jackson. "And which part, do you think, is stronger?"

"It changes," I quickly unclasp my hands to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Sometimes I wake up thinking how stupid I am for doing these things again and sometimes I wake up feeling great because I can feel my ribcage. And it's just so- ugh, I don't know. I don't want to be happy about things like that. I want to be happy regardless of what I weigh or how much I ate the day before. But it just- it doesn't stop."

Ms. Jackson pushes up her glasses and folds her hands on the table. "Well, that's just the thing about eating disorders, Santana, they develop a mind of their own. They get independent and they work against your instincts—things like this are deeply rooted in your mind and they don't just disappear overnight."

Slowly, I lower my eyes to my fingers.

"But I was able to ignore those thoughts before," I whisper. "Why is it getting so hard again? I thought I was through this."

For a moment, it's completely silent in the small room that's Ms. Jackson's office. Then, the woman shifts in her seat a little.

"A psychological illness isn't something that ever goes away completely, you just have to learn to work your way around them."

"But I learned that!" I clench my fists. "I learned that with you, and you said that I was doing great. For two years, everything was totally fine. I had it under control!"

"Santana," she says calmly, leaning back. "Situations like this -relapses, struggles, questions- are why you have my number. Why every single one of my patients gets my number—because those are not things, you're going to be able to avoid. Most people with an eating disorder relapse—and that's okay."

"But what if it's not?" I cut her off. "What if it's not okay? I'm going to go to college next year. I'm not going to have my mom watching me like a hawk and telling me to eat more and not give it so much thought."

Ms. Jackson's eyebrows knit together, almost in surprise. "If that's what worries you, Santana, then you really don't have to be afraid. You're not going to be all alone—you'll come home for the holidays and perhaps for a weekend or two, you'll find lots of new friends and you'll have people at your college who'll look after you. And I'm sure your mom's gonna call at least twice a week to remind you to eat and sleep and not overdo it with your studies."

She smiles a little. "You'll never be alone with this. You have a family that loves you and that looks after you and they'll never let you down or forget about you."

"But they're struggling too."

"Everybody is," counters Ms. Jackson. "But they can handle struggling themselves and helping others through their problems too. You're worrying about your sister and your mother as well, aren't you?"

I shift in my seat. "Yeah, but that's different. I'm not responsible for them and my mom-"

"Has two daughters," the woman to my opposite cuts me off. "You have to remember, Santana, that your mom is very capable of loving and caring for you and your sister at the same time with the exact same intensity. She's not about to drop one of you for the other—that's not how families work."

I grit my teeth. "Cheating on someone for three years isn't exactly how families work either."

Ms. Jackson blinks. "No, it certainly isn't. But that's one aspect of many—I'm pretty sure your father still cares about you."

"I'm not so sure," I shake my head. "He's never turned up at our house again except for Friday night when he'd caught my sister drinking at a party."

"But he did turn up, right?" Ms. Jackson raises a hand to prevent me from talking. "He brought your sister home from a party that she wasn't allowed to be at, and he brought her home safely. Which doesn't mean he deserves a father-of-the-year award, but it does show that he cares. I'm thinking that it must be a very hard and confusing time for both your parents."

"Ha," I snort. "Hard and confusing for Dad? I don't think so. He seems to be pretty happy with that other woman—otherwise he would've been back already."

Ms. Jackson straightens her back a little as if preparing to lecture me on how adults are whatever and everything's more complicated because whatever, but then, she deflates and shakes her head a little. "Let's say it's a new situation for all of you—and you all have to adjust."

She gives the clock on the wall behind me a quick look. "Now, time's almost up. I want you to make another one of those tables for the next week. Write down, at the end of the week, what meals you ate and how much. I just want to have some reference material."

She opens a thin folder to the side of the desk and places the two sheets of paper inside. It says there on the cover of the folder Santana Corcoran, November 9, 2003. Nothing about mild anorexia or relapse. It's a relief.

When we leave the office, Ms. Jackson right behind me, Mom's already sitting in the waiting room, flicking through an old issue of the Vogue magazine. She smiles slightly when she spots me and turns to gather her bag and jacket from the chair beside her.

