The Truth About Keeping Secrets(18)

But Mom never did. Especially after Bea. I was sure that had something to do with it too; that part of my life was just another helping of things we found it impossible to talk about, for whatever reason. We wore spacesuits and floated aimlessly through the ether, our radios dead and a soundless vacuum between us. Before, Dad had been the cord that at least tethered us together; now, there was nothing keeping us from drifting to opposite ends of the void.

I tried to make contact. ‘What?’ I asked. It was unnecessary. I already knew what. Only now did I notice the black trash bag in her hand. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I wasn’t sure if I meant in this exact moment or indefinitely. ‘I’m grieving. This is me grieving.’

Mom didn’t say anything. She rifled through the top drawer on Dad’s desk, and emerged with a key.

The key to the patient files.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked. My words were barbed with a new indignation, and I didn’t even bother to hide it.

‘Clearing out the desk. I was gonna throw some of the furniture on Craigslist.’

‘You’re selling Dad’s stuff?’

‘Not everything. But what are we gonna do with all this, honey?’

‘Oh, yeah, I don’t know. Might as well smash it. Burn it.’ Mom glared at me, and I understood why. I was being unreasonable. But, God, I couldn’t help but think that Dad would still need it. If it stayed where it stood, if he came back, everything could return to normal – emptying the room was an acknowledgement that no one needed it any more. The desk was staying. ‘I want the desk.’

‘Sydney –’

‘Seriously. I’ll use it.’

Mom sighed. ‘No. No. I don’t think – I don’t think it’s healthy to hold on to stuff like that.’ She continued, unlocked the filing cabinet, and went to toss its contents.

No! I shot from the couch. ‘You can’t throw those away.’

‘I can’t?’

‘Like, legally. They either need to be sent away, or shredded, or something.’ I was talking directly out of my ass. But I needed them. Just in case.

‘Oh, I don’t have time for that. I won’t tell if you won’t, hm?’

‘I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Just, please? I think it would’ve been important to Dad.’

That won. ‘OK,’ she said once, then again. ‘Your way. That’s fine.’ I sat back down, content with my narrow victory – but Mom wouldn’t quit. She took this big, exaggerated breath, sat down too close to me and said, ‘Why are you watching that stuff?’

I didn’t know what to tell her, really, so I just shook my head, swallowed what felt like a rock. Examined her face. Her freckles were exactly like mine, and I wondered, if you mapped them all out on the both of us, where they’d overlap.

‘You doing that, and saying those things, I just … I don’t know, baby. I don’t know how to help you.’

Unable to meet her gaze, I spoke to the ground beside her. ‘I can’t act like it didn’t happen.’

Mom pretended I hadn’t said anything. ‘I was talking to Alyssa Smith’s mom. Do you know her? I think she’s in the grade above you.’

I nodded.

‘She sent Alyssa to this support group after they got divorced. Alyssa, I guess she really loved it. It helped her a lot. Talking to kids her age who were going through the same thing, you know?’

I didn’t like where this was heading.

‘Well, I looked, and the same place has one for teenagers who have lost somebody. Starts in December, around the holidays. Hm? I booked us in for a consultation with the counsellor in a couple of weeks.’

‘I don’t need to go to a support group,’ said the girl who’d watched a video of a man being squashed by a train ten times in a row that morning.

Mom winced – at what, I wasn’t sure – and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. ‘It’ll be good for you.’

‘Mom, I don’t want to go. Please.’

She just looked at me, and for a horrible second we were frozen there, but then she rose, plodded away, and shut the office door softly behind her.

Everything was wrong.

I wasn’t going to a fucking support group.

If there was anything I was certain wasn’t going to help me, it was singing Kum ba yah with a bunch of strangers in some sad therapy office, drawing pictures or doing breathing exercises or talking about feelings. How patronizing.

It occurred to me that I was surrounded by a therapist’s entire collection of books – at least one of them had to be on grief and, if I read it through, I realized I’d probably be able to convince Mom I’d been miraculously cured or something.

I dragged a finger along the bookshelf and stopped at a book called Grief Counselling and Grief Therapy: Fourth Edition. Bingo. No secret passageway opened when I plucked it out, disappointingly. I took the book to the couch and opened it to the table of contents; a section titled ‘Chronic Grief Reactions’ caught my eye.

It is not unusual for patients to only seek help two to five years later, saying that the death still feels unresolved and that they haven’t returned to their normal lives.

My stomach dropped.

I was going to feel like this for another two to five years?