31. Delia
thirty-one
Delia
The week after Thanksgiving, the room smelled faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee, a mix I had grown used to over the last year and a half. I adjusted my blazer, the fabric suddenly feeling too tight around my shoulders, and rubbed the back of my neck.
I was hot all the time lately, and it didn’t help that my stomach churned every morning before I left for the counseling center. Subtle, but undeniable, symptoms of my pregnancy that I wasn’t ready to name. At least not out loud. But my secret was becoming harder to ignore.
My client for this session was already seated with Jeremy when I entered the room, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his gaze fixed on the floor. He didn’t look up when I greeted him, his focus on the tightly clasped hands resting on his lap.
“Hi, Matt,” I said gently, sliding into the chair across from him. “It’s good to see you again.” Jeremy sat in a chair next to mine, looking at me, letting me guide the session.
“Hey,” Matt mumbled, his voice low. He glanced up briefly, but his blue eyes darted away before they could meet mine.
“How’s your week been?” I asked, keeping my tone light but open.
He shrugged, his fingers twisting together. “Same as always.”
I nodded, giving him space to fill the silence if he wanted. When he didn’t, I pressed a little further. “And when you say the same, you mean…”
Matt shifted in his chair. His jaw tightened. “The dreams, obviously!” he snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. I didn’t react, holding his gaze patiently. He exhaled sharply. “Sorry. They’re worse.”
“What’s happening in the dreams?” I asked carefully, leaning forward just a bit.
Matt’s hands clenched into fists, his voice low and shaky. “It’s not just dreams. It’s the smells, sounds, the way light hits…like I’m right back there. People burning. Rotting flesh. Darkness so heavy it’s real. And the crying—always crying. I wake up, and I can’t breathe.”
My chest tightened with sympathy. “That sounds overwhelming,” I said softly. “It must feel exhausting.”
Matt’s gaze flicked to mine, and his voice dropped. “I just want it to stop. I can’t keep living like this.”
I glanced at Jeremy, who nodded slightly from his seat, but Matt’s words made my stomach twist. Saying he couldn’t live like this was serious—an indicator of suicidal ideation. “Matt,” I began gently, “when you say you can’t live like this, do you have a plan?”
His eyes snapped up, sharp and defensive. “If I didn’t kill myself when I was there, I’m not going to now. Jesus. Is there anywhere I can tell the truth without someone freaking out?”
“You can always tell me the truth, Matt,” I assured him, my voice steady. “But if I don’t take what you say seriously, I’m not a safe person for you to talk to, am I?”
He stared at me, his face softening slightly. “You think I can get better? That this… this isn’t all there is?”
“I do,” I said firmly. “This isn’t all there is for you, Matt. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s possible. And you’re not alone.”
Matt nodded slowly, some of the weight lifting off his shoulders as we worked through some grounding exercises together. But as I guided him, I couldn’t stop thinking about Robert.
Matt’s struggles reminded me of him—how his face had gone pale at a backfiring car, how he’d confessed to handcuffing himself to the bed so he wouldn’t hurt Corinne in his sleep. The war still lived inside Robert just like it lived inside Matt. And yet, Robert had kept going. Ten years, still fighting the same battles. Was I lying to Matt, telling him it would get better? Or would it always just…ebb and flow like the tide?
I pushed the thought aside, focusing back on Matt. He needed my full attention right now, and I owed him that. When our session ended, I walked him to the door and gave him an encouraging smile. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little stronger now. “Thanks, Delia.” He turned to Jeremy and said, “Hey, she’d better graduate.”
Jeremy gave a thin smile, but I could feel the tension lingering between us since the library before Thanksgiving. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to get back together or if he just wanted to keep me hanging on, but whatever his goal was, it wasn’t working.
As Matt left, I gathered my notes, my mind still lingering on the session. Jeremy shut off the camera and said, “You did good. That was a good session.”
“Thanks, Jeremy,” I said, holding my notes against my chest, but the tension in my body didn’t let up.