"Well?" she says when she's standing in front of me, reaching out to tuck a strand of black hair behind my ear. "Ready to go?"

She holds her arm out to me and I tuck myself into her side. Ms. Jackson smiles.

"I think a session once a week should be enough for now," she says to my mom. "Does Tuesday the same time work for you?"

Without a single second of hesitation, Mom nods. "Of course. Thank you so much for making time for Santana."

"Oh, no worries," Ms. Jackson laughs a little. "Former patients always come first."

She tilts her head to one side to look at me. "Don't forget about the table. And try to take it easy, alright? Don't stress yourself."

"Does she want you to count calories?" Mom asks later when we've just gotten into the car, her voice something between shock and disagreement.

"Of course not," I shake my head. "That would be a little counterproductive, Mom. She just asked me to fill out another one of those tables—like the one you gave me."

Mom nods slowly but says nothing. She's staring at the street ahead and her brow furrows a little as if deep in thought.

Two turns later, she asks, "How are you feeling?"

And it's like someone suddenly turns on my emotions; everything feels intense. My fingers fumble with the belt loops of my jeans. "I- It's weird to be back in there after all this time. I just- I thought I'd been, I don't know, healed or whatever but Ms. Jackson said that you can't fully recover from—psychological illnesses. You can learn to control it, though."

"That's okay," says Mom quietly and reaches out to squeeze my hand. "You'll learn and you'll get better again. That's all I want."

Mom looks almost small in the grey, cushioned chair. She has her legs crossed and her back is as straight as it can get, propped up against the backrest of the armchair. Her hands are folded in her lap and her eyes linger on the bag she dropped on the floor beside her. If it weren't for the slight bouncing of her left foot, she'd look absolutely relaxed and not even the tiniest bit nervous. But the way she has to force her eyes away from her bag and straight ahead again is enough for me to know. To her opposite sits a man that could be anything between 40 and 60 and smiles friendly—other than that, there's not much to say about him. He seems homely, ordinary, like you could place him anywhere in the world in any situation at all and he wouldn't be looked at or thought about twice. He looks uninteresting at best—boring at worst. But then again, I guess being a family therapist or whatever doesn't require him to be interesting.

Earlier, when he introduced himself to us as Mr. Miller, I couldn't help but think that there's probably never been a match this perfect before.

"Perhaps the best way to start," says Mr. Miller, breaking the long-lasting silence in the room. "Would be for you to tell me the exact reason why you're all here, Mrs. Corcoran."

I wonder if he notices the way Mom's face twists at the honorific. If he does, he doesn't let it show. Instead, he leans forward and looks at Mom with that same smile that has been on his lips ever since we sat down.

And Mom's foot stops bouncing for a second. "Everything?"

Mr. Miller tilts his head to one side. "Let's start with the reason. A sentence or two should be enough."

It sounds more like an instruction in a class test than something said in a conversation. But perhaps that's just right for my mother at the moment—something familiar. She leans back for a second, strokes a few lose strands of hair out of her forehead and says in a voice that's almost clinical, "Well, in an abridged version it's that my—husband" -she stumbles there- "and I are getting a divorce. Or rather I'm going to file one."

Rachel, sitting to Mom's right, looks quite surprised. She didn't know about this, apparently.

On the other side of the desk, Mr. Miller nods swiftly and jots something down on a small notepad. Then, he looks back up again.

"I'm going to take a guess here and say there's more to that story," he lets his eyes wander through the room as if to seek confirmation.

"Of course, there is," I say through gritted teeth. "The bastard cheated on her."

"Santana!" hisses Mom and I think I can see her hand twitch a little in the corners of my eyes as if she's holding herself back from swatting me.

"Oh, no, it's fine," laughs Mr. Miller. "This is a safe space—you can say whatever you want, it won't ever leave this room."

Mom sits up a little straighter but says nothing. Perhaps the glare she's sending me is enough, though. I look down at my lap. Message received.

"Santana, I'd like to hear your side of the story," Mr. Miller nods encouragingly and I squirm under Mom's stern look.

"There's not that much to it," I shrug, feigning something like indifference. "Dad cheated on Mom for three years, Mom found out about it, flipped and threw him out."

