Letters to Nowhere(60)

“I guess I don’t really do that, not now or ever.” I felt my breathing become a little irregular, my lungs constricting just enough to make me sense a panic attack in the near future as the reality clawed at my throat, fighting its way out. “And I can’t see them as perfect. All I can see is…”

“Is what?” Jackie prompted.

I pressed my face into my hands, drawing as much air into my lungs as I could manage. My arms and legs had already started to shake. “I just see them in pieces…literally…body parts scattered all over the highway. I can hear them screaming, and my dad…he’s always decapitated. What does that even mean? Do I subconsciously hate him and I just cut off his head in this fictional version of their accident?”

I didn’t remember feeling any tears fall, but they must have, because my hands and face were wet when I finally lifted my head. Jackie’s eyes were wide, and I knew she had to be thinking I was nuts or some kind of psychotic serial killing teenager. But at least I’d finally managed to put it all out there for her to see so she’d know what she was dealing with.

Quickly, I wiped my face with the back of my hands and sat up straighter. “I just…I need to know more about what happened so I can shake this imagined version from my head. If you could just tell me…?”

Jackie’s face filled with sympathy. “Karen, I don’t have that information. I’m sorry.”

I closed my eyes again, drew in a deep breath, and opened them. “Okay, fine. Are we done for today?”

“We don’t have to be. I don’t have another appointment until one. We can talk more if you’d like to. We can go over some techniques to use when you’re feeling panicked.”

I shook my head. I’d already tried every basic method the Internet had to offer. None of it was specifically geared for my situation. “I’m ready to go.”

As we approached the office door, Jackie rested a hand on my arm and said, “You can’t conquer everything in a day. Or even a week. Maybe not even a year. There’s no way to work hard at grieving. You just have to let it happen. And you are, so don’t fight it.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I said, looking her right in the eyes.

She started laughing and opened the door for me. “Exactly my point. Just keep being honest—with yourself and everyone trying to help you.”

I sighed to myself as I headed back out into the cold air. Maybe I should have stuck to talking about sexting.

***

I threw myself out of the moving car, tossing my body onto hard, frozen grass. I watched, breathless, as the car tumbled on the interstate, the missing letter on the gas station sign flickering from the side of the highway. Pieces of glass and metal rained down on me and a round hairy object bounced into the grass several feet away. I focused my eyes on it as it rolled toward me.

My dad’s face came into view, eyes wide open, staring at me.

***

I jolted upright in my bed, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. Sweat trickled down my neck and back and my chest heaved in and out so quickly I thought I’d pass out. I tossed back the covers and scrambled toward the door, forcing the light switch up.

I glanced from corner to corner around the room, scanning the area for any round hairy objects. I leaned against the door, catching my breath before opening it and heading to the bathroom. After setting my retainer by the sink, I splashed cold water on my very pale face and tried to shake the nightmare.

“Hey…” Jordan appeared in the bathroom doorway. He looked wide awake, like maybe he hadn’t even gone to sleep yet. His dark blond hair lay flat, not sticking up like in the morning, and he had gym shorts and a T–shirt on, not his usual boxers–only sleepwear.

His eyes moved over me as I dropped the towel back onto the rack. “What’s wrong?” He stepped closer and placed both hands on my face. “God, you look pale.”

I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. “Bad dream…very bad…”

“Okay.” His voice melted over the top of me, already soothing some of the anxiety. “What should I search your room for? Monsters? Zombies?”

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead into his T–shirt. “Round hairy objects.”

“Got it.” He turned me around, guiding me by the shoulders back into my room. “The light’s already on, that’s good.” He stood behind me, rubbing my shoulders as he looked around the room. “Want me to check the closet first?”

“I’m okay, seriously.” I turned around to face him. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Talk to me. Tell me whatever you saw,” he said.

We both sat down on the bed and I grabbed a pillow, hugging it to my chest. “It’s Jackie’s fault…”

“The shrink?”

“She made me talk about my dad and then I realized all this stuff I never thought about before.” I relayed the conversation from the most recent therapy session to Jordan, and he sat there and listened without interrupting. “Why do I keep decapitating him in my dreams and anytime I think about their accident? What’s wrong with me—”

“Nothing is wrong with you,” Jordan said firmly.

“But what’s the deal with my dad? Is he a total sexist pig or what? Why am I just now realizing this?”