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Quinn had survived the first Monday night of counseling. If clutching Brendan’s pillow, settling into a fitful sleep, and enduring nightmares in droves could be considered surviving. No warmth had greeted her under her white cotton sheets and light-blue duvet, no loving embrace.
She couldn’t get through her workday without hearing Mrs. LaRue’s voice in her head—or without wishing she’d decked the witch. Maybe witch was extreme. Perfect, didn’t she think decking her was extreme? What was wrong with her?
The only person she’d ever hit was Katie Huffington in the eighth grade for making fun of Claire. It had been more of a gentle slap—sort of.
Maybe she should be worried about wanting to inflict pain on an eightysomething widow. Should she add psychiatric help to her grief counseling?
Group hadn’t been terrible. Listening to everyone else’s sob stories, she’d learned she wasn’t alone. Suffering together wasn’t much consolation, but it was a start.
She’d driven home thinking of one lady who’d lost her mother, who also happened to be her best friend. And another lady had lost her husband too. And Nick... Why was she thinking of Nick? Well, he’d been the only person—besides the witch—she’d talked to.
Quinn stowed herself away in her back office, resting her heavy head in her palms, elbows on the desk before her keyboard. Her second cup of coffee wasn’t helping her puffy, droopy eyes. The flower bobblehead on the shelf above her only annoyed. A gift from Claire, of course.
“Well, at least you’re happy.”
The smiley white flower didn’t respond. It never did, only nodded up and down, up and down. If she had the energy, she’d throw it in the trash. But why be angry with a plastic object incapable of feeling? The last of her hazelnut-cream flavored coffee went down in a gulp, and she slunk to the break room for a refill. The red Keurig sat like a shrine on the white Formica countertop.
While Quinn lounged against the counter waiting for the last drops of coffee to eke out, Claire came in, looking like she worked in the White House instead of this little no-name company in downtown Tulsa. Friends since middle school, they’d been in each other’s weddings, in each other’s lives. BFFs and a pinkie promise never to talk about what happened in the bathroom the night of senior prom.
“I’ve been wanting to ask all morning. How did it go last night?”
“Well, it went.”
Nudging Quinn aside, Claire reached into the cabinet above them for her oversized pink mug, its crown and good-to-be-queen comment so like her. She dumped in four caramel macchiato creamer cups, her swaying blond ponytail only serving to waft her overbearing perfume around. “That good, huh? You look like crap by the way.”
Quinn tucked her nose into her generic company mug and sipped her newly brewed coffee. “Mmm. Thanks.”
“Nothing a day at the spa couldn’t fix.” Claire slid her mug under the spout and changed out the pod. She pressed the button and folded her arms across her crisp blue button-up. “Tell me about it.”
With a sigh, Quinn let her head list to the side looking for sympathy. “Maybe grief counseling isn’t for me. I didn’t want to listen to all that pain. And I did not share mine.”
“It was your first session. You didn’t have to talk. And you don’t have to talk at the second or the third. It’s there for you when you’re ready.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready.”
Claire touched Quinn’s arm. “Someday you will be. And when you are, you’ll have those connections, those friends, and they’ll be ready to listen to you.”
“It was nice to see I’m not alone, but I just wanted out.” Quinn toed her sandal on a scuff mark on the linoleum, then rolled her eyes. “Then dummy me left my phone in the room. This guy, Nick somebody, brought it out to me. I was grateful, but...”
“A guy?”
She blinked, her head jerking up. Leave it to Claire. “Yes, Claire, a guy. A man in the same grief counseling room. Just a guy.”
“Was he nice?”
“I guess.” Quinn shrugged. “He gave me back my phone. Just because he’s pretty to look at and has movie-star hair doesn’t mean...”
Uh-oh. Claire’s eyebrows soared. Quinn was in for it. “So he’s good looking?”
Adrenaline and guilt pumped through her. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.”
Quinn opened her mouth and shut it again. Maybe she had. There were a lot of pretty guys in the world. It didn’t make her interested.
“Okay, okay.” Claire raised her hands and waved them in her defense, the charms on her Pandora bracelet rattling. “So he returned your phone.” She picked up her coffee mug and took a drink.
Quinn wanted to skip this part, but it was no good. She’d never forget Mrs. LaRue’s comment. It would always be in the back of her mind reminding her she was alone. “Then this old lady said we looked like a lovely couple.”
Claire almost spewed her more creamer than coffee. “What? Did you punch her?”
“No.” Quinn narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “But I wanted to. She’s like eightysomething. I would’ve killed her.”
“Well, doesn’t sound like she’s far from that anyway.”
They shared one of those best-friend looks and laughed. It helped. That and the coffee starting to take effect.
“You going back next week?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.” She rolled her eyes again. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “And maybe my mother will leave me be for the rest of my life.”
“Fat chance. And neither will I.” Claire clunked her mug on the counter. “Quinn, you have to go back. Give it another try.”
