“Let’s go,” he says, stepping out of the truck. He’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m following him into whatever this place is.
“Tell me what this is, AJ,” I demand as he opens my door. “Quit it with the bullshit.” I’m losing steam and I can see he’s only gaining more of it.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Choice is yours,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, I’m not walking into some deserted building just because you want to threaten me.”
I remain seated in the truck as he smashes his fist down on the roof. “Fine.” He pushes off of the truck and walks off and into the building, leaving me sitting here watching and waiting for him to come back out. I glance around, looking for a sign or a hint of where we might be, but there’s nothing.
Since he took the keys with him, I close the door, trying to lock in some of the remaining heat.This is stupid. Yanking my phone out of my coat pocket, I check it to make sure I haven’t gotten any messages from the school about an early dismissal.
Nothing yet.
With my phone blaring in my face, I tap on the text message app and thumb in a quick note, hoping for a response this time.
Me: Ari, I really need to talk to you.
The message falls below the last five messages I sent over the past few weeks. I’m beginning to assume she gave me a bogus phone number just to shut me up. I’m not sure she was planning to offer me her number, but I asked. She definitely battled with a moment of internal debate before finally offering it up.
I hold my focus on the message I sent, waiting to see adeliverednote pop up. As I’m waiting, my door reopens, bringing along a drift of snow. A woman stands behind AJ, draped by a down jacket and a black ski hat with her salt-and-pepper-colored hair hanging loosely over her coat. She doesn’t appear cold, annoyed, or uncomfortable while standing behind AJ as he presses his finger against my chest. “Don’t be an asshole.”
AJ moves to the side, allowing the woman into the opening of my door. “Hunter, I’m Amy Torris and I’m a therapist who specializes in helping widowers such as yourself. Your family seems quite concerned with your well-being and I’d love to offer some guidance if you’re open to it.”Does it look like I’m open to it?
He brought me to a goddamn shrink. He out of all people brought me to this chick.Un-fucking-believable. “You don’t have to answer any questions or even talk,” Amy continues. “Maybe you could just come inside for a few? I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing.” Is she trying to lure me in like a creep offering a child candy? Not working.
“You’ve hit rock bottom, Hunt,” AJ chimes in. “Do this for Olive.”Olive. Her name could put me in a hypnotic trance and he knows I will do anything for her. If he’s telling me I’m hurting her, I will do what it takes to undo that. I unclick my seatbelt and step out of the truck, going against everything I want to do in this moment. Passing by the therapist and AJ, I make my way up to the front door of this ratty looking building.
I let myself inside, looking in each direction for which way I should continue walking in. Before I approach the gold-plaque directory on the wall, Amy’s voice interrupts my question. “Take a left and it’s the first door on the right.”
Rather than walking ahead, I allow her to lead the way and AJ follows behind me. Her office looks nothing like the outside of the building. In here, it’s warm, swathed with a bright yellow paint and cream-colored furniture. Magazines line the small tables between each chair and it smells like fresh coffee, just as she promised. “I don’t need therapy,” I warn them both.But maybe I do.
“This doesn’t have to be considered therapy, Hunter. It can be two friends chatting.” Her words are ridiculous, and the meaning behind them is even more ridiculous. People don’t become friends after two minutes, especially when one is forced to meet the other. “Hunter, if you don’t want to talk, you can leave. You have to walk in at your own will.”
“Do it for Olive, Hunt,” AJ says again.
I groan silently and follow Amy through a wooden door that squeaks a melody when opened. AJ remains in the waiting area, leaving me alone with this woman I met ninety seconds ago. As we enter her office, a new scent, which accompanies the roasted coffee, fills my nose. Lavender mixed with lilac, likely aromatherapy oil. Ellie was obsessed with those in the winter since it was as close as she could get to the scent of a flower in the cold months.
It takes me a moment to look around the room noticing the decor is similar to the waiting area, but with the addition of psychiatry degree plaques lining the wall behind her desk. I take a seat on the couch, trying to make myself comfortable, but I notice a box of tissues on the oak coffee table in front of me. Is this woman’s job to make people cry?Maybe I should be a therapist. I make people cry.
“Your family is very worried about you,” Amy begins. “Normally, I don’t work in this fashion since it trifles with the line of patient confidentiality but oftentimes I find that men and women in your situation need a little shove in the right direction.”
“Look, I appreciate you going along with my family’s concerns, but maybe they left out the fact that my wife died over five years ago. This isn’t a new life for me and I’m not crying for help.” A thin line stretches across her mouth. I want to say it’s a condescending look but it’s probably not. “Really, I’m fine.” I wonder if I could send less convincing.
“To be defined as fine is all relative to each person’s thoughts. Would you have considered yourself fine if you looked ahead and saw yourself in this moment ten years ago?” This is a trap. Of course I can’t say yes to this question, which by process of elimination suggests her accusation is true. “Why don’t we go this route? Your willingness to speak with me only for the sake of your daughter tells me that you will do just about anything for her, so we can focus on that?”
While her words float in through my ears and out of the top of my head, I hold my focus on the box of tissues, wondering how many widowers she has spoken to here, how many of them have sat on this couch crying so hard their organs hurt. Widowers know that organs do in fact hurt because our hearts get tired of enduring all of the pain and eventually allow it to spread elsewhere to ease some of the weight.
“I’m not going to pour my heart out to you and tell you all about my daughter and then tell you how sad my life has been for the past five years. I’m not even going to tell you why I’ve been so miserable for the past week. I internalize my thoughts and while it might not be the healthiest method of dealing with problems, it works for me.” I will admit I’m a little shocked to see she isn’t writing down my every word. I’ve been to therapists before, even ones who specialize in widowers. Typically, they start with a pen and paper and jot down every mentionable moment of my life up until the current day. So I’ll give Amy that respect, she’s truly soaking it in rather than creating parts of a research paper on the inner workings of a fucked-up man.
“You don’t have to tell me anything at all,” she says. “Do you have a picture of your daughter on you? AJ told me how adorable she is and now I just need to see for myself.” I know this is another trap but I can never stop myself from showing off Olive. I slip my wallet out of my back pocket and open the flap to pull out the picture I have of her. I lean forward, holding it between my two fingers for Amy to take.
She meets me halfway and slides the photo out of my loose grip. Studying it for a moment, another smile finds her lips. “She looks just like you. I take it your wife must have had the blond hair, though,” she laughs. She laughs because my hair is jet black and Olive’s is so blond it’s nearly white.
“Yes, she’s all Ellie, right down to the words she uses and the way in which she says them.”
“That must be nice,” she offers simply. Again, I expected a: “And how does that make you feel?”but she doesn’t say that.
“It’s a great reminder,” I add in.
