Page 13 of All the Broken Pieces: Vol. 2

Chapter 9

Dr. Patel steeples his fingers, then asks calmly as he watches for my reaction. “Are you a liar, Abby? Is it possible you’re lonely and need the attention? After everything you’ve been through—”

My eyes narrow into thin slits and very pointed words form in my mind. I bite them back as I rise and grab my purse. Cutting him off, I spit out, “I suspect you already know the answer to that question. I also suspect you know that it’s difficult to lose a loved one, so when social media starts reviving their account to make them appear alive—it’s more difficult than you can comprehend. You’ve not sustained this type of loss, not in this culture. It will happen to you one day and when it does, you’ll be met with jeers and ridicule rather than empathy because that’s what you doled out!” I’m across the room, hand on the doorknob, when he speaks.

“Abby, I had to ask.” He calls out after me. “Please understand that I needed to make sure you’re safe when you leave my office.”

My palm is still attached to the knob when I look over my shoulder and glare at him. “You didn’t have to say it like that.”

“Yes, I did. I needed to see an emotional reaction that was the correct level, considering the stimulus. Abby, Ms. Sabba.”

“Don’t call me that—”

“Please,” his voice softens, pleading with me, “sit down. I need to explain something to you.”

Part of me wants to say “fuck you,” walk out the door, slam it, and never come back. But his reply seems so rational and the lack of emotion coming from him now makes me think this isn’t bullshit. Besides, I’d storm out of his office only to call an Uber and wait on his curb. Swallowing my pride, I turn and retake my seat on the couch, clutching my purse on my lap. My spine is ram-rod straight and my face is blank.

Dr. Patel puts his notebook down and catches my eye. “Abby. You’re at a dangerous junction between being able to distinguish reality from memories. The lines bleed together in your grief, and to some extent that’s anticipated and helps one achieve normalcy. Eventually it recedes when the person’s grief fades and the memories are clear and have a sense of nostalgia with them. The memories are recognized as distant recollections of the past and embraced as such.”

“I know what a memory is.” I glare at him, defensive to the core.

He nods, not unkindly. “Have your nightmares stopped?”

I don’t answer. I just stare at him and breathe, wishing to God I was stronger than this weak woman I’ve become.

He nods slowly, in that bobble-head way of his. “It’s to be expected. You endured a traumatic experience. You lost your husband in the process, and your best friend died a few months prior. The support system you’d seek at times like this is missing. The human mind is a complex thing. It will create what it needs most, and you need a close friend, someone who understands you.”

I counter, “I have Tim. I have Vi.”

“Do either of them have a similar relationship to what you had with Zach or Zara?”

“No two friendships are the same.” I know what he’s getting at, and that intentionally being obtuse won’t help matters.

“Rightly so. No two people are the same. However, you’ve sustained a great loss. To function at any level, you’ve most likely pushed away those who were close to you and could have filled that role.” He pauses for my response, but when I say nothing he continues. “Lean on them more. Force yourself to do it, otherwise you won’t like the road you’re headed down.”

“I can’t. I—” I’m about to make really good reasons why I’m not up to being vulnerable with more people when he cuts me off.

“You must. And there is one other thing I want you to do for yourself, to avoid the path you’re straying toward. You must be able to recognize what is real and what is not. Memories are not real. They can seem real, but they are not tangible in the present. Do you understand what I mean?”

I glare at him. “Yes.” I’m not an idiot. That picture was there.

“When memories appear while you are awake, and seem to be real, I want you to identify them, spell them out in your mind, and then decide—real or not real? If it is not real, take the thought, the memory, and mentally cross it out. Let’s practice. Imagine a pet you had as a child. Can you do that?”

I don’t want to do it, but I comply. “Yes. Cheri. My poodle.”

“Can you see her coat, the way it shines? Can you feel her curly mane and catch her scent?”

I nod. “Yes, it’s there.”

“Good. Good. Now, spell her name in your mind. Then take a thick black marker and cross her name out. Cross out the thoughts of her scent, her coat, her breath on your face. Do you see it?”

“I see it.”

“Cross it out. Push the thoughts back into the slot of your mind reserved for memories.”

I’m there with her, on the staircase of my parent’s house before they passed away. I’m with my poodle, and laying my head on her side as we watch mom cook dinner in the kitchen. I can smell Cheri’s strawberry shampoo, feel her curly coat as I twist it around my finger, and her warm doggie breath against my cheek.

I nod when I’ve done it. “How is this supposed to help me?”