Blood Sugar(54)

I shook my head and huffed back into the cushions, like a horse rearing up against a stormy wind. I was so tired of talking and listening and feeling. But Alisha was not tired of being the best therapist I would ever know. “Ruby. I would like to talk about your belief that your heightened awareness can keep you and the people you love safe from harm. That the workings of the world lie on your shoulders. You are willingly taking a stance that Atlas was forced to take as the ultimate punishment—the world on your shoulders. You do not deserve to be punished. And you are not a Titan. As you know, you are a human.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Because I felt my little hands wrap around Duncan’s ankle. And I tasted peanuts and cheap milk chocolate on the roof of my mouth. And I heard fat raindrops plop as I lured Evelyn into the street. Proof my vigilance alone could protect me and those I love and make the world a happier place.

Alisha continued, “That belief is a distorted thought. Tragedy and sorrow are a part of life. We can’t prevent them. No matter how smart or strong or brave or vigilant we are. We can only control our reactions to grief . . . Ruby? Where are you? Are you listening?”

I was barely listening. I had heard enough to know that what Alisha was saying to me about Jason’s death was almost the exact same thing I said to Gabrielle about Derrick’s death. And it was frustrating and stifling. Because I couldn’t yet accept it, but I knew it was correct.

The next day Gabrielle sat across from me. She wore a new tight black catsuit that covered every inch of her pale limbs. Her mouth, in deep red lipstick, opened a little, then closed. She did this so many times she reminded me of a goldfish in duress.

I said, “I sense you want to say something to me. But are holding it in.”

She nodded and pursed her red lips. “I went to Hannah’s store this morning. Got this new Vampire in the Sun outfit.”

I dreaded what was about to come next. “It looks amazing on you.”

“Thanks. Um. She mentioned your husband just died. Is that true? Are you okay?”

And my worlds collided again. And the equation of who knew what about my life started to add up. Hannah knew about Duncan, about her dad, of course, and about Jason. Now Gabrielle knew about Jason. My family knew about Duncan and Richard. And Jason. But I never told them about Evelyn W. And some of my colleagues like Dr. Don and, of course, Alisha knew about Evelyn W. dying, and about Jason, but I never told them about Duncan or Richard. Ameena knew about Richard because of her visit to Miami, and she knew about Jason because she was one of my closest friends and I invited her to his funeral. But she did not know about Duncan and Evelyn W. As I shuddered at this math, a new nightmare struck me. Not only might I be hauled off for murdering Jason, but my arrest and, even worse, possible conviction could unearth all my elephants and make them public. Parade them through the streets like the evil circuses I boycotted used to do. My family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, patients, the guy who makes my latte just right at the place down the street, all would know about all four bodies. This thought was so chilling, it briefly pushed out my achy fury that Jason and our life together was gone.

I could see Gabrielle searching my face. Worried that her question had launched me deep into terrible thoughts. Which it had, but not in the way she could imagine.

I answered her. “Yes. My husband died.”

The usual next questions were, “How did he die?” And then, “How old was he?” And then, “Do you have kids?” As though having children would make the tragedy even worse because maybe my own loss wasn’t quite enough. Before she could ask more questions, to spare both of us the back and forth, I told her about Jason being a type 1 diabetic. That he was way too young to die, and it’s horribly sad, but that I’m hanging in there. I was able to remain composed, unlike when I told her Kangaroo had died. I think this was because she was not also sobbing this time. She felt for me, but didn’t have her own emotional connection to Jason. She then said, “I feel weird talking about my problems. Stupid things. When you’re dealing with all this.”

I nodded. “Well, that’s a normal feeling. It means you’re a conscientious, sympathetic, good person. And that feeling is why I’ve kept my husband’s death from my clients. I wish Hannah hadn’t shared it with you, but now that she has, we can talk about it more if you want to. Or we can move on. But please never think of your own problems as stupid. They’re just as valid as anyone else’s. Especially mine.”

I enjoyed being Gabrielle’s therapist and felt if we had met on different terms we could have been friends. She was intelligent, had a sense of humor and a healthy appreciation for irony, was willing to look within, and she was a captivating storyteller. After hours and hours of listening to duller people talk about themselves, it was a relief to know Gabrielle would soon be sitting on the love seat, describing her life and her feelings in a way that made what could be tedious facts riveting. I made a point to read all of the articles she wrote and told her so. I was proud of the strides she had made in her career and, more importantly, in her self-growth. As she dug deeper into her emotions, her writing got richer. An unintended upside to our sessions. Therapists, like parents, do have their favorites. They pretend they don’t, but it’s impossible not to. We are human, after all. And Gabrielle was by far my favorite. I often hoped Alisha, sitting on the other side of things, felt the same way about me.