I confide everything to Rocky on our road trip. Of course I wait until we’re alone in our hotel room, because I don’t want anyone else to hear.
Rocky is sympathetic, but I can tell from the expression on her face that she is shocked at what I did.
And I regret it too. I know how sensitive Noah is about being used for his family, his appearance, and his money. And yet I asked for money.
Desperately trying to get her on my side, I add, “He thinks there’s something wrong with me, isn’t that dumb? Before Christmas, he told me I should go for therapy. Can you believe it? That’s so California.”
Rocky shakes her head. “I went when I was twelve or thirteen. My mother was worried that I was getting an eating disorder.”
“Seriously? You’re so gorgeous and healthy.” Rocky is strong, beautiful, and confident in her appearance. She’s the last person I would think of having an eating disorder.
“I was always the biggest and tallest. My parents encouraged my hockey. To make me see my size as an advantage. And the therapist helped too.”
I’m still thinking this over, when she adds, “You’re not crazy if you go to therapy. Sometimes you just have one problem you need help with.”
“It sounds like you think I should go too,” I say.
She nods. “Remember, I suggested it to you after your father died.”
I had forgotten about that until now. “Was that because you thought I needed it?”
Rocky sits beside me on the bed and drapes an arm over my shoulder. “Yes. You were in a lot of pain. And hockey used to be an escape for you, but it wasn’t anymore.”
Of course, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to connect the decline of my on-ice play to my father’s stroke. First, I thought it was because I was missing some practices and games to be with him. Then after his death, I chalked it up to grief. But now, two years later when even my mother is dating again, what’s my excuse?
“Jeremy and I broke up too,” Rocky confides, but she’s not upset at all.
“What happened?” I ask.
“One night he was struggling to open a jar, so I did it for him. That hurt his male pride, and he kept trying to prove he was better than me in other ways. I’ve got no time for that shit.”
I wish I had Rocky’s self-confidence. Of course, she is both strong and smart, so Jeremy has zero chance of being “better.”
We’re playing Merrimack that night, and I’m starting. I’ve been feeling really good about my game, but now I wonder how long that can continue without Noah’s coaching. But I remember his advice to concentrate on winning every shift and not worrying about the big picture. Getting to play is better than having to sit around thinking about how I messed up with Noah.
We lose 5—2. Losing fits my mood anyway. Afterwards, we all go out to dinner and to my shock, Helen nabs the seat beside me.
“Did you and Noah break up?” she asks me.
I am in complete shock. There is no way she could know this. Only Rocky knows and she would never tell. Unless—horror of horrors—Noah has already asked Helen out. Then I realize how ridiculous that is. He wouldn’t do that. And if he did, Helen wouldn’t wait to ask me for confirmation, she’d be jetting back to Burlington immediately. More likely Helen has a secret surveillance system that tells her the moment he’s single.
“Are you going to answer me or what?” she says.
“What would make you say that?” I hedge.
She holds up her phone. “He messaged me to ask if you were okay. Why wouldn’t he message you directly?”
I stare at her phone as if it’s a message straight from Noah. Even after I’ve acted like an insane person, he still cares about me and this gives me a tiny glimmer of hope. Maybe he’ll be there when I get home, and we can piece things back together.
“It’s complicated,” I tell Helen.
She blows out a raspberry of disgust.
When I get home from my road trip, the first thing I see is the empty space where Noah used to park his car. When I go inside, his bedroom is empty. There are no clothes or laptop and no family photo. The bed is stripped, and his clean linens are folded and stacked on top. I pick up his towel and hold it to my face, but the heady scent of Noah has been replaced by fake spring breeze. There’s an ache deep inside me and I wonder if it will ever go away.
My mother tells me the details over our lonely Sunday dinner.
“Noah’s living in the hockey house until the end of the month and then moving into an apartment in Burlington.” Of course, my mother manages to add a note of envy to that sentence since she too would like to move into an apartment in Burlington.
When I don’t respond, she goes on, “We’re getting someone to look after the farm on the weekends that you’re away. A retired man named Bert Huskins. He came by this weekend, and Noah took him through everything. He used to work on a farm, so he said it’s a piece of cake. Nice fellow.”
“How are we paying for this?” I ask.
“Noah is paying,” she replies.
“No. No way. We’re not taking charity from him.”
This is so typical of rich people. They use money as a solution for everything. I hate the money. If Noah hadn’t gotten all that money, he wouldn’t have been able to do all these things. He’d still be here. But I realize how unfair this is. Even if Noah still had to live here, we wouldn’t be going out anymore. I pushed him away—even though it was the last thing I wanted, and I need to figure out why.
“I told him we would find a way to manage, but he insisted. He said he’d feel too guilty leaving me with all the extra work.”
Leaving her? What about me, I want to say. But he’s right: while I’m away, it’s my mother who has to pick up the slack.
“He’s a very good person, Zoe,” my mother says.
Why is she torturing me? I know how good he is. Because that’s the best thing about Noah. Yes, he’s crazy handsome, but he’s also sweet, funny, and moral. Maybe that’s our real problem; he’s so amazing that I could never understand what he was doing with me.
“Did he seem unhappy when he left?” The desperate question escapes me before I can stop it.
My mother reaches over and strokes my shoulder. “Well, you know how Noah is. He keeps his emotions locked up pretty tight. But he’s certainly not the happy person he was before Christmas.”
Christmas, when I first started down my path of jealousy and self-doubt. I really hate myself for messing up the most wonderful thing in my life.
