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Sara’s tone remains light, even as we broach the topic of Sal’s death. “It might seem a bit forward, but trust me, Charlotte, diving in can lead to better understanding. So I understand you were there the night Sal passed away?”
Murdered.
“Wow, jumping right into it, aren’t you?” I shiver, grateful for the baking setup that Sara arranged. Knowing I can’t share every detail of that night, I decide to offer her a glimpse into what she’s seeking.
I pause, cracking an egg into a bowl. “Yes, I was. I was working that night.”
“Working at the diner, I assume?” she prompts gently.
I nod, my gaze fixed on the bowl in front of me. “Yes, Sal enjoyed cooking. He mentioned that it kept him busy, but I don’t think he wanted to give up control of the food to another cook.”
Sara’s voice carries a soothing quality. “And on that night, when you witnessed what happened to him, how did you react?”
My hands falter slightly as I recall the shock and disbelief that gripped me, but all of that came after the fact. “I…didn’t react.” I’m already failing at this. “Sal was always so vibrant. He had this presence that was hard to ignore.” I wince, aware that my words feel fabricated.
A lie.
Sara nods, her eyes attentive. I think she sees right through me. “It’s natural to feel that way. The suddenness of such events can be jarring.”
I continue mixing the ingredients, the rhythmic motion helping to steady my thoughts. Baking soda, flour, cornstarch. “Yeah, I get that.”
Sara’s voice carries empathy. “Loss has a way of making us confront our own fragility. It can bring up a mix of emotions.”
I look up at her, my eyes connecting with her compassionate gaze. “You’re right—I felt angry, confused, and…guilty somehow.” She has such an ease about her that I don’t realize what I’ve said until after, and I can’t take my words back.
“Guilty?” Sara prompts, her voice inviting me to explore deeper.
I sigh, placing the bowl down for a moment. “Guilt because I wasn’t fast enough to save him. I didn’t do anything. I just watched.” The words burst out of me, and I hang my head. “I didn’t save him.”
Sara’s expression remains soft, encouraging me to continue.
“I watched as a man put a bullet in his head—a bullet that could have hit me—and I did nothing to stop it. I could have chased the man. I could have tackled him. I could have done anything but just watch as it happened,” I admit, my voice tinged with regret.
Sara’s response is gentle. “Those thoughts can be overwhelming, Charlotte. They are a way for our minds to try to make sense of things that are beyond our control. Even guilt can be beyond our control.”
I take a deep breath, letting her words sink in. “Yeah, I guess I’m just trying to make sense of it all.”
Sara’s smile is understanding. “And that’s completely normal. Processing loss takes time. We tend to replay moments in our heads, looking for answers that might not be there. You said you didn’t react. Can we go back to that?”
I shrug, not making eye contact with the woman across the table from me. It’s her job to dissect my feelings. Maybe I should just lay it all out on the table for her and give her what she wants. I can’t talk to anyone else about what happened, but I can talk to her.
“Sometimes, just putting our thoughts and feelings into words can help us see things from a different perspective,” Sara assures me.
Setting the whisk aside, I peel the butter to melt, all while taking a moment to breathe. “I didn’t react,” I admit, nibbling my bottom lip and looking away as if avoiding her gaze might make this confession easier, except I still feel her eyes lingering on me. “I didn’t freeze, not really, but I didn’t react. I just stood there. Not even the sound of the gun jarred me.” With a teeth grinding frustration, I retrieve the butter from the microwave and pour it into my sugar mixture.
Turning back around, I see Sara’s soft, understanding smile. “Are you familiar with the freeze response, Charlotte?”
I glance up at her through my lashes as I respond. “No.”
“Most people know all about fight or flight. Flight, you would have run from the kitchen, away from the danger. Fight, you might have faced the killer and confronted him. There’s more to the response in a traumatic event though. There’s also freeze and fawn. Fawn, you’d use words to de-escalate and try to appease, but you froze. You didn’t move,” Sara explains, bringing clarity to my actions.
“I told him to take the cash, but I knew he wasn’t there for the cash. He was there for Sal.” As I slowly work the flour into the buttery mixture, the scents evoke memories of home in Yonkers—holidays and laughter.
“We aren’t one-size-fits-all when it comes to trauma,” she says gently. “I’d say it’s a mix of fawn and freeze. Do you often repress your emotions?”
“It’s not even noon, and I feel attacked,” I mutter under my breath, earning a small smile from Sara.
“You need to feel those emotions, Charlotte. The good, the bad, and everything between. If you keep burying your emotions, they’ll eventually erupt in unhealthy ways.” Sara’s justification doesn’t necessarily soothe my reaction. If anything, it intensifies it.
