She steals things for no reason at all. Kleptomania the doctor calls it. That there’s a name for it changes nothing and fixes nothing. He likes to believe there’s been progress and it suits her needs to have him take credit for fixing her, for curing her of the “obsessive impulses.”
She sat across from his last Saturday morning and watched as he unsuccessfully attempted to write down something she’d said. He patted his left pocket and came up empty. He then looked towards his desk and let out an exasperated sigh when he didn’t see what he was looking for. When he turned back to face her he was met with her out-stretched hand—on the palm a Montblanc pen. “Here,” she murmured, “use mine.” She placidly met his gaze even when his right eyebrow arched as it always did when he didn’t quite believe her.
“Valerie?”
“Don’t worry. It’s mine.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I can bring you the receipt if you want to see it. At least I think I have it.”
“No,” he said, stretching the word out as he tried to figure out if he should believe her. This part was always so hard for him. He didn’t want to diminish the progress she’d made, but he also didn’t want to miss an important moment. It would be so like her to lend him a pen she’d stolen from someone else.
He swiveled the top of the pen and wrote a note to discuss the situation with his partner. “Where were we?” he asked, pen poised to capture her words.
She leaned back against the chair and resumed telling him about the trip she’d taken a few weeks ago, and how many times she resisted the urge to take something.
As her lips formed the words, the truth actually, she thought back to the moment when she’d first come across the pen. Her friend Ashley had wanted to show her the latest love note her husband had written to her. That was Ashley for you. It wasn’t so much that she needed to show off but that she was so insecure she needed others to validate her every waking moment. The note, sweet as it was sure to be, wouldn’t be real until Valerie oohed and aahed over it.
The stationary box came out of the desk drawer and the lid was lifted. On top of the rich loose leaf paper was the Montblanc, its body shimmering in the sunlight. Without a look or a nod of appreciation Ashley plucked it out of the box and let it drop onto the desktop, the heavy metal clunking clumsily against the desk’s glasstop.
Val winced slightly and tried to take her eyes off the pen. But she knew already that when she left this house, the pen would be coming with her.
When she stepped out of the front door onto the porch, all the while promising to call her friend in a few days to plan a lunch date, the pen bumped comfortingly in her right coat pocket. She would have felt bad except she had no doubt whatsoever that it wouldn’t be missed. Next to the pen lay a folded piece of paper, another love note, written with the same pen no doubt, but this one bore her name.
[25]
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