Page 117 of Wait for Him

I feel the tears start to well, and right behind them comes the anger.

Reliable. Punctual. Always happy to report for duty the second my body embarrasses me.

"Can't we just up my meds and send me on my way?" I sit straighter and angrily swipe at the one tear that manages to escape.

Dr. Campbell doesn't answer immediately. He just watches me, and I want to scream in his face, which I'm self-aware enough to know has absolutely nothing to do with him and currently angry enough not to care.

"What's causing your anger right now?" His voice stays gentle. He's seen the warning signs enough times to know better than to match my energy. "Is it that you started to cry?"

I cross my arms and stare at the wall. My breathing is heavier than I'd like, and knowing he can hear it only pisses me off more.

"I haven't had the luxury of stopping, Dr. Campbell." It comes out low. "My parents left me to raise Michael. I had to make sure he got the life they would've wanted for him. I owed them that much."

The sob starts climbing my throat, so naturally I talk faster, because I believe I can outrun basic human physiology if I increase my word count.

"It was my fault they were on that plane. They were coming to see me. I'd called them crying because it had been a brutal week. I was burning the candle at both ends, studying for the hardest exams of my life, and I missed home. I missed them. So they decided to surprise me."

The sob wins.

"My insipid, weak crying got them killed."

Dr. Campbell doesn't rush to argue with me. He reaches over, picks up the box of tissues and hands it across.

"Has it been getting harder to push the tears back?" he asks after a moment. "Have you noticed yourself unable to stop them lately?"

I pull out a tissue and wipe under my eyes, then my nose, dignity having left the session early.

"In all our years together, this is the second time you've cried in this room," he continues. "The first was our very first session."

I nod.

"Then I think this is the part we need to stop treating as something you can indefinitely control, Rosalie. You've spent years telling me about your never happened drawer. We've also spent years discussing the fact that avoidance works until it doesn't." His expression softens. "I think you're reaching the point where it doesn't."

"No pressure, eh?" I laugh wetly into the tissue.

"I'm not telling you this to scare you. I'm telling you because I don't want you mistaking what happens next for failure." He sits back slightly. "You've survived by taking care of everyone and everything around you. That worked. It got you through years when you didn't have another option. But survival strategies can become very expensive when you keep paying for them long after the emergency."

That one lands harder than I want it to.

"You need a break, Rosalie. Not a weekend. Not another outlet. Not another system for keeping yourself functional. You need space to actually process what happened to you instead of continuing to build around it."

I look down at the tissue mangled between my fingers.

"Sounds delightful."

"I suspect you'll hate it."

"Finally, something we agree on."

That gets the smallest smile out of him.

Then he rises, crosses to his desk and takes a card from the drawer.

"This is my sister, Jessica Knowles. She specializes in sexual trauma. With your permission, I'd like to speak with her about bringing her into your treatment and forward the appropriate records. Not because I'm handing you off. I think you need more specialized support for this piece than we've been using."

I take the card and turn it over between my fingers.

Jessica Knowles.