Off the Deep End (55)

I shrug. “I just couldn’t be there.”

He cocks his head to the side and gives me his most tell-me-more-about-that look. The one they teach every therapist in graduate school. See, that’s what I like about him—he’s still young enough to wear that face. “How come?”

“It was just too hard.” I suck in my breath, bracing myself for the impact of the memories.

Walking back into my house after being released from the hospital the first time felt like I was walking into someone else’s home. Three years ago, we took a trip to California and spent a day at Universal Studios. The entire set from Desperate Housewives was there, and we went through it. That’s exactly how I felt the day I came home: like I was walking down Wisteria Lane. Nothing would ever come close to the disorientation and shock I felt learning Gabe had drowned in the accident, but going back home after I was discharged from the hospital was as close of a second that you could get. I don’t have words to put to it for Dr. Stephens, but I have to try.

“It all felt fake,” I explain, doing my best to translate the experience into language. “Like none of it had ever been real, and it all seemed so trivial. A huge lie. Like when you find out Santa Claus isn’t real when you’re a kid? Something magical inside you dies that day, and no matter how hard you wish for or try to get it back, that magic is gone and all the light it carried with it. That’s what it was like when I walked through the front door of my house but times a thousand. Nothing felt real.”

“Is that when you started to dissociate?”

My jaw tightens. My cheeks flush with anger, but I do my best not to show how irritated I am. “I appreciate your assessment and diagnosis, but I don’t disassociate.”

“That’s not what your charts say.”

“My charts say a lot of things about me that aren’t true.”

“Well, would you like to set the record straight? I keep giving you an opportunity to tell your side of the story. Shed some light on areas where we might not be seeing things correctly.” He folds his hands in front of him on the table and waits for me to speak.

“I wish that I could disassociate.” I can’t stress the word wish enough. “I’d give anything to disconnect from the pain, but I can’t. That’s the problem. All those people who detach from themselves and watch their own life like it’s a movie playing out in front of their eyes? I wish I was one of them.” I slow down the last sentence so he doesn’t miss how serious I am. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me. I’m acutely aware of everything all the time. It’s unrelenting and unending. There’s no break. Not even in sleep. Because you know what happens when I sleep?” I stand, unable to sit any longer. I have to move. “I see Gabe’s face trapped underneath the ice every single time I close my eyes. And I’ve gone without sleep for so long that I’m not sure if I’m awake or I’m dreaming, but every time I close my eyes, it’s there. That same image. Him. Face up. Hands plastered against the ice. His mouth contorted into a horrific scream I can’t hear while his hands slam against thick ice that won’t break. It’s awful.”

“It sounds awful. They should give you something to sleep.”

Of course his first response is to offer me drugs. That’s what they all do. And I gladly take the different colored pills they give me. I’ll try anything to knock me out, but nothing works. All their pills do is keep me teetering between the edge of half-awake and half-asleep. But at least it’s something.

“They do, but I’m telling you, nothing works.”

“None of the grief groups are helpful either?”

My new job is therapy, and my days are spent in all the various kinds. Group. Family. Individual. Art. Vocational.

“I’m not a fan,” I say, which sounds funny coming from a former therapist.

He raises his eyebrows. “How come?”

“I’m different.”

“Can you tell more about that?”

“I’m responsible for my son’s death.”

“Mrs. Hart, we’ve been through this. You’re not responsible for Gabe’s death.”

“It doesn’t make me feel better to hear you say that, you know, so I wish you’d just quit saying it.” I let out a frustrated sigh. It’s been a long five days of meeting with him. As much as I’ve enjoyed our little sessions and the bit of excitement they dash into my life, I’m ready for this to be over.

“How have things been with Shane since you’ve been here?” he asks, circling back. “I checked the notes, and it looks like he hasn’t visited. You’ve been here almost seven weeks. Where are things at with the two of you?”

“Things are strained,” I say. Every day that I’m in here and Chloe’s in my house with him makes things feel more and more broken and less and less strained.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He gives the standard response. Another one. He’s full of them today.

“I’m sure you’ve heard more than that,” I say sarcastically. If he’s talked to Shane or anyone else in this town about our marriage, then I’m positive nobody forgot to mention Shane’s affair. Although that’s not what he calls it. He says they’re friends, that they share a deep connection I don’t understand. He’s the one who doesn’t understand. I know all about deep connections.