And so it began. Every time we met, Rory checked in with me on various points of concern. Was I driving? Was I sleeping? What was I eating? Was I going to therapy? And so on.
“Define ‘much’?”
He eyed me. “As much as you want to.”
“Yes. I drive when I want to.”
“Have you been exercising?”
“I always exercise.”
“Going to therapy?”
“Yes and no. I don’t like the new doc.”
Hetsked, like this was expected. “You rarely do.”
“None of them are you. You left impossible shoes to fill.”
“You bonded to me when you were young and in need of guidance,” he said lightly, downplaying his role in saving my life. “You need to give them a chance.”
“Which is why you never let me tell you who I’m seeing,” I poked. Rory refused to let me utter the name of any mental health professionals I saw. He had bad opinions of many of them and didn’t want that to taint my experience, he said.
“Whoever it is,” he said mildly, “give it time. It took you a damn long time to listen to me.”
“I remember.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“About as well as you are.” Ever since chemo last year, the man barely slept. It was like he didn’t want to sleep anymore, now that he’d been face to face with his mortality. Maybe he didn’t want to miss anything.
I couldn’t say I blamed him.
My own sleep issues were something else, though.
“Are you avoiding it?”
I knew what he meant; he wanted to know if I’d been avoiding sleep to avoid the nightmares. But I deflected. “Are you?”
He gave me a disapproving look. He’d been much more tolerant of my backtalk in therapy. As a kid, he’d let me get away with a lot of shit in the name of trying to help me. But that look said we both knew my attitude should’ve improved by now.
“Are the dreams getting any better?”
I wandered over to the sitting area, one of the cushioned chairs arranged under a fluttering array of dreamcatchers, and sat down. “They never get better. You know that. They only get less frequent.”
“Last time I saw you—what was it, a few weeks ago? You were doing well. But last week on the phone you sounded… detached. Distant.”
“I was probably playing guitar.”
“It concerned me.”
“You don’t need to be concerned. Should I be concerned that you’re not sleeping? You look like shit.”
“So do you.” He eyed me. “What have you been up to lately?”
Subtle. He’d probably already read the rumors about my band falling apart.
I hesitated to answer. I wasn’t sure what he’d make of it, which made me hesitate to tell him what was on my mind. Because he’d be able to make of it things I couldn’t. He saw patterns, saw reasons and answers, cause and effect, in so many ways that I never could.
