“I know you want to feel wanted, Katherine. For someone to choose you. And I’m sure it would be even better if it was the one person you’ve wanted since you were a baby, but life just isn’t that way sometimes.” She speaks so matter-of-factly, like she hasn’t just gutted me with the truth. “Your mom will always be your mom, and I think the best thing you can do for yourself is to accept that. And then focus on the people in your life that do want you.”
I scoff again, because that’s the mature response right now.
“I’m serious,” she says. “You have so many people who see the real you, all your faults and quirks. Your bright shoes and crazy hair. We see all of it and still want you. You are cherished by more people than you realize, and if you get over this thing with your mom, you might be able to see that.”
“Being wanted by my seventy-eight-year-old lola and my crazy aunts and uncles isn’t much to write home about.” I curl my knees into my chest and hug them tight.
“There’s more than that, and you know it.”
“Benny is old enough now, so he’s grouped in with the uncles.”
She rolls her eyes and waves me off. “I’m telling you, if you opened your eyes, you’d see who I’m talking about. And you wouldn’t have to stress about these little boys on these apps either.”
What does she mean by that?
Chapter thirty-one
Malcolm
“How are you doingtoday?”
“Fine,” I say, which is the truth. I’m fine. Aside from the fact that I spent multiple hours of my day yesterday looking at sparkles and lace, then I had to endure a tiny woman poking me with safety pins to get thingsjust right,I am peachy. “Today is fine.”
I sit across from Dr. Ford in this sterile room full of muted tones that are probably meant to be soothing for troubled minds like mine. But I just find it annoying. Get a plant or something, lady. I fidget with a loose thread on the chair, feeling a little on edge as the clock ticks by overhead.
Alright, maybe I’m not fine. If I’m being honest, I woke up distracted, grappling with emotions I can’t quite pinpoint.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She doesn’t look up from her notepad. She rarely ever does. Her demeanor is much harsher than Ellie’s, which is probably why I get along with her so well. If I have even an inkling of self-pity, Dr. Ford sets me straight, reminding me that pity is usually self-induced and projectedonto others. And the only person I have to blame for those feelings is myself.
Do I pity myself? Unfortunately, yes. I’m hung up on a woman who views me as a friend. I’m just as much an option to her as Bill is. And I keep thinking about the loss of Brennan. He’s been gone for eight years, but the memories are fresh and raw. Most of my days I can get through without thinking about him. Most days, I feel at peace with the loss. But then, on the rare occasion, I’m triggered by a sound or a smell, and it feels like I can’t escape it, like my brain truly is my own worst enemy, and I’m suffocated by the memory of my friend. His laughter echoes in the corners of my mind—a gutting reminder of his life cut too short.
You can fight in a million battles, coming out the other side, but there are still wounds from it. Some you can’t see. And some never leave, surging forth with new intensity when you least expect it. I’ve grown to accept that the wound of losing Brennan might never fully leave me, and even after all these years, the memory of him will always be lingering in the back of my mind, waiting to be triggered and let loose. I’ll probably be eighty years old, sitting in my recliner for my afternoon nap, and it’ll hit me—tormenting me, clawing at me to be relived. That’s just the way it is.
“Not really,” I finally respond.
She eyes me, speculating, probably aware that I just had a mini therapy session in my head. That’s usually how this goes. Prying me for information never goes well, hence I don’t see Ellie for this sort of thing. I’m also pretty sure that’s a conflict of interest, no matter how often she tells me she can be professional.
“Do you know what today is?”
I didn’t expect to be quizzed on the date when I walked in here.
“It’s Thursday,” I grumble. She looks at me over her glasses, waiting. “Uh…the 18th?” Her eyes soften as she pulls her glasses off, letting it sink in. April 18th.
The anniversary of Brennan’s death.
Eight years.
Dr. Ford’s voice is a distant murmur as I drift further into the memory, watching the helicopter collide with the ground, engulfing itself and its one passenger in flames on impact. I can feel the heat burning my face and neck, the breath in my lungs constricting, my heart racing. Everything around me starts to spin. I can see Dr. Ford’s mouth moving, her posture changing, but I can’t make out what she’s saying to me.
Slamming my eyes shut, I breathe in for three and out for three, just as instructed in the past. It does nothing, and now my head is pounding. I feel my chest heaving as Brennan’s face flashes in my mind, his dorky smile and kid-like stature. The image is haunting and suffocating. I try to breathe again, a little longer this time.
I hear Dr. Ford’s voice become clearer, her words ringing in my ear. “Focus on something else, something peaceful.” She lists off the typical peace-inducing scenes—a waterfall, a river, meditating in the green grass. In theory, they would work, but my mind focuses on something else.
Kate’s face flashes into focus like a beacon, dissipating the darkness swirling around me. Her dark-brown eyes flicker at me, pools of warmth and understanding, anchoring themselves to me and holding me stable. Her gentle hands hold me as I tremble, confidently and without fear, like seeing me this way doesn’t scare her. “You can get through this,” she whispers to me. Looking into her eyes, I know I’m not alone. Everything that haunts me fades. The ghosts of my past lose their power when she’s near.
I realize, with sudden clarity, that she is the reason I’ve made it this far. Not the only reason, but one of the biggest reasons I’ve found any sort of healing at all. Dr. Ford is great and all, but Katehas been a lifeline in a sea of thundering emotions—a glimmer of hope, as cheesy as that sounds.
My breathing stabilizes, and my heart slows. “Kate,” I whisper, almost to myself. “That’s my peace. She is my peace.”
