He Stopped Protecting Me When She Came Back

1: 1

In the third year after my severe depression diagnosis, Roderick Sanchez was the only reason I stayed alive.

He cleared every sharp object out of the apartment, put a safety rail on the balcony, and even left the bathroom door open a crack while I showered.

Take your time. I'll wait for you to get better.

Until Florence Swanson came back from abroad.

She'd studied psychology, and she said Roderick was locking me into my role as a patient.

"The more you protect her, the more she believes something's wrong with her."

Roderick was silent for a whole night.

The next day, he tore off the balcony rail.

"Keeping you boxed in is what makes you afraid. Open it up and there's really nothing to it."

He put the knives back in the kitchen.

"You have to learn to live alongside these things."

He stopped coming in at night to check whether I'd been crying.

"You need to learn to process your own emotions."

Florence stood beside him every time, nodding.

"Yes. This is the right way."

The day I crouched in a corner of the mall, unable to breathe, I heard the two of them talking low as they walked ahead of me.

Florence: "Hold out a little longer. She's almost better."

Roderick: "And then what?"

"And then you'll be free."

Her fingers hooked around his little finger, and she laughed softly.

That night I stood on the balcony.

The wind was strong.

The safety rail was gone.

The lock on the living room door clicked just as one foot of mine was already hanging over the edge of the balcony.

Wind poured through the empty gap where the railing used to be, plastering my nightgown against my legs.

Roderick and Florence came in laughing.

His car keys clattered to the floor. The color drained from his face in an instant, and he started to rush toward me.

I saw his panic, and my body instinctively drew back a little.

Before, all it took was me standing near the balcony, and he'd wrap his arms around me from behind, not even daring to raise his voice.

He would say, "Maggie, don't be afraid, I'm here."

But Florence reached out and gripped his arm, her tone gentle and certain.

"Don't go over, Roderick. She's using self-destructive behavior to hold you hostage. If you go to her now, you're just reinforcing her controlling behavior."

Roderick stopped in front of the glass door.

He looked at me, and the panic in his eyes slowly settled.

Florence went on, "This is a classic borderline control tactic. She knows you're afraid, so every time she uses herself as a bargaining chip. You can't keep playing along."

Roderick's throat worked.

I stood barefoot on the edge of the balcony, my toes going numb with cold.

He looked at me through the glass door, his voice dropping.

"Maggie Fox, look. You still haven't jumped, have you?"

I froze.

Florence sighed softly, like a teacher looking at a student who wouldn't learn.

Roderick draped his coat over his arm, his tone slipping back into that tired restraint.

"It's windy up there. Come down when you've put on enough of a show. I'm not going to indulge you without limits the way I used to."

My fingers slid off the door frame, one by one.

So standing here wasn't danger.

It was a performance.

I walked slowly back into the living room, the cold floor under my feet.

Roderick bent to pick up the keys and said to Florence, "You're right. I was far too soft on her before."

Florence handed him a glass of warm water.

"You've done so well already. Caregivers need boundaries too."

At two in the morning, I climbed out of bed.

My chest was tight, like a stone slab pressing down on it, my temples throbbing, a fine roar filling my ears.

I pulled open the nightstand drawer and found the white pill bottle.

I twisted off the cap, but what tipped out was a handful of colorful sugar tablets.

I stared at my palm for a long time and couldn't tell what they were.

I carried the bottle out to the living room.

Roderick sat on the couch reading emails, the cold light of the laptop on his face.

I held the bottle out in front of him, my throat raw and aching.

"Roderick, where are my meds?"

He didn't look up.

"Switched them."

I braced myself against the edge of the couch, my knuckles white.

"My chest hurts, my head hurts. Give me my meds."

Roderick finally lifted his eyes, a faint crease between his brows.

"Florence says your dosage is already past the safe range. You're drug-dependent now."

Florence came out from the doorway of the master bedroom.

"Maggie, placebos are a very common supportive method. You have to trust your own willpower."

Roderick took the bottle from my hands and tipped one sugar tablet back out.

"Take this for now. Get through tonight and you'll be fine. Stop treating yourself like you're useless."

My stomach heaved, and I gripped the coffee table, gagging.