"Uh-huh," the man jots something down on his notepad and leans back, loosely crossing his arms. "Though if there wasn't much to it, you wouldn't be here, right?"

My mouth opens to agree with the therapist but before a single word can pass my lips, Rachel's voice sounds from the other side of the desk.

"It's- Dad's been there our entire lives a-and now he's just—gone and, well I can't speak for Santana, but I-I just don't understand. It's been hard to comprehend that he doesn't care anymore. Or at least doesn't care enough to come back," she looks down at her feet, a curtain of hair falling in front of her face. "I don't know much about love and all that b-but falling out of love doesn't mean you stop caring, right? So, why would he just leave? I don't understand. And that's been… hard. I don't know how to deal with it."

A shuddering breath escapes her and slowly, Rachel straightens up again, eyes staying firmly on the ground as if afraid to look up. Mr. Miller writes into his notepad and tilts his head to one side. His mouth opens to say something but Rachel cuts him off before he can even start.

"And I-I love him, you know," she hurries to say. "He's a great Dad. B-but now, I'm just so angry all the time and I- I still miss him."

It feels like there's something missing. It feels like she wants to add something to her thoughts but can't find it in her to say it aloud. Her voice doesn't drop at the end but her mouth also doesn't open again to finish. Instead, the unspoken words linger on in the air like a threat and Mr. Miller hesitates to take notes.

He leans forward to take a closer look at my sister, his shoulders slumping slightly in a sigh before he writes down what can't be more than one or two words. His hands fold around the pen he's holding.

"It's okay -perfectly normal, actually- to be confused," is all he says before turning, with a slightly dimmer smile, to me.

"It seems to me that you, Santana, are angry rather than confused."

I shift in my seat, stroking a strand of hair out of my forehead. "Mostly, yes. There's just no excuse for this, if you ask me. Falling out of love with someone doesn't allow you to lie to them. And he lied to all of us."

"Do you feel betrayed?"

I bite down on my lower lip to suppress a snort -something that Mom wouldn't be overly happy about. "Of course, I do. But I think that's something that Mom feels the most."

"Mrs. Corcoran?"

Mom sits up even straighter. Her fingers fiddle with the hem of her blouse for a second, smooth out her pants, pluck invisible dust particles off the fabric as if she doesn't know what to do with them.

"I feel betrayed in many ways," she says after a second. "It's not just that David" -she doesn't say my husband this time- "cheated on me with another woman, he also hid it from me for three years—and our marriage always was about honesty and trust; it never even came to my mind that he might be at some other woman's house instead of the office where he'd said he would be. That just wasn't a thing I thought him capable of. And he broke a promise—several, actually."

Mr. Miller, who was all that time she spoke busy trying not to fall behind with noting down her words, looks up a little breathlessly.

"Just out of interest," he says, straightening his back. "Does any of you know the new woman in your father's and husband's life?"

And while Mom and I shake our heads, Rachel hesitates for a second before she says, "Well, I don't, like, know her but I've seen her."

Mom's eyes fly towards her in surprise—she didn't know that. And neither did I, actually.

"I don't even know her name," Mom murmurs, almost to herself.

"But I do," Rachel sits up, a grimace twisting her lips into a thin line. "It's Sam. I only know the first name, though."

Mr. Miller is, again, busy writing something down and Mom- I can literally hear her mind set up to work. It's like a thousand cogs slowly begin to spin, picking up their pace, pace, pace until every single puzzle piece is in the right place. Her eyes widen.

"Sam-" she turns to Rachel. "Blond hair? Not that tall? One eye blue, the other green?"

Rachel looks helplessly across the room to me. "U-um, blond hair, yes. Not that tall? Well, she's at least one head smaller than Dad. And I'm not sure about the eyes."

Mom shakes her head in horror—or perhaps in disbelief. "I think I'm sure. It's Sam Hillington, a police officer-" -she laughs, though not in amusement- "a police officer from the office across the street."

"Across our street?" I blurt.

"Across the street at work," says Mom. Her lips become a thin line and she murmurs something to herself that I can't understand.

"So, you do know the woman, Mrs. Corcoran?" asks Mr. Miller and Mom nods slowly.

