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“But…” Bradley could still feel himself resisting her logic, wanting to hold on to his doubts, as if he needed them for protection. “You said this kind of behaviour is common for people with trauma. I haven’t experienced any trauma.”
“Trauma isn’t an experience, Bradley. It isn’t an event. A hundred people could survive the same natural disaster, and not everyone will be traumatized by it. Trauma is your body’s somatic reaction to an experience, not the experience itself. And we’ve uncovered in therapy that you feel a lot of intense anxiety—a particular fight-or-flight response—following certain emotional triggers. You have this underlying sense of unworthiness interwoven with your struggles with addiction. And now that your day-to-day has been stabilized, I’m hoping we might work out what exactly defines these underlying triggers to see if we can’t find a root cause—”
“My father.” The answer popped from his mouth like it had been waiting there.
“Your father,” Nadia Rahi breathed out. Bradley heard the pride in her voice. Perhaps she’d suspected the truth for a while and was just waiting for him to catch up. “The world can be a pretty toxic place for men who don’t fit into a certain box, particularly if they have a primary caregiver reinforcing those beliefs. And let me tell you, Bradley, it’s a very, very small box. Almost no one fits into it. You have absolutely no reason to feel ashamed of who you are.”
Her words settled on his shoulders, pressing them down, releasing tension. He had the sudden urge to unabashedly fill his shelves with romance novels, and carve pretty things, and—
Dr. Rahi’s tone abruptly changed. “Which is what I wanted to talk about in January. Shit. We really shouldn’t be having this conversation right now. I haven’t prepped. I don’t have my notes with me. Did I mention the eggnog?”
Bradley smiled. “You’re doing a pretty good job, regardless. Thank you.”
She sighed. “You’re welcome, Bradley. Now I really do have to go. You’ll be okay until I get back?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Take it slow. Maybe take a step back from this new relationship for now. If she’s really the one for you, she’ll wait a couple weeks, especially if you explain it to her in full. Because if you do want the love you deserve, then you’re going to have to let people see all of you, your generosity as well as your flaws. We’ll work on that together. And then, in January, maybe you two can start over.”
Start over. The thought was appealing, sweet like hot cocoa, except the mug felt out of reach. “But how do you do that, exactly? Just…start over?”
“You restart the relationship the way most relationships start. You take her out for a cup of coffee.”
“Coffee?” It sounded so simple. So achievable.
“And remember, Bradley, the only real difference between an addiction and a passion is that an addiction brings negativity to one’s life, while a passion brings joy.”
DEVRA
David passed her the cranberry sauce still marked by the shape of the can. A scraggly pine tree sat poorly decorated in the corner. Some distinctly non-Christmasy Michael Bublé played in the background—a musical compromise. Baby steps.
“The turkey is delicious,” Papa announced, even though it was, in fact, very dry. It didn’t matter. The food was whatever, but the company was fantastic, their smiles genuine, the laughter frequent.
David regaled them with humorous tales of his dating app escapades over the past couple years, and while he was no closer to his on-again-off-again goal of finding “the one,” he was getting good material for his songwriting. He described a busy love life Devra hadn’t known he possessed. She supposed her obsession with her sorrows might have made it difficult for him to share his own ups and downs with her, a regret she was remedying as they spoke.
Papa informed them of his latest visit to the doctor. His encouraging prognosis. For once, Devra chose to believe him, to choose moderate optimism over certain doom.
At five o’clock, the sky began to dim, yellow streaks turning orange and spilling in through the window where she’d pulled the curtains wide, welcoming the outer world into her home. The three of them donned their coats and toques and scarves in the excited yet nervous manner of those preparing for a life-changing ceremony. They stepped into the backyard, where fluffy clouds were dusting their city in a thin layer of snow.
Devra held the translated copy of Potestas Maleficarum Mallei open in her shaky hands. She recited the forgiveness chant, carefully enunciating each word. On her second recitation, her speech found its rhythm and grew in volume, the words flowing out, containing a power her logical mind couldn’t begin to comprehend but her open heart fully embraced. The clouds above her changed shape, a gap appearing as snow fell all around but not directly on her. After the third and final repetition, she closed the book and held it tight to her breastbone. She stopped reading lines and spoke from the heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry for your suffering. I’m sorry for my part in its making.” She spoke to the animal’s spirit, to the sky, but she spoke to herself as well. An apology with layers, with the strength and intent to overcome a lifetime of wrongs. “I understand what loss is.” It was the absence of love. Even if love surrounded her, was right there for her to grab, if she never reached out, it would never be hers to hold. “And so, to show my sincerest regrets, I offer you this sacrifice.”
Shades of blue and pink appeared above her, clinging to the underbelly of the clouds. Devra knelt and thrust a serrated trowel into lightly frozen soil and created a small hole for something new to grow. After, she stood and took the scissors from Papa’s hand. He bowed his head, allowing her to cut free a tiny lock of his thinning hair. Then a lock from David. And one from herself. With tears in her eyes, she placed these “pieces of her heart” into the dirt. A strand laid at weeping feet.
Only when the time came to replace the soil, to end this ceremony and, with it, her curse, did her breathing grow unsteady. She stood motionless. Would it be enough? It didn’t feel like enough. Years of pain ending with a few tufts of hair buried in her backyard. It wasn’t going to work. She was being foolish. This would never—
A familiar hand brushed against her own.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Bradley,” she whispered without looking over.
“Are you ready to finish this?” he asked.
She nodded. Her tears fell freely to the ground, mingling with the soil.
Devra lowered to her knees and scooped a handful of the loosened dirt, and then another, and then—“Wait.” Standing abruptly, she turned to face him. She took in his watery blue eyes, his supportive yet strained smile, the deep wrinkles around his mouth. His skin was a combination of smooth slopes and rough patches. Not perfection, as she’d once thought, but wonderful all the same.
