Chapter 21
Holding it together is all I can do, but Mom says that’s all right.
She gets me an emergency appointment with Anna.
We sit on the couch that night and watch home renovation shows on HGTV, my head in her lap and her fingers stroking the hair above my ear.
Every three minutes or so, I have to distract myself from my own thoughts; they go down tracks I don’t realize are there until I’m careening down them.
Sometimes I bite the inside of my cheek really hard, or pinch myself, or tug on my hair.
I know this is self-harm and I need to talk to Anna about it, but this is what I can do until I have something better, so I do it.
As long as Mom is nearby, I know I won’t be able to do anything worse.
During one commercial break, Mom says, “I realized something too late the other day. When I tried to tell you about how your dad had been before he died, I was telling you the wrong story.”
It feels right to give her privacy by not looking up at her face. “What do you mean?”
“I shouldn’t have been telling you about your dad’s depression. He never got help for it. I should have been telling you about mine.”
I pause. “Yours?”
“After he died. That’s why I went to therapy.”
“I—I guess I knew you were depressed, but I didn’t know you meant . . . like this.”
“I didn’t want you to know. You were too young.
Honestly, I’d hoped you would never know what depression feels like.
” She keeps running her fingers through my hair.
“I didn’t know what to do with myself after he died.
I didn’t know what to do with you. Nothing seemed fair.
I was mad at him, at myself, at God, at everything.
I didn’t think anything would ever be right again.
I thought I’d failed him. But most of all, I couldn’t understand why this had to happen to us.
Had we done something wrong? Had he? Were we being punished for something, or had we just pulled the short straw?
“Eventually—and it took a long time—I accepted that I was never going to know. Lots of people have cancer. Lots of them die from it. We weren’t special. And I wasn’t special for feeling the way I did.”
“How did you get over it?”
“I didn’t,” she says.
My heart sinks. So I will be like this forever.
But then she continues. “But that doesn’t mean I’m unhappy.
Things are hard sometimes. Certain movies or songs or even scents can make me remember how I felt then, and my emotions become total chaos.
It doesn’t last, though. I can calm down and get my head right.
Working helps. So does gardening. So does taking care of you.
” She tickles my ear, making me laugh and squirm.
The laugh still feels hollow, though, but there’s an echo of my old self there.
“All those hard times teach you how to appreciate contentment. Every moment doesn’t need to be the best moment of your life; it’s enough to just be okay. ”
“You think I can get to that point?”
“I know you can.”
“It doesn’t feel like it right now.”
“I know. Right now, it doesn’t feel like anything can be good ever again. But one day it will. One day you’ll be able to look around and you won’t be so scared or so sad. Things will be okay. Until that happens, I’ll be here to remind you.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too.”
I’m able to sleep that night, but not without nightmares. Alissa dying. Me dying. My mom dying. Me driving myself off a cliff. Alissa still alive but cutting me out of her life. The world ending, but me still alive, wandering the empty earth.
I wake up exhausted and scared. Mom took the day off, so I sit with her in the kitchen, and she gets me some applesauce and a piece of toast. For her, I try to eat. That makes me cry too—that I have to try so hard to eat. Something so essential to human existence seems insurmountable.
She calls the school office and tells them I’m sick.
We go for a walk. Instead of constantly asking me if I’m okay, she talks about what’s going on at the dealership, her customers, some stupid thing her boss said.
It helps me remember that some things are normal.
If Mom is talking about regular things, and she’s not scared or worried, then everything is okay.
I still don’t believe it completely, but I tell myself that it’s true.
The appointment with Anna is before noon, earlier than I usually go. When we get there, I say, “Is it okay if I go in by myself?”
She pauses with her seat belt halfway off. “Are you sure?”
“I think I should.” I can’t explain why.
“If that’s what you want. Can I walk you in, at least?”
“Sure.”
We go in. The receptionist isn’t there. There’s an Out for Lunch, Back After One sign on the desk. My heart drops. I had hoped she’d be here. I could see that person who has her life together, who came out the other side.
I guess my mom is that person, and I never realized it.
Mom leaves. I sit, alone. All of a sudden, I feel like scum for making her wait out in the car. Even though it’s a beautiful day outside, and she’s given no indication she’s upset, I have done something unforgivable. She’s spent all this time with me to make sure I’m okay, and I send her away.
I do my best to cry quietly, but when Anna emerges from her office, saying goodbye to another client, I can tell they’ve heard me.
“Come on inside, Evie,” Anna says.
She offers me a tissue box and lets me cry until I get myself under control again.
“Sorry,” I say. “I can’t stop crying.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” she says. “Is this why you didn’t want your mom to stay in the office with you?”
I blow my nose again. “She’s going to get sick of me if I keep crying like this. But I can’t . . . can’t get it under control.”
“I don’t think that’s true. Have you told her you feel like that? Heard what she has to say about it?”
I shake my head. I’m too scared.
“I bet she’ll surprise you.” Anna smiles; it’s not mean. “A lot of people cry when they come in here. You’re not alone. Many people try to hide it too. But crying is one of your body’s ways of releasing emotion. It’s good for you.”
“Crying sucks.”
“It can definitely suck when you’re doing it all the time, and you feel out of control.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’ll s-s-stop.”
“It will.”
“I feel like I’m in a long dark tunnel and I’m going to walk into a brick wall at the end.
There won’t be any light. I barely kept myself from doing something really bad, and I don’t know if I can stop myself again.
I don’t know what to do.” It comes out like a whine, high and sad, and I hear my own desperation in it. That scares me more than anything.
Anna listens, expression open, not judging. “When the situation is serious like this, it might be a good idea to bring your mom into our conversations. She’s your main support right now.
“What’s most important to know right now is that you are not alone, and this feeling, like there’s no hope, is a lie. It doesn’t feel like one, I know. It feels like the absolute truth. When we feel that way, we’re not capable of telling ourselves there’s anything else.
“There’s not one single answer as to what you should do. You have to find what works for you. Medication can help. So can therapy, so keep coming here. Or to a different therapist, if you want to change. If you have supports, like your mom, they can help you remember that things can be okay again.”
“She shouldn’t have to do that, though,” I say. “She’s already doing so much.”
“Don’t worry about that. She’ll do it because she loves you. She doesn’t mind.”
I blow my nose again. My whole face is starting to feel like one big swollen sore. The wad of tissues takes two hands to hold. I take a deep breath.
“It’s extraordinarily hard to lose someone close to you,” Anna says.
“I think we do our children a disservice by not explaining that, but it’s so hard to explain because we all try to forget it, or bury it.
The grief never really goes away. You learn to live with it, though, and it gets easier to bear.
Then maybe you get the chance to help someone else bear theirs.
“In case no one else has said it to you yet, Evie, I’ll say it again: I’m sorry this happened.
I’m sorry that you have to feel this way, that you lost your friend, and that there’s no miracle I can perform to take this grief away.
What I can do is listen to whatever you need to say, however you need to say it.
I can help you find more help. Do you think you can stick with me through this?
And I want the honest answer—not the answer you think you’re supposed to give. ”
That last part makes me pause. I take a moment. Lean over and drop the wad of tissues into the trash can, then reach for a fresh one.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can.”