“Everything is peaches and cream, dear.”
“Good…good. Merry Christmas,” I say.
“Merry Christmas,” she says. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Right as I hang up, a snow flurry trickles down from the ashen night sky. I stand there, letting it wash over me, not absolved per se but ready—more than ready—to turn over a new leaf. To care for myself the way I’ve been neglecting for far too long.
With my last iota of energy, I draft a text I should’ve sent ages ago:
Merry Christmas. Sorry to bother you so late but…
I’m ready to talk.
My final Christmas wish whisks out into the universe.
Chapter 39
“You’ve undergone a lot in a short period. It’s valid for you to be feeling very strong feelings right now. It’s a major step that you showed up here today to work through this, and I want you to know that the work will take time, but it will be worth it.”
Work. Hard work. Hard work feeds the soul. Hector is everywhere. Omnipresent after everything. Still infiltrating my life in a positive way.
How do I pay that back in kind?
I guess that’s what I’m here trying to figure out with my therapist, Josiah Barnes, in the Upper West Side office I used to consider a second bedroom. I know the fabric couch by heart. Its cushiest spots; its squishiest pillows. The way the air purifier hums and where to reach for a fidget spinner or a stress toy. The statue of a robin on the shelf across the way that I can fixate on when Josiah’s eye contact becomes too intense, hits too close to the heart of the truth.
I’ve spent hours in here unpacking, tucking hurt into new drawers, reorganizing the closet of my childhood memories. Josiah Barnes has heard it all—from the fallout with Lukas Clifton to the NYU debacle, and now I’m ready to sort through the mess I left behind in Wind River and the new mess I’ve returned home to.
I’m ready to make this practice permanent again.
“I don’t know how to not feel both hurt and remorseful,” I confess.
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Josiah says, toying with a silver ball of beads. “We’ve talked previously about your aversion to apologies.”
“I’m a vending machine full of ‘I’m sorry’ these days,” I tell them. “But I don’t think Hector wants to hear one. Not after I ran off and hurt him in a way I knew I could for something he didn’t even do. And I’m not sure my culpable mom would offer another one. The one at the Plaza felt obligatory.”
Josiah lets us sit with that for a moment, knee bouncing before a thoughtful breath. “What would you say to her if she did offer another one?”
Josiah has a way of smacking me with the heavy-hitting questions, even at 10:00 a.m. I may not be caffeinated enough for this, but I guess this is what I’ve always liked about therapy and why I’ve worked with Josiah for so long. Their eyes peel away the bullshit until I have no defensiveness left.
It strikes me that maybe that’s what drew me to Hector. I’m pulled toward people that won’t let my posturing stand in the way of what’s real. I hold on to that revelation for a moment, and answer the question posed. “I’d say I wish she hadn’t done it—either of those things, the leak and the lie—but that I can understand the scared place she had to have been in to have made such drastic decisions.” I swallow hard, shaking my head.
Josiah’s position shifts to something more upright. “Is that a place you’ve been before—that scared, rash place you just described?”
Flickers of the night I bought the island come to mind. The night I tried to escape Wind River. The night of the gala. I’ve cozied up in that dark place many times before, hissed at any sign of light seeping in.
I don’t even hear myself say yes, but I must’ve because Josiah says, “Is it possible your mom might deal with some of what you deal with daily?”
It’s wild that I’d never considered this before. Her buttoned-up public image bled into our home life so young. I was taught to hide my GAD because, maybe, she was hiding hers even better. It’s how she thought she could protect me. It was wrong, but that doesn’t mean it’s without merit.
“Mental illness can run in families,” Josiah adds.
My bobbing head only picks up speed. “You could be right.”
“And let’s imagine for a moment I am. Can we reconsider my previous question?” I’m so wrapped up that I don’t even remember the previous question, so Josiah kindly calls it back. “What would you say to her if she apologized again?”
“I’d say I’m not ready to forgive her just yet, but that I want to.” This might be the biggest realization I’ve come to in this office, which is saying something.
