Chapter Seventeen
“ROWAN?”
I look up from an old magazine in the waiting room, where I’d been staring at photos of Zachary Butler and Eva Dean leaving a restaurant in New York City. The issue is three years old, but it somehow still stings to see them hand-in-hand. Neither is smiling; Zach looks particularly distraught—clenched jaw, eyes heavy. Deeply frustrated. The expression of a man for whom things are falling apart and there’s nothing he can do about it.
At the door to the office is a middle-aged woman in professional but relaxed attire: loose linen pants, blouse, chunky jewelry, her hair a mane of full, soft curls settling on her shoulders. She reminds me of Angela Bassett, though Dr. Kaya Baldwin is plumper with softer features.
She looks as if she’d give the most amazing hugs.
The therapist wears a gentle, welcoming expression, likely meant to be a calming influence on her patients. It’s no match for my nerves that flare up anyway. I set the magazine down and follow her into her office.
Like her, it’s elegant but warm, with potted plants and two plush beige chairs with a small table between them. Dr. Baldwin’s office is in Pacific Palisades, a swanky part of town; this visit is costing me a small fortune, but I have a deep hope unfurling in my heart that it’s worth it.
“Please. Sit.” Dr. Baldwin takes one chair, and I take the other, my hands fidgeting in my lap.
This was a mistake.
Already, howling grief and guilt wants to pour out of me. The blackest demon pain I’m scared to let out for fear it’ll tear me apart.
Dr. Baldwin cocks her head. “You seem very uncomfortable. It’s a big first step, isn’t it?’
I nod.
“I call that the ‘crying chair’ for a reason,” she says. “Feel free to make good use of it.”
“Wouldn’t that be a terrible first impression?”
“It wouldn’t be out of bounds.” Dr. Baldwin smiles. “If you’re more comfortable, you can start by telling me what brings you here.”
I like that option better and take a steadying breath. “Well, um…my dad died when I was thirteen, and that sort of ruined my mom. And when I was fifteen…” I swallow hard. “My boyfriend was hit by a car right in front of me. And since that time, I’ve put myself in bad situations, and I’m here because I’d like to not do that anymore.”
Dr. Baldwin holds my gaze intently. She has no notepad but rests her arms on her thighs, leaning in. If listening were an Olympic sport, she’d take gold.
“I’m so sorry, Rowan,” she says, her tone compassionate but not pitying. “That is a lot to carry. But tell me a little bit more. What do you mean by putting yourself in bad situations?”
“With men,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I have bad taste, to put it mildly. The scuzzier the better.”
“And why is that, do you think?”
“Because Josh, my boyfriend, was a really good guy. One of the best, and I thought we’d be together forever. And then he died, and it was my fault, so I don’t really try anymore.”
Dr. Baldwin’s face knits with concern. “Can you say more about why you believe Josh’s death was your fault?”
I tell her an abridged, just-the-facts-ma’am version of events from that horrible night, keeping my emotions in check. When I’m finished, she sits straighter, thinking for a moment. I brace myself for her to tell me it’s not my fault and leave me stuck in the same place I’ve been for ten years. But she doesn’t.
“How has this feeling of responsibility impacted your other relationships?”
Zachary Butler floats across my thoughts. “I don’t have any. Not real ones.”
“And what about other areas of your life? Schooling? Career?”
“I wanted to be a costumer for Hollywood,” I say, marveling at how readily the truth rolls out of me with this woman. “But I gave that up. I work as a PA—a production assistant—instead.”
“Because…?”
“Because it just hurts too much,” I say. “I was going to have a whole life with Josh, and it’s gone, and I can’t get away from that night. I feel like I’m still on that street where I watched it all fall apart and did nothing to stop it.”
She nods. “You have a remarkably clear understanding of your situation, Rowan. As if it were a math problem that you’ve worked to a final, unalterable conclusion.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Isn’t that what death is?”
“And what happens when you try to break out of this equation? What happens when you try to arrive at a different answer?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I tried. Once. Recently. There’s a guy and we…I might’ve had something with him, but it’s like a program in my brain that tells me I can’t. That I don’t deserve…”
“Don’t deserve…what?”
“Something better,” I whisper. “And it’s right.”
“Why?”
“Because he died . Josh was only fifteen. I was there. To just say, ‘Fuck it, things happen,’ feels all wrong. Like giving myself a free pass. That’s just cheap and makes his life cheap. Or disposable.”
Again, I expect Dr. Baldwin to tell me how wrong I am, but she nods again.
“Let me ask you this, Rowan. What’s changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re here,” she says. “You’re seeking help. That’s a huge step toward altering that programming. So, let’s go back to my original question: given everything you’ve just told me, what brings you here?”
Tears sting my eyes, and this time I don’t have the strength—or the will—to hold them back. “I’m tired,” I whisper. “Tired of living this way. I’m not going to relinquish responsibility. That’s cowardly. But maybe there’s a middle ground. Some way you can show me how to live with this and not feel so…”
“Burdened?”
