Page 1 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
Part I. The Princess
There was once a King who had a son who asked in marriage the daughter of a mighty King; she was called Maid Maleen, and was very beautiful. As her father wished to give her to another, the prince was rejected; but as they both loved each other with all their hearts, they would not give each other up, and Maid Maleen said to her father, “I can and will take no other for my husband.”
—Maid Maleen, as retold by the Brothers Grimm
* * *
Maleen bit down on her lip, then implored her friend, “I’m right, aren’t I? I love him, and I can’t marry anyone but him.”
Ruth hesitated, torn between Maleen’s needs and her own. Of course, the princess should follow her heart and marry for love. Every woman—every person—deserved the freedom to do so. But. But what about Ruth’s freedom? What about Ruth’s agency?
Maleen knew as well as Ruth did that her refusal would enrage her father. But what Ruth suspected, and Maleen would never admit, is that her choice would have disastrous consequences for them both.
Ruth knew, and yet, as Maleen waited, her clear blue eyes anxious and unblinking, she sighed. “You make terrible decisions.” Then she grinned, “But you should do it.”
— The Tower, by Emily Rose
One
Tristan
* * *
I’m parked behind the organic market located halfway between work and home, waiting for seven o’clock to roll around so I can pop open the video conferencing app on the tablet my wife doesn’t know I own to log in for my semiannual visit with the psychotherapist my wife doesn’t know I see.
Around the corner, the church bells at St. Agnes chime the hour, and I hit the meeting button. Right on cue, Dr. Wilde’s face fills my screen.
“Tate,” he says, “good to see you.”
Even though I’ve been using my brother’s name for these appointments for more than six years now, a frisson of shock runs through me every time the psychiatrist calls me Tate. I have to stop myself from looking over my shoulder to make sure my older brother isn’t looming in my back seat.
“The beard suits you, Doc,” I tell him.
He strokes his chin, pleased I’ve noticed. “I grew it during my last work retreat. I highly recommend it. I booked myself a cabin and managed to crank out three articles to submit for peer review, and I made progress on a new project. Something groundbreaking—really cutting edge stuff.”
I stifle a yawn and hurry to derail any discussion of his academic papers. “Take up any new interests since our last session?”
Mind-numbing academia averted. He gestures to the room behind him and says, “I’ve got a drum kit. I’m going to start hitting the sticks.”
Is hitting the sticks really slang for drumming? I have no idea, and I bet he doesn’t either, but I nod enthusiastically. He has a hip new hobby just about every time we meet, and he loves to recommend them to me. Over the years, he’s suggested I try Tai Chi, rock-tumbling, candle-making, and beekeeping, to name just a handful.
“Cool. I hope you have a soundproofed room,” I say, because he’s clearly waiting for me to respond.
He nods seriously. “I do. After I gave up my office space in town during the pandemic, I upgraded my home office to meet all the requirements for patient confidentiality—secure, encrypted file server, soundproof room, all the goodies. It wouldn’t do for Mrs. Appel in the unit next door to overhear someone’s session. So my treatment room doubles as a kickass music room.”
“Great.”
His concern about patient confidentiality and following the rules cracks me up but I keep a straight face. It was trivially easy to book my first appointment with him using a fake name. Apparently, if you walk into a psychiatrist’s office and say you plan to self-pay and not submit to insurance, they don’t ask a lot of questions. When I agreed to Venmo him the money for my sessions, he became even less interested in verifying my identity. I highly doubt he reports my payments as income to the IRS. In fact, I hope he doesn’t. If he ever finds out I’m not Tate, we’ll have a handy mutually assured destruction situation.
“How have things been, Tate?”
“Good. Work’s going well.”
“And your personal life? Seeing anybody special?”
“No, I’m not dating anyone,” I tell him.
It’s true. I’m not. Emily and I have been married for five years. We’re definitely well past dating. But our marriage is yet another secret I have to keep from Dr. Wilde. He’s also Emily’s psychotherapist, and neither he nor she knows I’m his patient, too. I’m pretty sure even Dr. Venmo would find it a conflict of interest to treat us both individually.