He stood up, as if his patience had finally run out.

"I have a meeting in the morning. Don't make a scene for too long."

I knelt on the carpet, my fingers dug into the corner of the table.

"Roderick, please."

His footsteps paused.

Florence reminded him softly, "Roderick, this is her testing your limits."

Roderick's back stiffened, and then he pushed open the master bedroom door.

"Deal with it yourself."

The lock fell shut with a click.

I lay sprawled in the dark living room, listening to my own breathing come faster and faster.

2: 2

That was how I stayed, curled up on the carpet until the sky went pale.

Roderick walked over and tossed a dress onto the coffee table.

He looked down at me, still shaking, and his voice was flat.

"Put it on. We're taking Florence out to lunch, a welcome-back."

I shook my head. My throat couldn't shape a whole sound.

The ache from being off the medication hadn't faded, and even the whir of the elevator opening and closing outside cut into my ears until they rang.

Roderick bent down, closed his hand around my wrist, and hauled me up off the floor.

"Exposure therapy is the most effective method there is. You can't hide at home and rot for the rest of your life."

The pull made me stumble, and a red ring surfaced fast around my wrist.

"I'm not going. Not today."

Florence leaned in from the doorway, her tone all coaxing.

"Maggie, avoiding it only makes the fear bigger. Give Roderick a little faith, won't you?"

Roderick looked at her, and for a second his eyes softened.

When they turned back to me, his grip only tightened.

"Be good. Don't make this hard for me."

The private room was brightly lit.

A dozen-odd people sat around the round table, all of them friends who'd watched how Roderick had taken care of me these three years.

Someone saw me and joked with a grin.

"His wife finally comes out of hiding. Rough three years for old Rod, huh."

I sat in the corner, fingers twisting the hem of my dress, my chest cinching tighter and tighter.

Florence carried over a cup of warm water and set it beside me, her voice low but pitched just right for the whole table to hear.

"Everyone, stop looking at Maggie like she's a patient. Too much sympathy just locks her into the patient role. She's actually very healthy now. Right, Maggie?"

A dozen pairs of eyes settled on me.

I opened my mouth, and only a thread of breath came out.

Roderick sat beside her, tapping the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

"Say something. Don't always make people cover for you."

Someone laughed a little.

"Depression isn't a death sentence. Come on, that's enough already."

"Right, Rod circles around you every single day. Anyone would be worn out."

"Florence comes back and a few moves get you out among people. Professionals really are different."

The words drilled into my ears like fine needles.

I clapped my hands over them, my body starting to shake beyond my control.

Florence bent down and pressed lightly on my shoulder.

"See, the avoidance response is coming out. Don't be scared, we're all here to help you."

Her perfume drifted close.

It was the scent on Roderick's collar last night.

I shot to my feet, my knee slamming the edge of the table, and knocked the glass over.

Red wine splashed all over Roderick.

The room went quiet.

Roderick looked down at the stain on his shirt and wiped at it slowly with a napkin, the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands.

I couldn't catch my breath. I sank down to the floor and dug my fingers into the carpet.

"Take me away, Roderick. Please, take me away."

Before, at times like this, he would pull off his jacket and drape it over my head and carry me out.

But this time, he only watched me, cold.

"Are you done with the scene?"

Florence caught his sleeve and coaxed him gently. "Don't blame her, this is withdrawal. If you take her out now, the whole point of the exposure is wasted."

Roderick closed his eyes for a moment, then turned and sat back down.

He picked up his water glass, his voice pressed very low.

"Maggie Fox. Stand up on your own and walk back to your seat."

I tipped my head up to look at him.

My vision was blurred with tears, and all I could see was him and Florence sitting very close.

Florence passed him a napkin, her fingertips resting a second in his palm.

He didn't pull away.

I looked at him in despair, tears hitting the carpet. "And if I can't get up?"

Roderick looked at me, nothing left in his eyes but tired indifference.

"Then keep crouching. I won't lift you up again."

Someone said under their breath, "Old Rod's finally grown a spine."

Florence raised her glass and touched it lightly to the rim of Roderick's.

"Roderick, you did really well."

The whole table started laughing and talking again, and no one looked to see whether I could breathe.