“I know I need to be there, but I don’t want to be.” Quinn clenched her teeth. Even she couldn’t stand the whine in her voice.
“I doubt anyone wanted to be there. Maybe this Nick guy was just being nice and the crypt-keeper lady just needs a friend.” Claire held up a hand, palm forward. “Doesn’t have to be you.”
Despite her flare for the dramatic, Claire’d always been the sensible one. Quinn had been the one with her head in the clouds. Storm clouds, canvas, paintbrushes, Winsor blue, Indian yellow. Her fingers itched to create. She gripped her mug tighter to lose the feeling. She wouldn’t paint. But maybe... next week. Nick was only doing what nice people do, and Mrs. LaRue was reaching out for friends. Overreaching, but reaching.
Their heads jerked toward the door at the sound of their boss looking for Claire. “Gotta run. Love you.”
Quinn’s smile weary, she watched Claire spin around and exit the room, her high heels tapping out a rhythm.
Going back to work, she mulled Claire’s words as the day crept by. When it finally ended, she said goodbye to her coworkers, but as she stepped outside, her smile faded. In the months since the funeral, keeping up her charade added to her exhaustion.
Brendan’s insurance money offered enough for her to live comfortably for years. She didn’t have to work. But she couldn’t paint.
Painting required the ability to feel, and feeling loomed as far away as the horizon. But sitting at home staring at the same four walls had no longer been an option. At least she’d figured that out.
Well, Mom had.
At the three-month mark, she’d slammed into that horizon face-first and lost it. When Claire told her about a job at the small law firm where she worked, Mom insisted she apply.
The job was perfect. No one bothered her, and her tasks kept her mind from wandering. But it didn’t help her fill the time after work.
She began running, working her way up to an hour and a half at a time. After a shower and dinner—no TV—bedtime couldn’t come soon enough.
But at the end of the day, the memories always flooded in.
Brendan’s excitement when building their new home. The rooms they’d fill with children. The many times they’d tried—all unsuccessful. His smile just for her. His warm hand around hers. His touch. As she lumbered down the street to the parking lot, avoiding the gazes of the people she passed, she groaned under the weight of memory.
Within sight of Brendan’s truck, she hit the autostart.
Today was Tuesday—the only day she didn’t run, the day reserved for dinner at her parents’ house. The mandatory check-in. She’d help Mom cook a big meal and take home enough leftovers for a few days. Maybe longer the way she picked at food.
They were excited she’d agreed to go to counseling, thought their baby girl was finally going to get help. What would they say if she decided not to go back?
Who was she kidding? They’d say “try a different group, try one-on-one, try fill-in-the-blank.” They’d come up with something.
And she loved them for it.
Twenty minutes after taking on the five-o’clock traffic, she pulled into the familiar neighborhood where elm trees sheltered spacious yards, and Japanese maples waited for fall to turn their brilliant red. The smell of sprinkler systems and fresh-cut grass competed with the humidity.
Sitting in the driveway, she breathed in a deep breath and practiced her smile as she exhaled. It was forced, but what else could she do? She gave her head a gentle shake and tried again, this time showing her teeth. The lame grin didn’t reach her eyes, but it would have to do.
As she climbed out of Brendan’s truck, a neighbor who probably knew her entire story was standing out in her yard. Quinn waved and practiced her smile one last time, then darted for the front door before she had to stay and chat. Two little girls played in a sprinkler across the street. She slowed, mourning the future that wouldn’t be hers, before prying her gaze from them. Then, as if escaping a heavy rain, she sped away from the bombardment of unhappiness.
She blew through the door as all kids do when coming home. The smell of Mom’s famous meatloaf permeated the house along with something sweet. Her stomach made it known that maybe she wasn’t eating enough.
“Quinn!” Dad rose from the worn brown leather recliner he wouldn’t let Mom replace, clicked off the TV, and wrapped his arms around her. His embrace a comfort, her mask almost slipped. “Come on. Help me set the table.”
“Hi, baby.” Mom stood at the stove in a pair of white capris, long chambray shirt, and squishy flip-flops stirring first the green beans, then the potatoes.
“Hi, Mom.” Quinn hugged her, losing her smile while her face was hidden.
Dad reached into the cabinet for dinner plates, dessert plates, and salad bowls and took them to the table. “How was your day?”
Quinn dug in the silverware drawer, setting cutlery out on their red cloth napkins. “Same as yesterday—felt like Monday all over again.”
“Gotta love Mondays.”
Quinn met his gaze over the table, and they both shook their heads. “Nah,” they sang together.
Mom carried steamy bowls and platters to the table and placed them atop her hand-crocheted pot holders. Then they sat in the chairs they’d occupied for as long as Quinn could remember and held hands while Dad said the prayer.
