Wish You Were Gone(61)

Mr. Fletcher gave her a grim smile when she knocked on the wall of his cubicle in the guidance office. It was a crime that at a school this exclusive and expensive, the guidance counselors sat in an open floor plan. Weren’t they the only ones who had conversations that other people shouldn’t overhear?

“Mrs. Walsh. How are you doing?” he asked, gesturing at the chair next to his desk. He had a small, ceramic jack-o’-lantern full of sugar-free lollipops next to his computer.

“Fine. I’m fine.” She placed her bag on the floor and tucked it under the chair, then sat, shoulders tense. “But I’m worried about Kelsey.”

He retook his seat and leaned too far back—so far Emma was concerned he might tip over and end up on his spine with his legs and arms in the air like a stranded beetle. The idea of trying to disentangle him from his office furniture did not appeal. The man had a bushy beard, uneven yellow teeth, and breath she could smell from three feet away. Definitely a garlic bagel situation.

“That’s understandable,” he said after a long pause.

“Four panic attacks since the beginning of the year? Why wasn’t I notified?” she asked.

“Well, to be honest, Mrs. Walsh, if we called in the parents every time one of our students had some sort of dramatic episode, you all would have to rent bunk space here.”

He gave a short laugh. Emma’s face burned.

“I don’t find this funny. I’m worried my daughter isn’t coping well with her father’s death.”

“No. Of course.” He put his feet flat on the floor and leaned into his desk. “I’ve already provided your daughter with this reading material, but I’ll give it to you as well.” He passed her a trifold pamphlet titled DEALING WITH THE DEATH OF A PARENT. “We also have a list of family and pediatric therapists we recommend. If you’d like me to email that to you, I will.”

“Yes, please,” Emma said.

She detested the idea of sending Kelsey to a therapist, though. Emma’s father had been a therapist, and living with him and his platitudes her entire life had made her highly suspicious of the whole practice. Ever since Willow had said that thing about the anger stage of grief, Emma had been hearing her father’s voice in her mind—a voice she hadn’t heard in real life in over a year. Him patiently explaining to her the five stages of grief after her grandmother died. Explaining her mother’s mood swings away with a list out of one of his psychology textbooks. She was only twelve, but she’d still wanted to tell him to stuff it. She’d always hated how whenever anyone in the house had an emotion, he’d nod and smirk like he’d seen it coming. As if his psychology degree somehow made him prescient. It was one of the reasons she avoided therapy herself, even though she knew on some level that she could have used it. The very idea made her bristle. As far as she was concerned, therapists existed to make other people feel stupid.

“If you peruse that document right there, I think you’ll see that Kelsey’s current behavior is perfectly normal for a girl her age dealing with grief. It’s perfectly normal, in fact, for anyone dealing with the sudden, violent loss of a loved one.”

Emma opened the pamphlet. In the third section was a list of possible behaviors, including a short temper, rapid mood swings, panic attacks, insomnia, loss of appetite, and isolation.

“I overheard some of Hunter’s friends discussing an upcoming memorial?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s on Wednesday,” Emma told him. “The day after tomorrow.”

“Well, I think that will be good for Kelsey. Often kids see the funeral or the memorial as a moment of closure. They need that sense of ritual to help them move on. I’ll bet you see things start to turn around after that.”

“You think?” Emma said, irritated at herself for wanting to believe in everything this quack was saying.

He nodded, his mouth set in a wise line. “Of course, grief is a process. It’s not predictable. But time heals all wounds, as they say. The best thing you can do is be patient and listen if Kelsey wants to talk. Just let me know how it goes.”

Feeling dismissed, and really not wanting to prolong this meeting, Emma gathered her bag and shoved the pamphlet inside. “I will. But I would also appreciate it if you would notify me the moment she has another one of these attacks.”

“Understood.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher.”

Emma headed for the outer door of the office, feeling like at least she now had a plan. Get through the memorial, and if Kelsey didn’t start to improve, she could call one of these therapists the school worked with. In the meantime, she was going to make sure Kelsey ate right, got the rest she needed, did her homework—all the things she’d always done until her husband up and died. Kelsey clearly needed routine, so it was time to stop indulging her own grief and anger and concentrate on her daughter. Emma was almost out the door when the sound of quiet sobbing distracted her.

“There are other scholarships you can apply for,” a woman said in hushed tones. “I promise this is not the end of the world.”

“Like you even care.”

Emma froze. Was that Willow? Instinctively, she glanced around the corner. Willow sat, slumped in a chair next to her counselor’s desk, one hand covering her eyes.

“Willow, honey? Are you all right?”