Roderick even laughed along with them.

The string in my chest that had been pulled taut for three years suddenly snapped.

My fingers were still hooked into the carpet, blood seeping out along the edges of my nails, but I couldn't feel the pain.

I stood up, slowly.

Roderick seemed to breathe easier.

"That's more like it. Stop making everyone revolve around you."

Holding onto the wall, I pushed open the door of the private room and walked out into the rain.

Roderick didn't come after me.

The rain soaked the hem of my dress fast, the cold climbing up my legs.

Hands shaking, I fished my phone out of my pocket, meaning to call my psychiatrist.

But before I could press the call button, everything went black, and a violent, suffocating wave swallowed me whole.

3: 3

When I woke again, Roderick was standing by the bed with a cup of medicine, looking down at me.

"Acute pneumonia. You've been running a fever for two days."

My hand went for my phone on instinct.

Gone.

"Give me my phone."

Roderick looked away.

"Florence says you keep reading those negative support-group chats, and you've been contacting your old doctor for psychiatric meds. That's bad for the desensitization."

"You're not in any state to go back to that conservative treatment. You can't keep leaning on pills."

Florence walked in with her notebook.

"I've already spoken to Dr. Chavez. Her whole approach relies too heavily on medication. It isn't right for the stage you're at now."

"To keep her from interfering with the treatment, I deleted her number."

Roderick held the cup out to me.

"Drink it. And stop looking at her like that."

I didn't take it.

His patience ran out. He set the cup back on the table.

"When you start living like a normal person, that's when you get your phone back."

I didn't beg him. There was nothing left in my eyes but emptiness.

The way I looked at him seemed to unsettle Roderick. He turned and picked up his coat.

"I'm taking you somewhere in a bit."

Half an hour later, he led me to the ground floor of an abandoned building.

When the basement door opened, a smell of rust rushed out.

Under the dim light, a wrecked car shell sat in the corner.

The front end was caved in, the windshield shattered into a web.

My feet froze.

Three years ago, this was the car that came at Roderick.

I shoved him out of the way and took the hit myself, two ribs broken, left with severe post-traumatic stress.

And from that day on, I never slept through a single night again.

Roderick gripped my shoulder and pushed me forward.

"Facing your fear is the only way to cure PTSD."

My fingertips clawed at the doorframe.

"Roderick, don't."

Florence stood behind him, notebook tucked in the crook of her arm.

"Maggie, traumatic memories have to be recoded. You need to trust Roderick. He's helping you."

Roderick's hand bore down harder.

I was shoved into the basement, my knees hitting the concrete.

The iron door shut behind me.

I threw myself at it and pounded, my voice shaking.

"Roderick, let me out."

He watched me through the iron grate in the door, exhaustion pressed down in his eyes.

"You stay in there and look at it. Look until you're not afraid anymore."

I shook my head, my fingers hooked around the cold bars.

"I'll die in here."

Something shifted in Roderick's eyes.

Florence said quietly, "That's her exaggerating the fear. You can't let her lead you around."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and his voice hardened.

"Maggie, I'm so tired."

I froze.

Roderick looked at me, and there was a worn-down grievance in his voice.

"I just want you to go back to being that sunny girl you used to be. Can't you spare a little pity for me too?"

I let go of the bars.

Florence took his arm gently.

"Roderick, you're doing the right thing. Desensitization was always going to be a breaking-out-of-the-cocoon kind of process."

Their footsteps slowly faded.

The basement held only me and that car.

I sat down against the corner, my fingers digging bit by bit into the wall.

The rust, the broken glass, the sound of brakes, all of it came pouring out of the dark.

I bit down on the back of my hand and didn't scream.

Over ten hours I clawed a patch of plaster off the wall, my nails torn back, blood smeared across the gray-white surface.

Twice, someone came to the door.

Once it was Roderick. He stood there a long while and didn't open it.

Once it was Florence. Through the door she said, "Progress noted. She's stopped calling for help."

I heard myself laugh, very softly.

So it wasn't that they wanted me alive.

It was that they wanted me to stop calling for help.

Before dawn, a sheet of paper slid under the gap in the door.

