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Determinedly she stepped inside the office, closing the door behind her.
Charlie pulled something out of his fridge. “You want a drink?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Water please.” She wasn't really thirsty, but the drink would be a helpful distraction.
“Sure thing.” He set a bottle of water on his desk, then dropped into a chair and unscrewed a bottle of apple juice.
“Uh, thanks,” she said, nervous now that she was actually here. The idea of seeing a shrink had seemed a lot easier before she’d arrived. Now that she was here, she had to talk—only she didn't know what to say.
The doctor said nothing, just watched her closely. She could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tried to figureher out and get a read on her.
Quickly she hurried to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk and plopped down into it. She didn't want him trying to figure her out. The idea that someone else could know more about what went on inside her head than she did made her uncomfortable.
Chloe wasn't sure what happened next.
It was clear Charlie didn't intend to lead the conversation. He was going to let her start and presumably say as much or as little as she wanted.
She both appreciated his approach and was terrified by it.
If it was up to her to start things off, she had no idea what to say. She’d come here because she needed help figuring out how her son’s death had affected her. If she knew the answer to that, she wouldn’t be here.
“Ah, thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she said. It was a stall tactic, but she needed a couple more moments to gather herself.
“You're welcome.”
Deciding she may as well just jump off the cliff and plunge right in, Chloe asked, “Have you ever lost someone really close to you?”
“My nephew,” he replied immediately. “He was five when he was killed, and it was a horrendous time for my family. Watching my brother and sister-in-law fall apart was hell. I wanted to help them, but I couldn’t. That was the most helpless I have ever felt in my life. One of my very good friends lost her husband while she was pregnant, and although I hadn’t been close with her husband, watching her grieve is the second most helpless I've ever felt. But I haven't lost a child if that’s what you mean. My wife Savannah and I have three children; triplets, actually. And although things were a little difficult when they were born, they were never really in danger of not surviving. So, no, I don’t knowhow you feel; I've never gone through that.”
Chloe absorbed that. She liked Charlie’s direct attitude. She didn't want someone who was going to coddle her; she wanted someone who could help her figure herself out.
“Is that them?” she asked, pointing to a framed photograph of Charlie, a pretty redhead, and three kids—two redheaded boys and a brunette girl—of about ten.
“Savannah, Becker, Tate, and Ella.” He beamed, his eyes sparkling as they rested on the picture. Then he pierced her with a sharp gaze. “Why are you here, Chloe? What do you need? I know that you lost your son … you were five months pregnant at the time, right?”
“Yes.”
“It was a car accident?”
She knew he knew the answer to that just as she knew he was trying to help ease her into telling him why she was there. “Yes. I was driving to work … it was pouring rain … I lost control of the car … slammed into a pole.”
“You feel guilty.”
He said it so simply.
Like he knew for a fact he was right.
Anger surged inside her.
Charlie Abbott had no right to say she was responsible for her son’s death.
Chloe shot to her feet. “How dare you!” she screamed. “How dare you say it was my fault.”
Hot tears blurred her vision.
That was not what she had been expecting the psychiatrist to say.
Why would he say that to her?