“Lord, we thank You for this beautiful day and the time we have to come together. Thank You for this fine meal and the hands who prepared it. We pray for Your continued healing. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
Continued healing. Had it even begun? She didn’t want to die so much anymore. That was something. But healing would’ve been easier if God hadn’t ripped Brendan away from her. She shoved the thought away and took the bowl of mashed potatoes from Mom, displaying her practiced grin.
A little green beans, a little salad—she skipped the bread. Mom’s meatloaf was divine as always. Dad had two helpings. If Quinn hadn’t been suffering in silence, perhaps she’d have eaten more. Maybe not.
“Who’s ready for cherry pie?” Mom rose from her seat and retrieved the sticky sweet delicacy from the oven.
“Your mother’s been cooking all day.”
Great. How did one turn down food that’d been slaved over? One didn’t. Another smile.
Cherry sauce boiled through the latticework of the top crust, browned to perfection. If only she could devour a couple slices, but her stomach would make her pay for it later.
“Just a half piece for me.”
Mom cut a smaller piece and dished it out onto her dessert plate, giving Quinn “the look.” She’d be going home with leftover pie.
Dad placed a forkful in his mouth and closed his eyes, humming. “Evelyn, you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Quinn, you should eat more than half a sliver. You’re missing out. Hey, why’d the pie go to the dentist?” He glanced between them and delivered the punch line when they failed to answer. “To get a filling.”
Quinn smiled. Almost a true smile.
Mom laughed and laid her forehead on Dad’s shoulder. “Oh, Pete. That’s awful.”
Quinn’s almost smile became a true one. The first of its kind in a while. “But the pie is good. Thank you, Mom.”
Mom’s laughter and Dad’s deep chuckle were balm for her soul. The cherry pie helped a little too. Maybe being here every Tuesday was helping.
With pursed lips, Mom turned to Quinn. “So how was last night?”
And maybe not.
She told them about Dr. Holiday and some of the people who’d shared their stories, how sad they’d been. She didn’t mention Nick or Mrs. LaRue. They were details of insignificance. Her parents wanted to know she went and that she was going again. They wanted to know she was going to be all right.
She finished her story and took a bite of pie, the sweetness covering the bitterness of the day.
“Sounds like it’s going to be good for you. Maybe you’ll be painting again soon.”
Her gaze jerked back to her parents, the bitter seeping in again. “I can’t.” She schooled her tone. “It brings back too many memories.”
“Memories are good, Quinn. No one’s asking you to forget Brendan. He was here. He was real. And he loved you.” Mom swallowed at the crack in her voice.
Dad reached for her hand and squeezed it, laying his other arm over the back of her chair. They shared a tender smile. A look Quinn would never share with anyone again.
“We loved him,” Mom went on, not dropping Dad’s gaze. “But it’s time for you to move forward. It’s time to live life again.”
Life. It sounded like a foreign country and her without a passport. “I can’t feel anything. I’m so dead inside. I just don’t care.” She reached for her glass and sipped her tea, both to wash down the bite she’d taken and to stifle the tears welling up in the back of her throat. “I’m going to counseling. That can be enough for now.”
Well, that settled it. She was going back next week. Saying it out loud committed her to it and held her accountable. They’d ask, she’d have to tell, so she had to go.
Leftovers—and well over half a pie—packed, hugs and kisses given, and she was on her way home. Maybe they’d have lunch soon. They hadn’t done that since before the accident. Maybe it was time.
Maybe it was time for a lot of things. Quinn shook her head as she turned into her neighborhood. Maybe counseling was working already.
Twilight bloomed, but kids were still outside playing basketball or riding bikes. Being a school night, it wouldn’t be long before their parents called them in. She reached her house as the outside lights blinked on, illuminating the flower beds and the perfectly manicured lawn. One of those extra amenities Brendan had added to make their home perfect. As she turned into her driveway, she clicked the garage door opener. Safe inside, she closed the door, shutting out the world she’d never be a part of.
She grabbed her purse and headed inside, tried not to cry as she passed their picture in the hall that connected the master bedroom to the kitchen. The smiles on their faces had her frowning. Happiness wasn’t something she could think about right now. With it so far out on the horizon, she couldn’t see it. Maybe it was time for a lot of things, but one thing at a time.
Right now, it was time to load the fridge with leftovers and go to bed.
She’d try another counseling session, maybe two, before making up her mind. Next Monday, she’d be sitting in her chair listening. At least when the others were sharing their grief, her mind was off her problems.
And Mrs. LaRue? The old bag—Quinn sighed away her ridiculous thoughts as she brushed her teeth—the nice old lady probably didn’t mean a thing by her comment. Quinn was just on edge, the perfect storm waiting for someone to devour.
And that Nick person. She wouldn’t have to talk to him again. He had only been returning her phone. What a fool she was for thinking he was coming on to her. It’s grief counseling, Quinn. Don’t be a Mrs. LaRue.
She laughed at herself—well, not a real laugh, a choked, strangling sound—crawled into bed, and hugged Brendan’s pillow against her. Talk to no one, and no one would talk to her. She could only hope the world worked that way.