"Well, I haven't seen them together, but it makes sense."

"Interesting," the man tilts his head forward in what could be a nod. "And what do you think of that—Sam Hillington?"

"I think," says Mom in a long exhale. "That she's at least seven years younger than me and that her girlfriend might be surprised to find out about it. If there's still a girlfriend, of course."

"Seven years younger," Mr. Miller says it in a way that says interesting all over again. "How does that make you feel?"

"Old."

"You're not."

"Thank you, darling," says Mom to Rachel but her smile is a little wavery and her eyes don't twinkle the way they should.

"And emotionally speaking?"

As Mom turns to the therapist, her lips grow tight. "Right now, it's a shock. I think that might turn into anger pretty soon, though."

"That's okay," says Mr. Miller. "That's perfectly normal."

He pauses for a second to write something down. "Have you ever thought about confronting the woman?"

"Ha," says Mom, looking slightly flustered. "Not just once."

Mr. Miller doesn't even bat an eye. "And now that you know who she is, do you think she would be willing to talk?"

I shift in my seat to get a better look at my mom. Her eyes are slightly narrowed, and her brow furrowed.

"I don't see the point with a confrontation," she says slowly. "I'd just come back even more frustrated and devastated."

"Well," Mr. Miller tilts his head to one side. "Perhaps we'll come back to that at a later time."

Mom nods as if to say, "very good idea."

Silence fills the room for about two seconds before the therapist leans forward to write something into his notepad and, straightening up again, he says, "Now, time's almost up. I know finding the right therapist can be a hard and long process, so I think we should set a date for one other session as a start—so you all can make up your minds if this is how you want to go about things or not."

He closes his notepad, and, in the corners of my eyes, I see Rachel deflate a little. "I'd like you all to do something for the next session, though."

His eyes wander from one to the other with a friendly smile. "Pick one thing you're struggling with ever since the separation—or perhaps even before that—and write down things that might've caused your struggles, things that might be helpful to get rid of them. Anything, really, that comes to mind when you're thinking about them."

I take a deep breath, ready to come at him with questions, but Mom gathers her bag and coat from the armrest of her chair and puts a stop to my rant before it could even begin.

"Oh, Rachel," Mr. Miller's voice sounds and when I turn around to face him, he's looking at the cover of a brown folder. "I see it's your birthday in two days."

My sister's cheeks flush a faint red. "It is."

"Well, I'd say 'happy birthday in advance' but I hear it brings ill luck."

"Thanks anyway," says Rachel with a shy smile and reaches out to shake the hand Mr. Miller's holding out to her.

He holds it out to me next and his eyes flit up and down my body, pause on my face, pause on the curve of my (slightly protruding) collarbone and his brows knit faintly together. "Don't stress yourself too much."

It's a little cryptic and though I normally absolutely hate cryptic people, Mr. Miller seems to be a pretty decent guy. I shake his hand and nod—if only to lessen his worries -or what I assume to be such.

"Thank you so much for making time for us—especially so shortly before Christmas," says Mom as she shakes his hand.

"No worries, please, Mrs. Corcoran," he gestures at the door. "Let's see what date my dear secretary can conjure up for you—I never understand how she fits all those appointments in my schedule."

"You go ahead," says Mom when she notices Rachel and me lingering behind and chucks the keys of her car to me with a flick of her wrist. "I'll come down in no time."

But 'no time' turns into more than five minutes that Rachel and I use to listen to the new album of Taylor Swift and deem a few songs good enough to make it into our car playlist. When Mom finally arrives, a small, blue sheet of paper in her left hand, she's smiling. "So, girls, what are you thinking about Mr. Miller?"

I shrug. "It's not like we'd have many therapists to compare him to but he seems like a pretty decent guy."

Rachel nods in agreement. "We'll just have to wait for the next session, right?"

Mom turns to see if we're buckled in (it's a habit of hers that she just can't shake off) and then slowly drives the car out of the parking space. "Even if it might not be Mr. Miller, I think therapy is really going to help."

Whether she really does believe so or is just hoping for it, I can't quite tell. But the positivity in her voice certainly is uplifting.