Off the Deep End (20)

Dr. Stephens interrupts my thoughts like he’s walking through the memory with me. “What was he like?”

“Angry.”

He balks and lifts his eyebrows. “He was angry?”

It wasn’t the response I’d expected from Isaac either. “Yeah.” I nod. “He was pretty pissed off.”

“With you?” he asks like he still doesn’t believe it.

I nod again.

“Why was he angry with you? I don’t understand.”

I hadn’t either, but it didn’t take long to find out what had him so upset.

“Hi,” I said tentatively as his eyes set on me with a fiery gaze. I hadn’t seen anyone but medical personnel, my parents, and Shane for almost four weeks. Having someone other than them in my room felt so strange. For a second, he just stood there staring at me—eyes squinted, arms crossed, and a body wound tight with stress. It was unnerving.

“How could you?” His voice shook so hard with anger that he could barely get the words out.

His question took me by surprise. I had no idea what he was talking about. I scooted to the edge of my bed so I could get closer to him. “What do you mean?”

“We saved each other’s lives that day. You saved mine, and I saved yours. And you were just going to throw all of that away? How could you?” He was sweating profusely like he’d run up the eight flights of stairs leading to the unit. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair. “How could you do that?”

His accusations jarred me. Startled me into myself and inside my body in a way I hadn’t been for a long time. I’d never given him a second thought after I’d pulled him out of the lake. Saving his life meant nothing to me. Neither did him saving mine. It never occurred to me that it meant something to him.

I shove the memories down before the emotions swell and focus on explaining things to Dr. Stephens. He’s always waiting in the wings.

“My grief was all-consuming. People always say things shook them to their core, but it wasn’t like that for me. It was like I’d lost my core, as if I no longer had a center, and I came undone. Totally unraveled. I couldn’t see any hope. No light. Only darkness. I couldn’t see in front of me, let alone a way out. But for the first time since the accident, when Isaac visited me, I saw a glimpse outside of myself,” I say, doing my best to explain the important moment, but I’m not sure I can do it justice. “Before that, I was so wrapped up in my pain and grief that I couldn’t see anything or anyone else. Not even Shane, and he’d lost a son too.”

“What was different about Isaac?”

I don’t have to think about my response to this question. It’s one I’ve spent time with on my own before since I was as surprised as Isaac by what developed between us. “It was the look in his eyes when he talked about what happened to us and the impact it had on him.” There was more to it than that. So much more. When Isaac talked about breathing life back into my lips and how much it meant to him, it sent shivers down my spine, made my stomach flutter. I held my breath each time he described how cold my lips were when they came out of the water and his obsession with touching them afterward to see if they were warm. But I don’t tell Dr. Stephens that. I keep those pieces to myself. I’m not stupid. He’d definitely make it into something that it wasn’t.

“What was it about the look in his eyes that moved you?” he asks next. Interesting that’s what he picked from my statement. I would’ve definitely gone with why our experiences were different, but I’ll humor his therapeutic approach.

“He looked like a scared puppy that was lost in a dark hole, and for a second, it brought me out of my own pain. I could see something—someone—outside of myself. It’d been a long time since I’d been able to do that.” I lower my head in shame, trying to drown out the sounds of Shane’s accusations. “I’m not sure why it wasn’t like that with Shane. I’m sure he was in just as much pain as Isaac and—”

Dr. Stephens reaches out and puts his hand on top of mine to stop me. “That’s okay. The experience you and Isaac had surrounding Gabe’s death was very different than Shane’s experience. Very different.” He makes sure to emphasize the last statement.

My heart swells with appreciation. He gets it. Nobody else has gotten it before and definitely not Shane. He didn’t even try to understand. Just said I was sick in the head.

“The two of you experienced a traumatic event together, and that forms a bond like none other. You know that.” He gives me a slight nod, recognizing my education and not wanting to insult me. So thoughtful of him. “Trauma bonding—”

“It’s more than that, though,” I interrupt before he goes further down the trauma track. “Shane was always so pissed off at me because he didn’t think I validated his pain. He said I thought my pain over losing Gabe was greater than his, and he was always trying to get me to admit that it was the same.” Just talking about the old argument raises my blood pressure, and I force my voice to stay steady. “But here’s the thing: it’s not like it was a competition—still isn’t—but my pain is greater than his because guess what? I was the one driving the car that killed our son. It was my mistake.”

“You’re not responsible for Gabe’s death.” He squeezes my hand, but I quickly pull it out from underneath his.