It was in Florence's handwriting, laying out the next stage of the behavioral desensitization plan.

At the very bottom was Roderick's signed consent.

The date was the day before the safety barrier was removed.

I held the paper in my bleeding fingertips, and my chest drew tighter, inch by inch.

4: 4

When Roderick opened the basement door, I was sitting beside the car shell.

I wasn't shaking, and I wasn't crying. I just looked up at him and smiled.

His eyes lit up at once.

"Maggie."

He rushed over and pulled me in, his palm pressed flat against my back.

"Thank God. I knew you could do it."

Florence stood in the doorway. Something like surprise crossed her eyes, and then she smiled.

"See, Rod? Scientific intervention works."

Roderick held me tighter.

"You're finally better."

I rested my chin lightly on his shoulder.

"Mm. Better."

For the next two weeks, I acted like a normal person.

I got up early to make porridge, ironed Roderick's shirts, and when Florence came by to take her notes, I even poured her a glass of warm water without being asked.

The way Roderick looked at me slowly eased.

He took me out to see friends, telling everyone that Florence had saved us both.

Someone praised how good she was.

Roderick nodded, and there was a lightness in his voice I hadn't heard in a long time.

"She pulled me out of the mud too."

I sat beside him, looking down as I pinched off a withered leaf from a sunflower.

I'd bought that pot the day I was discharged three years ago.

Roderick had held me up while I took forever choosing it, saying the house should always have a bit of color in it.

Now it sat by the gap on the balcony, its leaves dried and curling at the edges.

I watered it every day, and still it withered, bit by bit.

Florence followed my gaze and said with a smile, "Plants have to adapt to an open environment too. You can't shelter them so much."

Roderick said, "She's right."

I nodded.

"Right."

That evening, I cleaned the study.

The document folder wasn't sealed shut, and a corner of an English letterhead was showing.

I pulled it out and saw the transfer consent form Roderick had already signed.

Destination: Munich, Germany.

Term: three years.

Pressed beside it was a plane ticket to Munich for the same day.

The name on it was Florence.

At the very bottom was a drafted breakup compensation agreement.

One house, one million dollars, and once the care arrangement ended, neither party would interfere with the other.

I sat at the desk and read through those few pages, one after another.

So the so-called recovery was just the paperwork that lightened his load before he left.

He wanted me to look normal.

That way, when he walked out, he could say I was already better and didn't need him anymore.

Roderick's voice came from outside the door.

"Maggie, I'm working late tonight. I won't be coming home."

I put the documents back where they were.

"Okay."

He seemed pleased by how calm I was.

"Get to bed early. Don't wait up for me."

"Mm."

When the lock clicked shut, I walked out to the balcony and touched the sunflower's dried-out leaves.

The veins were so brittle they crumbled at a touch.

I found the phone Roderick had hidden on top of the cabinet, a thin crack running across the screen.

I opened the notes and typed slowly.

"Your stomach medicine is in the second drawer on the left. Don't take it on an empty stomach."

"You're allergic to mango. When you buy a cake, don't just pick the pretty one."

"Your knees ache on rainy days. Remember to turn on the heat."

"Don't overwater the sunflower on the balcony. It didn't drown. Its roots rotted a long time ago."

I paused for a while, then kept writing.

"Roderick, I used to think that if I took that car for you, I could take on every disaster between us too."

"But people get tired."

"You're finally free."

"And just like you wanted, I've recovered too."

"In this moment of dying, I'm perfectly clear-headed, perfectly normal."

Three in the morning, and the wind was strong.

I lined my slippers up neatly at the edge of the balcony.

The phone lay beside the slippers, its screen resting on that note.

The stainless steel railing that had protected me for three years, Roderick had torn down with his own hands two weeks ago.

He'd said it was nothing, really, with it open like that.

Bracing myself against the wall, I stepped barefoot onto the cold edge.

The city lights below were far away.

The phone buzzed suddenly.

A message from Roderick.

I've booked the flight for tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to Munich with Florence.

There's an agreement on the desk in the study. Maggie, since you've recovered, let's end this with a little dignity.

I glanced at it, then pressed the screen dark.

The wind caught my nightdress.

I took one step forward and jumped