“Maybe you should talk to him. Patch things up?” my mother suggests.
I shake my head. It’s not possible.
That night, when I fall into bed, I’m exhausted but I can’t sleep. I keep remembering ways I lashed out at Noah. Why did I do that? Was I pushing him or testing him? Or am I punishing myself?
When I wake up in the morning, I’m sure of one thing. There’s something wrong with me, and I can’t go on like this. I’m going to do what both Noah and Rocky suggested: get help.
After practice, I head over to the student counseling center. It’s quite benign. Nobody points a finger and accuses me of not being able to handle my life. I fill out a form with all my personal details.
“Is this urgent?” the woman at the front asks.
I’m not sure how to answer this question. In one way, it’s not urgent because I’ve been carrying my issues for two years. But in another way, it is urgent because I feel so desperate.
“Sort of,” I say. “I mean, don’t bump anyone for me, but sooner would be better.”
She half-smiles. “Don’t worry, we don’t bump patients. Zoe. But you’re in luck. Lorraine just had a cancelation.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Lorraine’s office.
“Hello, Zoe,” she says. “Nice to meet you. Please have a seat.”
I wonder which chair to take. Will it say something about me if I sit closer to her? I choose the bigger, softer chair.
Although I’m nervous, I appreciate Lorraine’s calm and matter-of-fact manner. She looks to be in her thirties, and I like that too. I want someone experienced, but not someone my mother’s age in case she’s going to judge me.
“How are you doing today?” she asks.
“Good.” I feel impatient. I don’t want to go through all the polite getting-to-know each other conversations. I don’t have time to go to therapy for years like people in indie movies. Besides, getting to the point is my style.
“I’m having problems dealing with my father’s death.”
Lorraine nods. My confession hasn’t fazed her. “When did he die?”
Then everything pours out of me: my father’s stroke, his restricted life after that, and his death. How close we used to be, and my work on the farm. As I speak, I’m aware of how easy it is to shape the narrative and present myself as the most reasonable, hard-working person. But I try to be honest.
I haven’t even gotten to my arguments with my mother before she gently interrupts me.
“I’m sorry to say that our time here is up. I would like you to come back and I have a bit of reading I’d like to offer you in the meantime.” She pulls a couple of brochures out of her file cabinet.
I look down at the brochures which are about grieving and meditation. We set up an appointment for next week.
I thank her and leave, but the whole time I’m thinking, is that it? I thought she’d end the session with some great insights about what’s wrong with me, or more importantly how to fix me. But I did most of the talking.
Still, as I make my way across campus, I realize that I do feel better. In the same way that talking to Noah used to make me feel happier, talking to Lorraine was a relief. I got to tell her some bad things about myself and not feel any judgement. In fact, she didn’t even seem shocked.
In our second session, I describe the arguments with my mother. And this time, Lorraine asks a few questions.
“Can you describe what a normal day is like for you?”
I sketch out my day in the briefest terms.
“That’s a lot of work,” she observes. “Did you read the information I gave you last week?”
I nod. I read it but I didn’t start meditating or anything.
She gives me a kind smile. “Zoe, I really urge you to be gentle with yourself. Sometimes we keep busy when we don’t want to be alone with our thoughts—especially the unhappy ones. But having time for contemplation is important. You need to remember your father in spiritual ways too.”
Again I leave with that feeling that we’re not really getting anywhere. It feels good to tell Lorraine about the things that bother me, but I certainly don’t feel cured in any way. It’s not like physio at all.
“You don’t get better after one or two sessions,” Rocky tells me as we head to the arena for gym time. “Keep going. Eventually you’ll have a breakthrough.”
“How can you promise that? Even my counselor says that the process is different for everyone.”
Then we look up and notice Noah and Paul Wagner walking towards us. We can’t detour off the shoveled pathway without sinking into a foot and a half of snow, so I’m fated to meet up with the one person I’ve avoided like crazy since we broke up.
Of course, I’ve wanted to see him, and although my brain is screaming “no eye contact,” I look at him. Because I’m worried. Has he been getting enough sleep in the hockey house? And how well is he eating, because he can’t cook?
He’s as handsome as ever. He’s wearing his warm jacket and a Bulls beanie instead of the crappy one I knitted. But he looks tired; there are shadows under his eyes. His expression is stern.
Our eyes meet, and this jolt goes through me. I have so much regret for the way I acted when he came back from the holidays. It’s like I did everything I knew he would hate, but that makes no sense at all. We were so happy before Christmas, and he was so happy when he got back—so all the misery was on me.
I’m positive I see Noah wince. Does the very sight of me bother him now?
“Hi there,” Rocky says in her cheerful way.
“Hey, guys,” I manage to squeak out.
“Hi, Marie Josée. Zoe,” Paul says as they step aside to let us pass. Noah says nothing but nods his head.
We proceed on. I allow myself to turn around and look at him once more. I take in his broad back, his athletic stride, and even his familiar boots. It hurts so much to see him and have him be so distant. But what else can I expect?
Rocky stops suddenly, and I crash into her.
“Sorry,” I say.
She shrugs. “If you weren’t so busy gawking at Noah, you would have seen me. You’re still crazy about him, so why don’t you ask him to get back together?”
“I can’t.” Nothing has changed about my insecurities and issues. I’m sure he appreciates life away from the farm. And we have no future together. He’s going off into the world, and I’m staying right here.
But for once, the idea of the farm isn’t so comforting anymore.