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Koda joins me, sometimes nuzzling me as I quietly sobbed over Amy’s things. That dog may have chewed up my parents’ coffee table, but we’re cool. He finds me when I need extra support.
My therapist stares me down with a judgmental grip of her pen. I don’t tell my therapist I skipped Amy’s books, since I ran out of time. She must know.
She knows everything.
Amy was an avid reader, and her books were her prized possessions. Since she loved them so much, it makes sense to return them to her parents. I think Amy’s brother might want them for his own kids one day, especially since I’ve seen him with his wife around town and she’s pregnant.
We chatted when I saw him. Frank shook my hand, and I assured him I would see his parents soon. I’m waiting for this week’s assignment, which I’m sure is to call Amy’s parents.
“I went through all the boxes,” I say, telling a white lie. “And I didn’t avoid Amy’s brother when I saw him. We shook hands.”
“Good,” Dr. Vernon says, writing something down.What is she writing? Is she giving me a star?“How did that feel?”
How did that feelhas been a common phrase uttered in therapy. When she first asked it in our first session after I said I was nervous to call a therapist, I blabbed for five minutes. Now, I expect that question I hate so much, but I never answer it eloquently.
It’s tough when you’re feeling your feelings for the first time in years.
“I feel accomplished,” I say. “My mom will get off my dad’s case for the boxes in the attic.”
“What else?”
Damn it, I’m not going to get away with my cagey answer. My smile drops and I tuck my hands between my knees. “It was bittersweet. Seeing her things…I miss her. Is it normal to miss someone who has been gone for ten years?”
Usually, Dr. Vernon asks roundabout questions, making me come to my own conclusions on how to approach situations. Rarely does she give me any advice and it’s infuriating.
However, Dr. Vernon takes off her glasses and looks at me.
“Yes, it’s normal. Amy was a big part of your life.”
I nod and stay quiet. Looking up at my therapist, I say, “I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing her.”
“That’s fine, Jackson. I would be worried if you didn’t.” Dr. Vernon tilts her glasses and I brace for the next question. “How do you feel about calling her parents? Returning the stuff?”
I shrug although I’m shitting myself.Hi Pastor and Mrs. Williams, remember me? Your son-in-law who left town and stopped taking your calls? Yes, hi, here’s some of your daughter’s belongings that you might want. I kept some notes and her cardigan, but here’s all her other stuff that I’ve been keeping from you for years.
“I’m nervous,” I admit.
“Why?” she asks.
I grind my teeth. “They’ll realize I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain. With Amy.”
“And what was that?”
“That I would be happy. Move on.”
A memory overtakes me, one I’ve avoided for years.
It was right after Christmas, right before New Year’s. Amy had lots of energy that day, so she was sitting up, writing in her journal. I came in with flowers, laying them across her lap.
“Oh, thank you, baby,” she said, holding the blooms to her nose. She breathed in, the sound raspy. When she placed them down, she caught me looking at her.
Toward the end, I stared at her, trying to force the universe to let her stay. Memorize every inch of her so I could remember little details. So she didn’t waste away in front of my eyes and in my memory.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked.
I sat down next to her and took her frail hand in mine. “I just love you. So much.”
Amy’s expression grew serene as she stared at our hands intertwined. Toward the end, she couldn’t wear her wedding ring since it spun on her finger and slipped off constantly. When she looked up, her eyes were glassy. “I want you to be happy.”