I sigh. “That feels impossible.”
Dr. Baldwin reaches for a tissue from the box on her desk and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I dab my eyes as the therapist goes to her desk and withdraws a notebook and pen. I suppose she’s going to take notes after all, but she hands them both to me.
“We have a lot to unpack together,” she says, retaking her seat. “But I want to give you some relief now, before we delve deeper in subsequent sessions.” She takes a second to squeeze my hand. “Because you deserve that, Rowan. It’s good that you’re here, advocating for yourself against that programming. We’re going to work to undo it, but in the meanwhile…” She sits back. “I’d like you to look around at this office. At me. Out the window behind me.”
I do as she says. Through the window, I see the rest of the elegant office buildings, palm trees, and the blue of the ocean in the distance.
“Now, I want you to write on that paper, the word ‘guilt.’”
“Okay.” I do as she says.
“Now, tear that page out and hold it up in front of you.”
I hold the paper so all I see is it and that word.
“Can you see me?” Dr. Baldwin asks.
“No.”
“Can you see the room?”
“Not really. Just at the edges.”
“Can you see what’s out the window behind me? The horizon?”
The future?
My heart aches. “No.”
“No,” Dr. Baldwin says. “Because the guilt is in the way. Now, I’d like you to crumple the paper up into a ball.”
Doubt and disappointment boil up; she’s going to ask me to throw my guilt in the trash like a basketball shot. Cheesy. But I do what she says and crumple the paper.
“Good,” she says. “Can you see more clearly now?”
“Yes…”
“Can you see the word, guilt?”
“No.”
“But you know it’s still there.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, now I want you to tear that paper—that guilt—into shreds.”
I uncrumple the paper and tear the wrinkled sheet into little bits.
“Now, hold those scraps in the palm of your hand,” Dr. Baldwin says. “Is the paper still there?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel?”
“Light,” I say, tentative hope rising in me.
Like it could blow away…?
Dr. Baldwin smiles. “Now, I want you to close your eyes, Rowan, and imagine you’re holding in your hand a delicate blue butterfly. It’s so light and fragile. Can you feel it?”
I nod. The little pieces of paper in my hand are like the butterfly’s faint weight in my palm.
Or a beautiful moth…
I nod, tears stinging. “I can feel it.”
“Good.” Dr. Baldwin’s voice is like smoked honey in the dark behind my eyes. “Now I want you to imagine that your guilt is like that butterfly. You don’t want to hold it so tight that your hands ache, and all you know is that pain. And you don’t want to stare so intently that that’s all you see, so that it takes up so much room the rest of your life is relegated to the edges. Instead, hold it as you would a butterfly. Gently. Lightly. So it can fly away. It might come back. It will come back. But when it does, let it land. Just let it be. Can you try that, Rowan?”
I open my eyes that are flooded with tears. “Yes,” I say, my voice a whisper. “I can try.”
I leave Dr. Baldwin’s office feeling that if it weren’t for gravity, I’d fly off the face of the earth. Christ, is that all it takes? One little tool and I’m awake when I’d been feeling half-drugged for the last fifteen years.
I can practically hear J.J. now: One therapy session does not mental health make . But I feel a million times better and I didn’t have to dive into the black pit of grief and guilt to get here. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I don’t even need another session with Dr. B. At $450 an hour, I don’t know how many I can afford anyway.
Riding the wave of optimism, I fire up my laptop in my West Hollywood apartment and go to Mandy , the website that lists film and TV production jobs. It’s where I get most of my PA gigs, but this time, I peek at the art department listings.
At the top of the list is an upcoming film. A period piece set in the late 1800s. The Costume Lead is Laurent Moreau, which is odd since I vaguely remember him as a fashion designer. Not that it matters; I’d be at warehouse-level, not at the top. They need sewers to help costume the hundreds of extras the film will employ. It’s not creative, just grunt work, and I haven’t touched a sewing machine in nearly a decade. But it should be second nature. Like riding a bike.
My fingers hover over the “apply now” button. I can hear Jess again, telling me to not get ahead of myself. But hell, I’ve been behind myself for years. Putting my life on hold. The fact that I’m even considering this job without a side-helping of self-loathing is a win. I click the button.
But the universe is an asshole. The very next minute, I get a text from Josh’s mom.
Hi sweetheart! Haven’t heard from you in a while. I was wondering if you were free to come to the cemetery this Saturday? The weather is supposed to be lovely. Let me know! xoxo Carol
My buoyant hopes deflate, and my stomach drops. Here I am trying to move on, and Carol is stuck in a life without her son. It feels cowardly to leave her behind, but I don’t know how to help her. The only thing I know is that I can’t keep doing what I’ve been doing.
I turn the phone face down on my bed. A ding on my laptop alerts me that the Mandy listing has sent an auto-generated reply. An application. I suck in a shaky breath and start typing.