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She feels soft and familiar, and when she turns to leave, I realize something.
She smells like honeysuckle.
“You never told me your name,” I point out as she leaves.
She pauses, staring over her shoulder.
“No, I guess I didn’t.”
She’s gone but the scent of honeysuckle remains, and I’m stunned, and it’s a coincidence.
“It’s a coincidence,” I say aloud. “I’m losing it.”
I’m just taking old feelings and pinning them on her, like wishful thinking.
I spend the afternoon thinking about the things she said, and pondering. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do have value.
Maybe I am worth it.
After group, I pull aside the main counselor. “I’d like to have one more individual session with my therapist, if that’s possible,” I tell her.
She stares at me, confused.
“You haven’t begun your individual therapy yet. That begins in week two.”
“But… I’ve been speaking to a woman,” I tell her. “Slim, blond, middle-aged, classy-looking.”
She shakes her head. “We don’t have anyone here who fits that description.”
“Are you sure?” I ask weakly.
“Quite,” she nods.
Somehow, I make it back to my room on my weak legs, and it still smells vaguely of honeysuckle inside. Light and soft, not the cloying scent that Natasha had worn. I look around, at the four walls and empty room.
“This can’t be,” I say aloud, because saying words aloud gives them power.
But I know for a fact that I’ve been speaking with someone. I’m not imagining it.
I’m shaky as I sit on the bed.
I’m shaky as I remember the past few days, and how familiar and warm I had felt while speaking with her. She made me feel comfortable. Safe. Secure. Like my subconscious was picking up things that I wasn’t.
I am overwhelmed. And while I’ve never believed in anything unexplainable, I want to believe in this. I want to believe that my mother was here.
It gives me hope, and hope is priceless.
I pick up the torn paper lying on my nightstand.
He’s worth it.
Maybe I am.
I pick up the phone.
I call my wife.
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