“You’re late.” Dr. Prozac didn’t like to be kept waiting. It was a fact that I could never quite wrap my head around. I mean, he got paid regardless of how long I sat in that sagging chair. He should have been happy when I strolled in ten minutes late.
“Sorry, this was all kind of last minute.”
“You didn’t want to come today?” His brow furrowed in a way that was meant to convey an interest in my response.
I shrugged in a way that was meant to convey my complete disinterest in this entire visit.
“Your parents are worried that Alistair’s death is going to cause you to regress.”
Ah, the old pretend-to-lay-all-your-cards-on-the-table trick. A year ago, this might have worked. I might have trusted him. But this wasn’t my first rodeo.
“My parents have nothing to worry about.” Yet. I added the word silently in my head, but I might as well have said it. Even Dr. P. in all of his pomp and jackassery heard it.
“Ah, well, it’s important to remember where you’ve been, Kate. You have come such a long way in the time we’ve gotten to know each other. You must let yourself feel, let yourself grieve, let yourself remember.”
“Right. Got it.” I gave him a little salute hoping that these were his parting words of advice. And I had to admit, he kind of had a point. Part of me had to go back to where I was when Grace died over a year ago. I had to go back there so I could help Bradley through this. And maybe there was value in going through it all a second time. Maybe this time around, I’d do it right.
“Practice makes perfect.” I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. Dr. P. looked up from whatever he was scribbling on his pad of paper, took his glasses off, and looked at me closely.
“That’s not quite what I meant, Kate. Grief isn’t a linear process. It goes in fits and starts; it zigs and zags.” He leaned forward and rubbed his chin. “Let yourself feel. Let yourself grieve. Perhaps even take this time to help someone else work through their own feelings. Learn to be a friend.”
And just like that, my bizarre relationship with Bradley Farrow got the Dr. P. crazy-pants stamp of approval. His secretary already had my follow-up appointment scheduled and scrawled onto a white business card that she handed me on my way out the door, just like all the other times. But as I pocketed the card and pushed through the heavy glass door into the bright spring sunshine, something felt different. I couldn’t be sure whether I was zigging or zagging, and there was no doubt the spring air was charged with a sense of change, but Dr. P. was wrong. I was feeling and I was grieving. That’s exactly how I ended up here in the first place.