Off the Deep End (7)

“No, now’s not a good time.” He stepped to the side, directly in front of me, now blocking the sidewalk with his body.

“That’s my house.” I pointed at it behind him. “I’m allowed to go inside my own house.”

“You lost that privilege when you walked out on it,” he said like the house was some kind of child I’d abandoned.

“Are you serious right now?” I yelled loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but I didn’t care. They already thought I was crazy. Everyone did. “I left because I couldn’t stand the continual reminders of Gabe staring me in the face. It was like losing him all over again, and you know why?” I didn’t wait for him to answer before I went on, pummeling him with my words. “When I lived here after Gabe was gone, there was one tiny second every morning when I opened my eyes where it was beautiful and life was still the same. And then in the next half second, the crushing blow that he was gone. It was like finding out he died every single day, and I couldn’t live through it another time. I just couldn’t. But that doesn’t happen when I stay somewhere else. When I wake up in my room at Samaritan House, I know he’s gone from the moment I’m conscious, and as painful as that is, it doesn’t compare to thinking he’s there and losing him all over again.”

His face was still hardened. Nothing I said had made any kind of an impact on him. He was still spread out across the sidewalk with his legs wide and his arms crossed against his puffed-out chest like he was security at the front door of a club.

“Why are you being so cruel? When did you get so mean?” Tears streaked down my face, and then, suddenly, it dawned on me. How could I have been so stupid? “She’s here, isn’t she?” I pointed at the house. “That’s why you don’t want me to come inside, isn’t it?” Horror filled my insides at the realization that there was another woman in my house. And not just any woman. One who was sleeping with my husband. One who had stepped in and taken over my life.

“Mrs. Hart?” Dr. Stephens snaps his fingers, instantly crashing me into the present moment.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not. It’s not my fault they dope me up on so much medication I forget half my sentences midway through and my thoughts have a way of taking off and wandering wherever they want to go.

“You were saying that your family and the Greers weren’t close?” he prods.

“Yeah, right.” I nod my agreement, getting back to where we were at. “Our families weren’t close even though we lived on the same street. Don’t get me wrong. We were always friendly, and there were plenty of times, especially when the kids were younger, when we helped lug them back and forth from preschool or ran milk over because they were out of it. But we weren’t intimate. She was never someone I’d call if I was having a bad day or to meet me for a spur-of-the-moment glass of wine at Cantini’s. You know what I mean? We weren’t that kind of friends. Neither were our kids.”

“Gabe and Isaac weren’t close?” A brief flash of surprise across his face before he quickly erases it.

I shake my head.

“But you were giving him a ride home that night?”

“Yeah. They had an away game at Jefferson, and the bus was late getting back in. Amber got stuck at her daughter’s dance class, so she texted and asked if I could pick up Isaac.”

“Is that something you did often? Give Isaac rides?”

“Like I said, when they were younger, we did it a lot more. We didn’t do it as much lately, but definitely when one of us got in a pinch.”

“When was the last time you gave him a ride home prior to the accident?”

I search my memory, trying to remember. “Probably last year. Maybe the year before?” Why was he circling around this? What could he possibly be looking for in it? But before I have a chance to dig any deeper, he pops his next question.

“I know you’ve already been through this lots of times, but do you think you could take me through the accident?”

“Which one?” I joke again like I did last time. He doesn’t think it’s funny this time either. I can see him making a mental therapy note about me: treatment resistant. That’s how they conceptualize me since I’m a repeat offender. I don’t have to sit in on any of their consultations or get my hands on my chart to know that’s how their descriptions of me have changed over time. All his graduate students are probably chomping at the bit to get a chance to consult on my case. I would’ve been all over it, too—a former therapist has a total mental breakdown after her child’s death and is being questioned in a missing person’s case. There are probably at least three students outside this door right now trying to listen.

“Does humor make it easier for you?”

“I mean, not really. Maybe if anyone in the room was laughing, that might make me feel a little better about it.” I can’t help myself. He’s just so uptight. His shirt is buttoned all the way up to the collar. Who buttons their shirt that far?

“Okay,” he says, rubbing his chin with one hand. “Do you want to try again to tell me about the accident?”

“I don’t understand how hearing about the accident helps you find Isaac Greer.”

“I understand this must be hard for you to talk about.”