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“I’m still not keeping the baby either,” I added.
“We have established both of those statements, so why do you think we keep going back to it?” she countered me.
“I don’t know. Isn’t that why we’re here? Isn’t that your job? To help me figure out how to put myself back together?” I asked her, bothered by the question.
“We’re not here for J.R. or your baby. We’re here for you. The issue here is not Kelley or J.R or the baby. The issue here is something that happened to you long ago. We want to find that issue, and we want to acknowledge it. Then we want to release it.”
It was a no-brainer. The issue was my mother. Maybe even my father. If it was as easy as just releasing them, though, didn’t she think I would have already done so?
“Tell me about your mother, Rachel,” Carey queried.
I didn’t want to. “I can’t.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?” she countered.
I looked at her sharply. “I…I don’t want to go there, okay?”
Carey nodded her head and then stood from her chair. She walked to her desk and slid open a drawer. From the drawer, she pulled a journal. It was a nice journal, with a leather cover. She then walked over and handed the journal to me, placing it in my hands.
“Sometimes, writing is better than talking. So, I have some homework for you. I want you to go home, find some time to yourself, and write. Whatever comes to mind, just start writing. It doesn’t even have to make sense.”
I was a little surprised at the notion. “Like a diary?”
“No, not really. Just like I said. Sit down in a quiet place, relax, put the pen to the paper, and then just write. It’ll come out. Whateveritis, will come out.”
I ran my hand over the leather cover, and then I flipped it open. The pages were white, lined, and empty. I liked this idea. Writing it out. I liked this better than talking. I was a writer by nature, so how hard could this be?
I looked back up at her. “Okay.”
“When you come back next week, maybe we can talk about whatever you wrote down.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. There’s that word again—talk.
When I got back to Kelley’s house, I took the journal and laid it on the dining room table. I could feel it staring at me as I made my way through the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I was trying to procrastinate, but curiosity got the best of me. I made my way back to the table, and I glanced down at the journal. I was intrigued—more than I wanted to be. Carey was a licensed therapist, though; she knew what she was talking about. Maybe she was right. Maybe writing it out—whateveritwas—would be more beneficial to me than talking.
I sat down at the table, took a sip of water, and then picked up a pen. I stared at the journal before me, afraid to open it, afraid of what my hand would write. I took a deep breath, cracked the cover open, and then set my pen to the paper. One more hesitation, and then I wrote.
“Your aunt is coming to pick you up,” my friend’s mother tells me. I know something is wrong. My dad should have been here by now, and I rarely saw my aunt. Why would she be picking me up? I don’t say anything. I just nod and wait. My heart is pounding, though, and I know that something has happened to my dad. Something terrible. Why my aunt? Where is my mom?
Aunt Sue doesn’t say anything to me when she arrives. She just helps me into the car and drives silently into the night. Every now and then, I catch her glancing at me, and I can’t ignore the sad expression on her face. Still, she doesn’t speak.
No one is home when we arrive. My dad isn’t there. My mom isn’t there. My aunt looks at me with sullen eyes, and I feel darkness overwhelm my soul. Something terrible has happened—something that will change my life forever.
My aunt sits me down on the couch. I’m holding my bear tightly against my chest. My dad gave me this bear on my birthday. I pull at its fur, and I wait for Aunt Sue to say something. I look at her. Her expression twists, and I think she’s trying not to cry. Her hands are clasped together, and she looks away from me for a moment before she turns back.
“Your dad… He was in a car accident tonight. He didn’t survive.” Her voice cracks on the last sentence. Aunt Sue’s face twists in such way that I determine she’s also sad. After all, she has also lost someone tonight—her brother.
I process the news. I feel a pain in my heart that I’ve never felt before, and I want my mom. I feel guilty, too. It’s my fault, isn’t it? If it hadn’t been for me, he would be here, in bed, asleep. If I wasn’t such a baby, I’d still be with my friend, and my dad would still be alive.
I can’t take control of my mind as it instantly plays the scene of the car wreck in my head. I didn’t see it, of course—it’s only my imagination. I imagine my dad, crushed, bleeding, dead. It’s like the walls of my mind are soaked with blood and littered with shattered glass. I shiver, but I don’t cry.
It’s nearly lunchtime the next day before my mom comes home. She drags herself through the front door. Her long, dark hair is a mess. She has dark circles around her eyes, and she’s been crying. I try to hug her, but she pushes me away. The act surprises me. Maybe even hurts me. Then I decide that maybe she just needs time to herself. So, I decide that it’s best to leave her alone.
Days pass, and I wait for her to look at me. Talk to me. Hug me. I stand alone while people come to visit her at the funeral home. Strangers I’ve never met before run their hands over the closed casket, and then they hug my mother. Everyone seems to look at me with an expression of pity on their faces, but no one really says anything to me. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they’re angry with me, too. This is my fault.
Weeks pass. My mother speaks to me now, but her voice is withdrawn. She doesn’t speak to me the way she always has. She doesn’t touch me. She doesn’t sing me to sleep like she used to. She cries a lot, and I’m not sure she’ll ever work through it. The light in my mother’s eyes is gone. She thinks that I should have died in the car wreck instead of my dad. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she wouldn’t cry so much if it had been me.
Days, weeks, and months pass. My mother doesn’t look the same to me anymore. She’s not beautiful, the way she was before. She’s thin. Her eyes are dark. She doesn’t even dress herself the same as she did before. My mother is broken. Heartbroken.
