Page 147 of Clinically Delicious
She’s writing, “Recommend immediate removal of child from home.”
“And the house!” I continued because apparently, I had lost all control of my mouth and my brain had left the building entirely. “We love the house. It’s such a great house. Very... housey. With rooms. Multiple rooms. For different purposes. Like a kitchen for cooking, and a living room for living, and bedrooms for—for sleeping. And other bedroom activities.”
Did I just say “OTHER BEDROOM ACTIVITIES” to a social worker?
Did I just imply SEX to Child Protective Services?
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die right here on this doorstep.
Gabriel made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been him dying inside.
His hand was definitely cutting off my circulation now.
“That’s... standard for most houses,” Ms. Rodriguez said carefully, her expression suggesting she was reconsidering her career choices.
“Right! Yes! Standard! We’re very standard. Completely normal. Just a normal family doing normal things in our normal house with our normal furniture that we’re currently rearranging with medical professionals. For normal reasons. Very normal, standard reasons that normal people have.”
Please stop talking.
Please, please, PLEASE stop talking.
Another thud from inside.
Then the distinct sound of water running.
Are they doing the dishes?
Are they doing the dishes right now?
“You know what’s funny?” I said, my voice reaching a pitch that probably only dogs could hear. “I had this dream last night. Well, not last night. I’ve been having this dream for a while, actually. It’s a recurring dream. Very recurring. It recurs frequently. Like, an alarming amount of recurring for one dream.”
“Cate.” Gabriel’s voice held a warning.
A very clear warning.
A “please for the love of God stop talking”warning.
But I couldn’t stop.
The anxiety had taken over and my mouth was just... going.
Like a runaway train.
A runaway train full of terrible decisions and poor word choices.
“It’s about a ninja,” I continued, watching Ms. Rodriguez’s expression shift from professional interest to mild concern to what might have been fascination. “A masked ninja. With a butter knife. Which I know sounds weird, but in the dream itmakes perfect sense. He’s very skilled with the butter knife. Like, impressively skilled. Professionally skilled. If there were butter knife competitions, he would win. Easily.”
Ms. Rodriguez was staring at me now.
Really staring.
The kind of staring that suggested she was mentally composing her report.
“Subject appears to be having a psychotic break.”
“And he’s shirtless,” I added, because apparently I had a death wish. “Which seems impractical for a ninja, but again, dream logic. Maybe he’s trying to intimidate people with his abs. Which are very impressive. The abs. In the dream. Very defined. Very... abdominal.”
