Chapter 43
Mitch had told Harper things he’d never told anyone. Deep, painful things. The ones that had left scars on his soul.
About Jeanie’s last days and how he’d dealt with his own pain and feelings of helplessness by constantly writing. How he regretted that. How his son hated him for it. How Mitch thought his inability to write now was a kind of just desserts. How he didn’t believe he could ever truly be happy again.
He didn’t know what had come over him to make him share so much. She just had a way about her that made talking so easy. And once he’d started, it had poured out of him.
She sat there, listening and nodding, and never once making him feel judged. She was very good at what she did, that much had become clear. Whatever training or education she’d received, the school should be commended. But then, maybe she was just an especially gifted listener. He wasn’t sure that was something that could be taught.
Whatever the reason for her skills, he was grateful. Out of words, he sat back and sighed. He felt wrung out, emotionally.
“You’ve experienced an incredible amount of loss,” Harper said softly. “The fact that you’re still able to get yourself dressed in the morning should be praised.”
He glanced down at his pajama pants and shook his head. “Except I didn’t actually get dressed this morning.”
“You know what I mean. To some degree, you’ve found a way to survive this loss. Maybe not the way you think you should have or as well as you think you should have, but you’ve made a way for yourself. That takes a huge amount of fortitude. And it’s exhausting, physically, mentally, and emotionally.”
He felt the truth of that in his bones. “You’re right. It is. And half the time I still can’t sleep. I don’t know how I keep going some days.”
“You do it because there’s something inside you that won’t let you quit. Something that knows there are better days ahead.”
“Maybe. But I don’t feel that way.”
“Your subconscious does. Or maybe it’s your lizard brain. It’s the part of you that’s focused on survival. It knows. And that’s what’s pulling you through.”
“Lizard brain,” he repeated. “I always think that’s where my best storytelling comes from. That deep down, ancestral part of my brain that holds the truths of the universe, if only it could be unlocked.” He glanced at her. “You think that’s what’s keeping me going?”
“I do. But…”
He frowned. “But what?”
“I say this with great care and understanding for what you’ve been through and how you’re handling it. You could be doing better. Talking is a big step forward, however. Maybe it’s enough. For now.”
“What else do you think I could be doing?”
“My suggestion would be to keep this conversation going. But not necessarily with me. Do you journal?”
He made a face. “You mean like a diary? No.”
“It can be a great way to get what’s happening here,” she pointed at her head, “out. And you can put anything you want on paper. It’s just for you. No one else will ever see.”
The thought intrigued him. “So, this isn’t like homework?”
She laughed softly, a pleasant sound. “Nope. It’s just for you. If you want to do it.”
“I write all day. Or at least I try to. What makes you think this would work?”
“Maybe it won’t. Hard to say until you try it. But the fact that you write for a living makes me think this approach would be particularly effective. It’s a medium you’re familiar with, and one you excel at using.”
“And you’re not going to ask to see any of it?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. If you want to show me, that’s fine, but I wouldn’t expect to be privy to what you write.”
He liked that. “How would I start? Just sit down at the computer and—”
“No. Longhand. In a notebook or whatever you like but find a way to separate it from your job. Keep the personal you different from the work you. That’s something else I think will help with the book writing. Right now, those two sides of you are blurred. On some level, it’s very possible you blame your writing for your distance from Jeanie at the end. Even though you changed that behavior, you told me yourself you felt like it was too little, too late.”
“I still do.” He exhaled. “I never thought about it that way.” Made sense, though. “Okay, I’ll try journaling. Before bed or what?”
“I’d suggest first thing in the morning. Clear your head by putting it on paper. Make peace with what you write, too. Don’t judge yourself for any of it. That journal is your own personal confessional. It’s a vault.”
“I’ll try it tomorrow then.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. He was still tired, but he felt better even though he was exhausted. Unburdened. Less awful than he had before they’d started talking. Although he’d done nearly all of the talking. “Thank you for this. For listening. Did you do this for Arlington?”
She smiled demurely. “I can’t answer that.”
“No, of course not.” He smiled, too. “I think…I might be able to write a few pages today. At the very least, I’m going to read over what I’ve already written and work on that. Flesh it out a bit or something.”
“That’s great. If you decide you want to talk again at the end of the day, about the book, or anything, just text me. You have my number. Now, I should go home and check on Archie. Thank you for that very thoughtful gift basket of dog treats, by the way. That was really kind of you.”
He couldn’t take credit for all of it. “The basket was Joyce’s idea. I was going to send flowers.”
“Joyce is pretty amazing, in case you didn’t already know that.”
“Yeah, I know. She is. Jeanie adored her.”
“I’m sure Joyce adored Jeanie right back.”
He nodded, thinking of better days. “Joyce has done so much for us.”
“She still is doing a lot for you.”
“True.” He leaned his elbows on his knees. He couldn’t fathom where he’d be now if Joyce hadn’t been around then.
“I’m sure you pay her very well, and that’s great, but have you said thank you to her recently? She’s been grieving, too. This can’t have been easy for her.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re right. I don’t know why that never occurred to me. She never even took time off. Just kept on doing what she’d always been doing.” He sighed and put his face into his hands. “I’ve been so wrapped up in myself. I’m a terrible person.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just a grieving person.”
He huffed out a breath. “Am I ever going to be anything different?”
“Eventually, yes. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
“I’ll try. Thanks. For everything.”
“I’ll see myself out.” She stood. “You work on what Charlie’s going to do next.”
He got to his feet, smiling. “I’m going to give it a shot.” He got the office door for her. Joyce was nowhere to be seen. He walked with Harper to the steps that led to the front of the house. “Have a good rest of the day. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Sounds good. Bye.”
Harper left. He turned around. Joyce was in the kitchen. He took a small breath, surprised by her presence. How did she move so quietly and appear out of nowhere?
“Would you like some lunch?” she asked.
“Um…Yeah, okay.” Was it really that late already? He was hungry. And he hadn’t eaten the scone.
“Sandwich? Salad? Soup?
He nodded and slid onto one of the stools at the counter. “A sandwich sounds great. Thank you.” He shifted in his seat. “Thank you for everything you did for Jeanie, too. And for me and for Kyle. I’ve never actually said it, but you kept us going and I will always be grateful to you for that. In fact, take tomorrow morning off. I can make my own breakfast. And lunch. You don’t need to be here until three or four.”
If he had to make his own dinner, he’d probably set the kitchen on fire. Unless he just made a sandwich.
Her brows lifted slightly. “Blimey.” She glanced toward his office. “What exactly happened in there? Never mind, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. You’re welcome, of course. It’s been my pleasure to look after you all.”
“Harper is a good listener. And a nice person.”
Joyce started pulling things from the fridge. “Not bad-looking, either.”
He knew where that was headed and wanted none of it. “I’ll be right back. Forgot about an email I need to send. Call me when it’s ready.”
“Will do.”
He slipped back into his office and sat at the desk. He took a bite of the scone still sitting there, then opened his email. Nothing that needed his immediate attention. He clicked over to his document and went back to the very beginning to read through what he had so far.
By the time Joyce called out to him that lunch was ready, he’d added four hundred words and eaten the rest of the scone.
How was that possible after the wretched night he’d had? Could talking about what bothered him really make that much difference? Or did it have more to do with the woman who’d sat here, listening to him, showering him with compassion and understanding?
His brain said it had everything to do with Harper. But his heart felt like he was dangerously close to something akin to betrayal. That was nonsense. Harper was in no way a threat to Jeanie’s memory.
Was she?