“I mean, it was bullshit, but it was good.”
My smile faltered, and I felt a rush of cold go through my body. “What?”
He started to unwind the camera from the tripod, not looking at me as he said, casually, “We both know these guys don’t get better, Delia. Look at Robert—he hears a car backfire, and he’s a total mess. And he’s in his forties. We’re just keeping them alive, that’s all.”
Clearing my throat, I asked, “Why would you say that? Do you really believe that?”
Jeremy fiddled with putting his hand through the strap on the camcorder. When he met my eyes, he said, “I’m kidding. Jesus, Delia. Of course, I don’t.”
I gave a fake laugh and muttered uneasily, “Oh, sure. Of course. Sorry, I guess I’m just…somewhere else today.”
“I noticed you seemed distracted. I hope Matt didn’t notice. It can trigger Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria in these guys when they think people don’t care.”
I felt a stab of guilt in my chest. I hadn’t realized I’d been so obvious. “Gosh, do you really think…I mean, he seemed like he felt a little more optimistic when he left.”
Jeremy shrugged. “These guys always hide their feelings. No way to tell, really. You’ll get better at being more present, don’t worry about it.” He patted my shoulder. “I still think it was a good session.”
“Okay…” I hesitated at the door before leaving, feeling like I needed to fix it but knowing that I couldn’t. But when I looked back, Jeremy was already attending to his notes, not looking at me anymore.
I walked through the hallways to the office and found one of the administrative assistants, a woman named Linda, standing by the filing cabinets with a clipboard in hand. She looked up when she saw me and gave me a sheepish smile.
“Hey, Delia. Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked, her tone hesitant.
“Of course,” I said, setting my notes down on the desk. “What’s up?”
Linda hesitated, glancing at the clipboard before meeting my eyes. “We were doing a routine check on the recorded hours for your practicum, and… well, you’re missing some.”
“Missing?” I repeated, my stomach sinking. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you reported more hours than we have videos of,” she said, her brow furrowing. “We’ve checked the system multiple times. Do you know why that could be?”
“No,” I said, a little shrilly, then evened out my voice. “No. Is there somewhere else to check?”
“There’s no trace of them, Delia. Are you sure you reported the right amount?” Linda asked evenly, and I felt fear knot up in my shoulder blades. Was she accusing me of defrauding the system? An accusation like that could ruin my academic career.
“I’m...I guess I could have made a mistake, but it’s unlikely. I mean, I work the same amount every week,” I said lamely, as panic bubbled under the surface.
“I know,” Linda said comfortingly, sensing how anxious I was. “It’s like they were deleted.”
“How many hours?”
“192,” she said sheepishly, looking down for a moment, unable to meet my eyes.
“192?” I shrieked. I did the math in my head. I worked eight hours a week. Eight hours a week, times four weeks, times… “That’s six months!” Six months of hours. Gone.
Those hours were crucial for completing my practicum—without them, I’d be at risk of not meeting the requirements for graduation.
“Could they have been deleted? Is that possible?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, as I leaned forward over the counter like I might see them somewhere labeled ‘Delia’s missing videos.’
Linda met my eyes with her watery hazel ones. I could tell she felt bad, but her sympathy wouldn’t help me graduate. “We’re still looking into it. None of the other students’ videos were missing—just yours.”
Her words sent a chill down my spine. Just mine. The timing of it felt too coincidental, especially after what Robert had told me about the harassment at his classes. Was it possible someone was trying to sabotage us? And if so, why?
“I’ll figure it out,” I said weakly, though I wasn’t sure what I’d be figuring out exactly. What was I going to do, manifest the videos? If they were gone, they were gone.
I forced a smile and walked quickly out the door, my hands trembling slightly.
Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that I’d faced challenges before and come out stronger. I could handle this, too. One step at a time. If I was late graduating, okay, so what? I could handle two more semesters. Couldn’t I?
And it still might work out. They might find the videos.
Or at least for now, that’s what I needed to think to get through the rest of the day without letting the weight of it all crush me.