I sat in the small, stifling room and watched the counselor shift in his chair. First right, then left. He was a man of about fifty. He fidgeted constantly as I shook his hand and sat down.
He pursed his lips, tugged at his hair, crossed and then uncrossed his legs. “Tell me why you came to see me today.”
I put my purse on the floor, smoothed my jeans with the palms of my hands, and crossed my legs. His jitters were catching. “I seem to be having trouble getting over the death of my husband, over a month ago.”
Scooch, smile, pen click, frown.
I cleared my throat. “I haven’t been myself.”
Bum wiggle, foot shuffle, nod, nod, pen click. I wondered if his underwear had recently shifted, making sitting painful. Maybe it was the chair that was uncomfortable.
I watched him pull at his shirt. “Uh, some mood swings too.”
He gave his pen three rapid clicks. “Mmmm, when did you first perceive the problem?”
Perceive? Like maybe I’d been crazy my whole life but just recently noticed. “Like I said, it started after my husband died.”
He squirmed in his seat again. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”
“You know what might help?” I asked.
His face brightened and he leaned forward in anticipation. “What?”
“Bigger chairs.”
“Excuse me?”
I pointed to the chair he was sitting on. “If you got rid of that chair and replaced it with something bigger, maybe something with some extra padding, I bet it would be more comfortable.” I was getting concerned for this man’s health.
He jerked his head around, as if there might be an overstuffed chair lurking behind the draperies. I looked around too, taking in the details of his office for the first time. A battered desk made of particleboard sat at the far end of the room, piled high with file folders. Beside them sat an older-looking computer that hummed quietly, its green light blinking monotonously from its place on the monitor. It wasn’t one of those sleek flat screens; it was fat and squat, taking up half of the desk. Above it was a small window that looked out to the brick wall of the neighboring building.
Aside from the two chairs we were occupying, there was a short, worn sofa pushed up against the concrete block wall. I knew without looking that behind me was an orange room divider—similar to one that could be found in a school classroom—that acted as a buffer between the space where we sat and the door. Nothing about the room spoke of good health, mental or otherwise.
“Once I found a really great swivel chair at a garage sale,” I said. “I paid, like, five bucks for it.”
He nodded gravely, as if I had just revealed important information about my psychological state. “Do you like to go to garage sales?”
“Oh sure,” I said. “I helped a friend of mine furnish almost her entire house by buying things from garage sales. And you’d never know it. It looks great. Not like—” I waved my arm toward his shabby office. “Uh, what I mean is—”
“Not like this. Is that what you meant?” He glanced at his watch.
My hour was up.
The next day, sitting at the kitchen table, I heard a tapping at the door. I looked up from the list I was writing. Blair’s face, framed by the window, peered in.
“Your sister called me a couple of days ago, said you were cracking up,” Blair hollered through the glass. I opened the door for him and he stepped inside. “You look fine to me.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and smoothed my freshly washed hair. I was even wearing a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt. I could pass for positively normal if no one looked too closely. I still hadn’t gone into my bedroom, but I had enough clothes in the laundry to keep me going. I was washing them over and over so I didn’t have to go into my room to get new ones. I was seriously considering running to the Shop ’n Save for underwear.
Blair smiled. “Want to talk about what happened with Heather?”
My mouth quivered, threatening to lead the rest of my face into a crying jag.
Blair put a hand on my arm. “I miss him too, Kate.”
I glared down at my shoes, but I didn’t push his hand away. “Please stop talking.”
“Sure,” he said. “No problem.” He propped himself up against the counter and crossed his arms. His T-shirt rode up to reveal a sliver of taut skin. He looked big and lean and handsome. I noticed his jeans hitched just above his hip bone.
I looked away, feeling the heat rise in my face. “I’m angry.”
Blair looked shocked and then his face went pale. “About what?” He suddenly wouldn’t look at me. His eyes darted around the kitchen.
I gave him a questioning look, but he waved his hand in a “go on” gesture. “I don’t know. I’m mad at my life, at the universe. I’m mad at Kevin,” I said, startled by my own words, but they slid into place like truth.
He looked overly alert, eyes wide and intent, as if trying to interpret a language he had only passing knowledge of. “Mad at Kevin?”
“Yeah. For leaving me.”
His mouth opened, then closed like a drowning fish. Finally he managed a strangled, “What?”
I held my hands out in an empty gesture. I didn’t know how to explain. “I’m mad at him for dying and leaving me alone.”
Blair let out a breath, like he’d been holding it. I supposed it was odd, maybe even improper, to be angry with my dead husband.
“Kate, he didn’t mean to die,” Blair said. “He didn’t plan it. You can’t be angry at him for it.”
I cried. Big, sloppy sobs I couldn’t hold back. Blair’s arms went around me. He pressed me to his chest and held me there. I spilled snot and tears onto his shirt and spoke into his chest. “My whole life was entwined with Kevin’s.”
Blair moved his hands up and down my back. “I know. You guys were great.”
I sniffed. “We were?”
Blair held me away from him. “Of course. You two were the storybook romance. Solid gold.”
Gold? It occurred to me that Blair could fill in some of the missing pieces of my memory. “I quit my job at the bookstore …”
Blair narrowed his eyes into questioning slits. “Yeah. How come you sound like you’re not sure?”
“I am sure. I mean … I just …” He pulled me to him again and made shushing noises. I knew I had quit my job, I was certain of that, but I couldn’t remember actually quitting. Or why I quit. I loved books, and I loved working for the bookstore. What would have caused me to leave a job I loved? And why couldn’t I remember? I pressed my eyebrows together. “I’m just tired. I know I’m not making sense. I’m sorry.”
A soft rumble from somewhere deep in Blair’s chest, the sound of mumbled understanding, of soothing empathy. I pulled away, but Blair caught my waist and wrapped his arms around me like metal bands. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve been going through hell. You’re allowed to not make sense.” He tried to pull me closer, but I stood firm, pushing against his chest. He relaxed his arms and cocked his head to one side. “Let me help you, okay? Talk to me. I promise I’ll just listen.”
I nodded. I so badly wanted to talk to someone about what I had been going through, but it was difficult to find the right words. If he would be patient with me and just listen without interrupting, it would help. “I’m angry about everything and nothing. I don’t even know if anger is the right word. I think I’m fine and then something sets me off, like Heather the other day.” I recalled the red meat sauce oozing down the door and shuddered. “My feelings are right under the skin, right there, ready to come out at the slightest touch.” I touched a finger to my forearm. “I want all of this to stop. And I want everything back that belongs to me.”
“You mean Kevin?”
I nodded. “Kevin and everything else. He’s gone and I can’t remember what happened that day, what we said to one another. Or the day before, or the day before that. It’s as if my memory is missing.”
He cupped my chin with his hand and tipped my head up so our eyes met. “Don’t push yourself, Kate. Losing Kevin was horrible. And sudden. Your mind hasn’t had a chance to wrap itself around what’s happened.” Blair must have taken a few Intro to Psychology courses while he was away at college. His advice was shallow, but it did the trick. I felt a little better.
The soundtrack played in my mind again. Kevin saying, “Don’t wait for me.” I still couldn’t connect to anything else. Just that, his voice, speaking to someone, maybe me, maybe not. Blair was right. My mind hadn’t had time to absorb the shock. Eventually my memories would be restored. Maybe the next counselor could help me with that. I gave Blair a humorless smile. “You’re right. I’ll try to slow down.”
Blair’s gorgeous grin broke out all over his face. “Good. And while you’re at it, stop freaking your sister out.”
I thought about it for a second, then looked up with a small smile. “No promises.”