Page 8 of If We Say Goodbye
“Do you want my honest advice?” Dr. Beckett asks.
“Yes. Why do you think I’m paying you?”
“Your whole family just went through something very traumatic. Each of you is learning to cope with the loss and is each experiencing the stages of grief differently. Becca isn’t ready to talk about it yet, and until she is, these visits aren’t going to be very productive. She’s still processing losing her brother, so instead of trying to force her back to her normal self, give her some time. Look for ways that you can be understanding toward the way she’s feeling. If you are, she may be more willing to open up to you.”
I chuckle, knowing how Mom is about to react.
“I’ve been nothing but understanding,” Mom says. “What I’m hearing is that you aren’t very good at your job. We won’t be making any further appointments with you.” Flustered, she rushes out of the room with her cheeks brighter than her lipstick. She takes my arm and pulls me with her down the hallway. “I’m going to find you another therapist.”
I smile softly as she leads me away because I know that I won’t have to come back here anymore. But my smile doesn’t last because I also know that, as soon as we get home, she’ll start reading online reviews of local therapists. She’s sorely mistaken if she thinks she can find a therapist I’ll actually talk to. No amount of talking will ever change the fact that my brother is dead, so what’s the point?
There isn’t one.
* * *
The entire way home,I listen to music through my headphones. My headphones are almost an extension of me. I don’t go anywhere without them because I never know when noises will become overwhelming. Sometimes, I wear them without even listening to music. They ward off anyone that might want to strike up a conversation. They’re practically a do not disturb sign.
I keep my eyes closed and don’t open them until the car stops in front of our house.
I focus on my tennis shoes against the pavement and walk on autopilot toward the door. Just a couple more steps, and I can be alone.
A tap on my shoulder causes me to skid to a stop. I spin around.
Caleb stands there with another homework packet. He’s talking, but I can’t hear him. I pull my headphones off, letting them rest on my neck.
“You’ll like the math assignment from today,” he says.
“Why?” I mumble, snatching the packet.
“Because it drained my soul.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
He makes a face.
Mom appears around the other side of the car with the bag of groceries she picked up after leaving Dr. Beckett’s office. “Caleb, how are you?”
I cringe.
“Pretty good. Oh, I’ll carry that inside for you,” he says, holding out his hands.
“Thank you,” Mom says, handing him the bag. “I swear you grow another inch every time I see you.”
He laughs. “My mom says the same thing.”
“How is your mom? I hardly see her.”
“She’s pretty busy with work,” Caleb says.
Mom nods. “Well, we should have you guys over for dinner sometime soon.”
“I’m sure she’d love that.”
Mrs. Park is one of the hardest working people I know. Ever since her husband died, she’s worked two jobs. She’s a realtor but also works at a department store most evenings.
That’s why I’m surprised to see her car in the driveway next door.
Caleb hurries ahead, and I follow him. He slips off his shoes and carries the groceries to the kitchen.