I’m off at noon, like usual, and quietly gather my belongings from the back room. Graham is working a double today. We exchange goodbyes and he waves at me with his spatula like he did the very first day we met.
I punch out, bid farewell to Penny, and then quietly slip out the back of the diner. The sun is scorching and it’s quite muggy out as I begin my walk home. I see children playing on a Slip-N-Slide in the front yard of one of the homes I pass by and it reminds me of my first walk to the diner.
I get to the cottage, grab the mail, and walk up the porch steps to the door. Unlocking it, I walk inside. I toss the mail and my wallet on the table in the entryway.
Beth won’t be home until later this evening, so I know I have a few free hours to clean the house, a gesture to say I’m sorry. I do some laundry, dust the living room, take out the trash, and bake her favorite dessert — Oreo truffles.
I mix up some icing in her favorite color, purple, and arrange the truffles on a platter where I can write across them. I shove the icing into a pastry bag and begin writing ‘I’m sorry’ across them. I’m just finishing when she comes home. I hear the metal clink of her keys in the bowl on the entryway table and as she shuffles, taking off her shoes.
My heart is about to beat out of my chest as I wait for her to round the corner into the kitchen. She finally does, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s rubbing at her wrists and pops her neck before she finally looks up. It’s silent for a moment as we both stand there staring at each other across the kitchen. Finally, I find the courage to speak.
“I’m sorry,” I begin, “for last night. I was really mean and out of line and I’m really sorry.”
Beth continues to stare at me. “We were both angry,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Everything still stands, but I do accept, and appreciate, your apology.”
I nod and turn around to grab the tray of truffles. I turn around and present them to her. She reads what I’ve written on top and asmile slowly spreads across her face. She takes the tray and sets it back on the counter before turning to embrace me. Her cherry-almond scent envelops me as we hug and I get the sense that we will be okay.
It’s a week after what I’ve dubbed “The Incident” when Beth walks into the living room after work and says, “I’ve made an appointment for you with a therapist.”
I close the book I’m reading, a new hobby I’ve picked up in the last week. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Tomorrow at ten. There was a cancellation and they were able to get you in quickly.
I nod my head. “Okay,” I repeat. There’s no use in fighting it. I know she’s right. I need to see someone. I need help navigating this.
“I took off from the diner so I could go with you,” she says as she sits down beside me on the couch.
“Thank you,” I say, because I know it’s a big deal for her to miss work.
“I told Raquel and Graham that you wouldn’t be in, either, but not to worry.”
I nod as she turns the television on and shuffles around, getting comfortable. We both stare longingly at the mantle underneath the TV, at the urn front and center on it. It’s silver and simple, but perfectly my mom. Beth leans her head onto my shoulder.
“She’d be proud of you for getting help,” she says. It’s almost a whisper but I still hear it.
“She’d be proud of you for making me,” I say and we both laugh.
The next morning, we drive across town to the hospital. The therapist I’m supposed to see has an office on one of the upper level floors. We pull into the parking lot and I stare up at the daunting building, feeling anxiety rise in my chest.
“You okay?” Beth asks as she puts the car in park.
"Not really,” I say truthfully. “But it’s a start.”
“I’m right here with you.”
We get out of the car and silently walk together to the hospital’s main entrance. We take the elevator up a few floors before we reach another unit for the psychiatric unit.
Beth leads the way as we head to Office 513 — Amber Atherton.
She helps me fill out the required new patient paperwork and waits with me until my name is called.
“I’ll be right here,” she murmurs as I stand up. Her fingers graze my wrist. “You’ve got this.”
“I’ve got this,” I repeat.
A tall, thin woman stands in the doorway. She smiles as she sees me. “My name is Doctor Atherton,” she says, “but you can call me Amber.”
“Hi,” I say quietly as I stand.
