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I could never fully fill that void. Maybe by looking like her. But never by becoming her.
It had worked for Sly. At least for now it worked.
“Dad.”
“Yes, son?”
I looked up from my plate to follow their conversation. It’s been weeks since Sly last talked to them, and I could see it in Dad’s face that he was pleased to have his son finally talk to him again.
“You’re a psychologist,” Sly stated, taking a moment to think before continuing. “Caia and I need a consult.”
I moved my gaze to Dad, looking just as surprised. “A consult? Son, you know I don’t do those type of consults. I’m not a doctor.”
“Yes, you are. You hold meetings every week with people who need your help. Now, Caia and I need your help, so I need you to help us.” Sly sounded desperate, his voice shaky. He was gripping the knife tightly in his hand, and his body tensed. I reached out my hand and placed it on his thigh to calm him.
I didn’t expect him to ask Dad for help.
Dad ran his fingers through his hair with a heady sigh. “What do you need help with?”
“Getting over Wavel’s death.”
“Can’t you talk about that with your mother?”
Sly’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the knife tighter. “I don’t want to talk about that with her. I want to talk to a doctor, and you are one. I don’t care what kind of doctor you are and what kind of people you help. Your two kids who are still alive need your help, so you help them.”
It was an order, but Dad still looked unsure. He sighed again, shaking his head slowly. “I’m not going to be much help, Sly.”
“Then try.”
Dad looked at Mom, silently asking for help, but she stayed quiet.
“Fine. We’ll talk.”
Sly nodded, then we continued to eat in silence. While Mom started to clean up in the dining room, Sly and I followed Dad to his office. We never spent much time in there. We never had a reason to, but Dad wouldn’t want us in there either.
“Sit,” he told us, pointing at the two leather chairs in front of his desk.
“How come it’s taken you so long to want to talk about the accident?” he asked Sly who raised a brow.
It was a stupid question. Shouldn’t he know that everyone dealt with death differently?
“Because I wanted to process it first. And now I would like a doctor to help me deal with the pain and aftermath of losing my sister.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Then why the fuck do you call yourself one? And how the fuck did you and Mom move on from Wavel’s death as if you didn’t care?”
Valid question. I had asked myself the same.
Dad cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his elbows onto the desk. His gaze was lowered, and I could hear him think. At least he was trying. He could’ve shut us out.
“It might not have seemed like it, but it was hard for your mother and me to move on from what happened, but we decided not to let that ruin our lives. We love and miss Wavel with all our hearts, but she would’ve wanted us to be happy. That’s why we keep living without thinking about her not being here anymore. We found that reading newspapers and doing Sudoku puzzles help distract us. Maybe you can find something that will help you take your mind off it too.”
“Do you still think about her?” Sly asked.
“Of course. And you know we go visit her grave every now and then. But we don’t let her passing affect our lives.”
“But, how?” I asked, needing to be part of this conversation. “How can you not let it affect your lives, yet it’s what has defined our lives so immensely.”
