The room feels too bright, too warm. I want to loosen my collar, maybe just get up and leave. But I can’t leave my wife alone here. Not like this.
I glance at Lindsay. She’s sitting next to me on the couch, her shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the floor. She looks so small, so unlike herself. The Lindsay I know is strong, fierce, but now I hardly recognize her.
Hell, I hardly recognize myself.
The therapist, Dr. Morgan, clears her throat softly. She’s trying to look sympathetic, but I can see through it. She’s just another stranger who thinks she can get inside our heads, rearrange the furniture, and magically fix everything. As if talking about her will make this easier.
“So, Lindsay,” Dr. Morgan begins, “last week, you mentioned that some days feel harder than others. Can you tell me about one of those days?”
Lindsay shifts, fidgets with her fingers. Then with the sleeves of her sweater. She doesn’t answer. I know she won’t, and I don’t blame her.
“She doesn’t need to go over this again,” I say, keeping my tone controlled even though what I really want to do is scream at Dr. Morgan and throw something. “You know, every session it’s the same questions. Same painful details. And we go home just as messed up as when we came in.”
Dr. Morgan meets my gaze. “I understand, Jason. Sometimes it can feel like progress isn’t happening, especially when emotions are overwhelming. But sharing these feelings can help ease the burden. Sometimes only a little, but it helps.”
“I don’t see it,” I mutter, but I stop myself from saying more. The last thing Lindsay needs is me snapping at the doctor.
Or am I wrong? Because honestly I don’t know what the fuck Lindsay needs anymore. I don’t know what I need either. We’ve both been stripped of everything. Needs? Hell, where do I start?
Lindsay finally speaks, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I just… I can’t stop thinking… It’s my fault, Jason. I should’ve been there.” She doesn’t look at me. Just says it to the carpet.
My heart clenches. We’ve been over this. Over and over again. “Lindsay, it’s not your fault.”
It’s not.
It’s mine.
I’m the one who lost control of the car.
I’m the one who didn’t make sure Julia’s car seat was latched correctly.
Me.
It was fucking me.
Dr. Morgan nods and leans forward slightly. “Lindsay, it’s natural to feel guilt in situations like this, even though we both know you didn’t do anything wrong. Losing someone makes us desperate to find answers. And guilt feels like an answer, but it’s not.”
Lindsay doesn’t respond, just keeps staring. But her eyes glisten, and I feel the sting of it too, like salt in a wound.
Lindsay doesn’t want to blame me, and sometimes I want to yell at her, to shake her, to make her see the truth of all of it.
It was me.
My fault.
She wasn’t even there.
“Jason,” Dr. Morgan says to me, “I know you feel hopeless when it comes to the therapy process. I know this hasn’t been easy for you either.”
Hell, no, it hasn’t been easy. I want to help my wife. I want to more than I want to live my own life. But I can’t fix this. I can’t cut into her body and fix what is hurting her. I’m useless now.
I grit my teeth. “I just… I don’t see the point of talking. It’s not going to bring her back. It just feels like it’s making Lindsay worse.” I gesture to my wife, who has buried her face in her hands. “She’s drowning here, and I don’t think rehashing it is helping her breathe any easier.”
Lindsay’s shoulders go rigid, and I regret the words the second they’re out.
But I meant them.
Every single one.
