Chapter 45
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“What are you hoping to get out of therapy, Noah?”
Dr. Brunweiler, a calm older man with comically thick glasses, stared back at him, pen in hand. They were sitting in his office in Easton. Sunlight streamed through the window—a weirdly cheery sight for such a shitty day.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. This was such a waste of time. No amount of talking about his feelings was going to change reality—his friend had died, and it was his fault. That would always be the end of the story.
“I’m only here because my mom insisted,” he added.
“Why do you think your mom felt you needed to come see me?” the doctor asked gently.
Noah hugged a pillow tight against his chest. He’d promised his mom he would go, not that he would stay the whole time.
“You know, the time will pass faster if we find something to talk about,” the doctor said. “Might as well get it over with.”
Noah frowned. “My friend died.”
“Oh.” The doctor leaned forward. “Well, shit, that’ll do it. I’m going to take a wild guess that you haven’t been able to talk about it.”
Noah grunted.
“And it’s started to affect other aspects of your life,” the therapist offered.
Wow, rocket science. Noah didn’t dignify that with a response.
The doctor maintained his steady eye contact. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Three years.”
The doctor seemed to consider this. “Were you there when it happened?”
Noah paused. “Yes.”
“Would you like to tell me about what happened?”
“No.” He’d known him for five minutes. Did the doctor think Noah was going to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger?
The doctor sat back. “Grief is a strange and terrible beast. There are some days where it’s barely noticeable, like a low-frequency noise you can barely pick up in the background. And other days, it sucker punches you in the face the second your eyes open.”
Noah said nothing.
“Grief can be even more complicated if you witness the death firsthand. Maybe you even feel responsible,” the doctor said. “You might be plagued by thoughts that you could have changed the outcome.”
“I could have changed the outcome,” Noah muttered.
“That kind of rumination is not going to serve you, Noah. It’s natural to feel guilty when you survive and someone else doesn’t. I’m sure it’s difficult to make sense of the situation, but whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
Anger was simmering below the surface. This was such a waste of time.
“I know you don’t want to be here. I can tell by the way you’re strangling my second-favorite pillow,” the doctor said.
Noah released the pillow and crossed his arms instead.
“But don’t you think you owe it to your mom to give this an honest try? She loves you, and she wants to see you feel better. Do you think your friend would want you to feel this way?”
“It doesn’t matter what he would think or feel. Because he’s dead,” Noah said. “He was a dad, and a son, and a friend, and now he’s nothing. No amount of talking about it is going to change that.”
“That’s right,” the doctor said.
Noah blinked. “Aren’t you supposed to comfort me or some shit?”
“We can’t change the outcome,” the doctor said.
“But I can help you sort through your feelings about it. Find a way forward. If you meet me halfway, anyway. Or even a quarter of the way. Anywhere. I’m not here to judge, Noah.
I’m here to understand and to help. You don’t have to stay stuck in this dark place. ”
“I deserve to be stuck in a dark place,” he corrected.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
Noah hammered a finger on the coffee table. “If I had just kept two eyes on his daughter, he would still be here. Trust me, it’s my fault.”
The doctor leaned back and wrote something down. “What images come to mind when you think of that day?”
“Images? Are you gonna have me look at some black-and-white blobs and tell you I see a physical manifestation of my grief or some shit?”
“No blobs. I’m just curious what comes to mind.”
In an instant, Noah was involuntarily returned to that day. He could feel the salt spray on his face, hear the roaring of the wind. Izzy’s arms were wet around his neck, and frigid water was everywhere.
“Waves. Wind… Flowers,” he decided. He’d never forget Izzy’s flower-patterned rash guard sticking above the water.
“Okay.” The doctor made another note and took a beat. “Did going back to that place make you feel a little anxious?”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “Did mentally revisiting the place where my friend died make me anxious? Is that a serious question?” He squeezed his hands so tight that one of his knuckles popped.
The doctor tossed his notebook on the side table. Had he given up already? He crossed one leg over his knee. “What do you do for work, Noah?”
What the hell did this have to do with Bobby’s death?
“I…make furniture. And I’m a landlord. I volunteer at my mom’s exotic animal sanctuary too.”
The doctor nodded. “Sounds like you like to keep busy. What kind of furniture do you make?”
His posture relaxed. If the doctor wanted to waste his hour talking about furniture instead of forcing him to relive the worst day of his life, that was fine with him. “All kinds. Estuary tables. Dressers. Tables, chairs. Recently, some office furniture for my—uh, a tenant.”
A flash of Cassie’s laugh slid across his consciousness, and he shoved it back down.
“Do you have any pictures of your work?” the doctor asked.
Noah pulled out his phone and flipped through a couple pictures.
“Those are really beautiful. It must take a lot of patience to make something like that. I wouldn’t know because I can barely put together stuff from IKEA.”
Noah nudged the coffee table with his foot. “I can tell.”
The therapist smiled. “What do you like about woodworking?”
Noah paused to consider. “It feels like giving things a new lease on life. Lots of people look at lumber and just see a dead tree or firewood. I see potential, beauty. Just because it’s not providing oxygen anymore doesn’t mean its useful life has ended.”
“I like that,” the doctor said. “Do you find that working on these projects helps your feelings of anxiety?”
Ah, there it was.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a good distraction, I guess.”
The doctor nodded. “I think I can give you some other tools to help. You’re going to think they’re obnoxious, but I promise they’re worthwhile.”
“If you’re going to tell me to meditate—” Noah began.
“Bingo,” the doctor said. “Meditation, deep breathing, maybe even a little visualization. Let me give you some exercises.”
“That sounds stupid.”
“You can bash it all you want, but I still expect you to try it. Oh, look at that. Our time is up. And you survived. Was that so bad?”
Noah sputtered and looked at his watch. What the fuck? Had he just entered some kind of fugue state? How had Dr. Brunweiler tricked him into telling him so much?
“I’m proud of you for coming today. And I’d really like to see you next week.”
Noah frowned. “Fine.”
He left the office feeling strange. Everything was swirling inside him—intrusive memories of Bobby’s last minutes, flashes of his dad hooked up to a dialysis machine, Cassie’s long, slow smile when he lifted her over the fence.
The session had left him unsettled and jumpy.
Wasn’t therapy supposed to make you feel better?
He hurried to his truck and climbed into the driver’s seat, then he cranked the engine, letting the cool air blow over his face.
His heart was still hammering away. He pulled out the sheet the doctor had given him.
“Okay, 4-7-8 breathing,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and followed the instructions, focusing on his breath. In for four. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight. Easy.
He ran through it a couple more times and was annoyed as the danger in his body quieted bit by bit.
“Fuck,” he said, throwing the truck into gear and heading out of the parking lot.
He didn’t deserve to feel better.
Did he?