Chapter 56 #2
He nodded. “I hope you do. But either way, if you can’t afford therapy right now, there are other resources you can explore. Online forums, support groups. Just because something’s free doesn’t mean it’s useless. And sometimes the anonymity can really help.”
He paused and opened a drawer. Then he pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a list of websites with short descriptions.
“You just have to be careful,” he warned. “There’s a lot of misinformation online. And you’re vulnerable, so you might not always catch it right away.”
I took the list and tucked it into my bag. “I’ll take a look when I get home. Thank you.”
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve still got five minutes left. Anything you want to talk about before we wrap up?”
I started to shake my head, then paused. “Actually… yeah. There’s one thing I’ve been wondering about.”
“Go ahead.”
“Remember the email thing I told you about ages ago?” I asked. “I’ve still been doing it every so often. Do you think that’s okay?”
The ‘email thing’ was something I’d started doing a few years after my dad was taken by the Carver.
When he was alive, he was an avid reader, especially of poetry. So on important days—holidays, anniversaries, family member birthdays—I’d send a short quote or stanza from a book he liked to his old email address.
I knew he wasn’t reading the messages. He couldn’t, for obvious reasons. But for those few seconds, it felt like I was sharing something with the real him. Like the thread between us hadn’t been completely severed by the Carver’s knife.
Dr. King nodded. “Yes, I remember. And yes, I do think it’s okay. Why do you ask?”
“I mentioned it to my sister the other day, and she said it’s really weird, and that I need to accept that Dad’s gone forever,” I replied. “But I have. I know he’s not coming back. It’s just comforting to send those emails. You know?”
He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands in his lap.
“I do know. And for what it’s worth, I think it’s entirely normal,” he said.
“It’s called ‘continuing bonds’, and it’s something grief research has shown to be healthy and healing.
Not harmful. It’s a way to stay connected to someone you’ve lost without being stuck in denial. ”
I looked down, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “Um… to be honest, there’s actually a little more to it,” I said. “I’ve never told my sister this part before. Or you, obviously. But I know I should’ve. I guess I didn’t because I felt too ashamed.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s okay. You can tell me now, if you’re ready.”
“About five years ago, I was doing a different kind of therapy. It was a weekly group meetup for people dealing with grief, and there was a man there who’d lost his teenage daughter.
We really connected. Sometimes we’d get milkshakes after the sessions and talk about everything we were going through.
” I hesitated. “Eventually, I told him about the email thing. He said he understood why I did it. And then he made me an offer.”
Dr. King raised a brow. “What kind of offer?”
“He said if I wanted, I could occasionally email him instead, at a new address that looked like it belonged to my father. That way, whenever I sent poetry quotes, he could reply.”
“As your father?”
“Yeah.” I swallowed thickly. “He’d say things like, ‘That was always my favorite line from Anne Sexton,’ or ‘You’ve got a good eye for words.
I’m proud of you.’ Stuff like that.” I paused.
“Obviously, I always knew it wasn’t really my dad replying.
But for a few seconds, when those replies came in…
it felt like it was. Like I’d somehow reached across the veil and touched him. And that really helped. It still does.”
Dr. King was quiet for a moment.
“I see,” he said at last.
I cringed. “So… on a scale of one to ten, how weird and messed up is that?”
“It’s a little unconventional, but I don’t think it’s messed up.” He hesitated, brow furrowing slightly. “As long as there was nothing else going on with this man? Given your age and vulnerability at the time.”
“No, absolutely not. He’s not a creep, and there was never anything inappropriate. He just figured it might help me, and he was right.”
“Well, I stand by what I said,” Dr. King replied. “It’s unusual, but I don’t think it’s unhealthy.”
“But… could it mean I haven’t really accepted the truth? Like my sister said?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It means you’ve found a private way to keep your father’s memory alive. If it’s brought you comfort on hard days, then that’s not holding on too tightly. It’s what I call ‘remembering with intention’, and it’s perfectly fine.”
A lump rose in my throat, but I forced it down. “Thanks,” I said softly. “That makes me feel a little less crazy.”
He offered me another soft smile. “Remember, grief doesn’t follow a linear path. Sometimes it softens, and sometimes it stings all over again,” he said. “What matters is finding the things that help you carry it.”
“That makes sense,” I murmured.
For a moment, we just sat in the stillness. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that always settled in after something honest had been said.
“Well, it looks like our time is officially up now,” Dr. King finally said, glancing at his watch again. He offered me a small smile. “Be safe, Kennedy, and keep up with those grounding techniques, okay?”
I nodded again and bade him goodbye.
I left the student health center with my coat wrapped tight around me, bracing myself against the biting sea breeze.
The sun was already dipping behind the campus buildings, casting everything in a golden haze.
I walked quickly, like always, but I still felt it: that familiar old itch of anxiety between my shoulder blades. Like eyes on the back of my neck.
I glanced over my shoulder. No one was there. I shook it off and picked up the pace.
The bus was already half-full when I boarded, so I slipped into a window seat near the middle and tucked my bag onto my lap.