This Might Hurt(50)

“You miss him.”

“Yup.”

“I’m so tired of people telling me it’s going to get better.” I kept my eyes on the stars. “It doesn’t get better, does it?”

He made a noncommittal noise. “I’m not fighting for every breath anymore. The pain’s less sharp, but it’s still there. I wake up some mornings and don’t see his face first thing. That hurts in its own way.”

“I don’t want to stop seeing her face. Ever.”

“I know.”

I checked my watch. “Shit, my one-on-one’s in a couple minutes.” I lingered at the table, not wanting the conversation to end.

“You’d better not be late. Take the shortcut through the back door.”

“That’s what she said,” I called as I ran.



* * *



? ? ?

MINUTES LATER I sat across from Rebecca on the couch in her office. She wore a formfitting black tee and trousers, her feet bare, toenails painted the color of dried blood. She studied me warmly. I forced myself to maintain eye contact. I wanted to be a tidal wave.

After half a minute of silence, she pursed her plum-shaded lips. “Have you come up with your mantra yet?”

I nodded uncertainly. Night after night I had obsessed in bed over what it should be. The task felt like a test I needed to pass. I had even tried coming up with something about a tidal wave but decided that was too kiss-assy, even if it was true.

Rebecca waited, watching me. She had too much self-control to repeat the question or drum her fingernails on the chair’s arm. For as long as it took, she would sit there patiently.

I toyed with the rubber band on my wrist. “Die with memories, not dreams.”

Her eyes gleamed. “One more time, with confidence.”

I puffed up my chest, summoned false bravery. “Die with memories, not dreams.”

Her face split open into a grin. “It’s perfect.” I let out a sigh. “How clever you are.”

“You think so?” I asked doubtfully, hopefully.

“We must work on your self-confidence. We don’t think—we know. How will this mantra guide you?”

“It’ll remind me not to be afraid. To take risks. To live the life I actually want instead of the one I think I should have.” I’d gotten the idea from April’s preaching.

Rebecca nodded once. “Already you’re taking more control. Only two weeks in and see how you’ve grown. Tell me your impressions of Wisewood.”

“It’s been wonderful. Everyone is so kind and open here.” I tucked my hands under my legs. “The guests are different than I expected.”

She waited for me to elaborate.

“They’re so sure about leaving their old lives.” I turned to the window—another sunny day. “Most of them don’t feel guilty for leaving their friends and family.”

She put up a hand. “Why should they? Your fellow guests are the ones who have been deserted. Sanderson is here because his parents kicked him out when he needed them most. Ruth left because her entire community ostracized her instead of practicing forgiveness. Debbie came to Wisewood to flee an abusive partner. Neutralizing a threat doesn’t always mean staying to fight. Sometimes it means running for your life.”

I nibbled my lip, considering this.

“Your peers have been rejected by their neighbors, siblings, and parents. Just like you have.”

I whipped back to face her. “How did—”

“I know all about you, Kit.” She leaned toward me. I swallowed. “Everyone in your family has treated you poorly,” she said tenderly.

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” She sat back, eyes full of sympathy. “How about your father?”

I jiggled my leg. “I’d hardly call him family. He started an affair with his coworker when my mom’s depression got bad. He left for good when I was three.” I picked at a scab on the back of my hand—I’d burned myself last week helping Debbie remove a few trays of chicken from the oven. “He calls us on our birthdays and Christmas. My sister talks to him, but I don’t pick up.”

Rebecca played with a silver pendant dangling near her cleavage. She had a small birthmark in the middle of her chest. “And your mother?”

I stiffened. Mom was never the first to let go of a hug. She had taught us how to build a fire and roast marshmallows. She told ghost stories that made us squeal but wouldn’t cause nightmares. She took us camping in the backyard, sleeping with us in the tent. We used to fight over who got the last kiss from her before bed—she’d move back and forth between our little cheeks until we were both asleep, so we never knew who did.

“She was amazing,” was all I could manage.

Rebecca tilted her head, considering me. “I know she was, but she missed out on a lot too, didn’t she? Dance recitals, school plays, and the like?”

My mouth fell open. How did she know?

“She did the best she could.” I clutched Mom’s scarf.

“Was the best she could good enough?” She gazed at the silk around my neck.

“I can’t bad-mouth my mom.”

Rebecca’s violet-gray eyes glittered. “I know this is difficult. The goal of these meetings is to help you achieve fearlessness. As you work the path, you’ll find that the more honest you are with others and especially yourself, the faster you’ll progress. Your mother had weaknesses.”