Isaac. “We want to help you overcome your loss, Isaac. All of our doctors determined you are suffering greatly. They’re worried about you.”
“You can get closure,” I say in a soft, familiar voice, making the entire room fall silent. “You can tell me everything you never got the chance to. I can hear you and react. I can make you stop longing and hurting and suffering. It’s all part of the process.” I’m not immune to the weight of my words; I know from the outside they can appear cruel or delusional. But this therapy has been tried and tested—it works. And right now, my heart aches for this boy in front of me. I understand why he’s been flagged by the grief department. He’s a risk to himself. If I can’t help him . . . I’m not sure what will become of him.
My words play across Isaac’s features—a flinch of love, of hate, of disbelief. He wants to pull me into his arms and never let me go. He wants to shove me away and tell me to never come back. He’s so conflicted I’m not sure there’s much I can do to bring him peace. I want to cross to him and wipe away his tears, stitch together his pieces. That’s what I would have done before. But right now I’m not the remedy for his breaking heart. I’m the cause.
When he doesn’t answer, I try a different path. “We can talk online instead,” I offer. “That’s easier sometimes.”
He blinks, his movements slow and exhausted. If my dad wasn’t holding him up, I’m afraid he would fall. Isaac examines me again, taking a long time on the prom dress. His expression empties, as if all of his emotions have drained away.
“No,” he says simply. “I want nothing to do with you.”
Both of my parents react as if he’s really just broken up with me. As if I’m not dead and this is my future husband telling me it’s over. In truth, it does hurt. Isaac is a huge part of my history, my personality. We’ve shared so much—I’m not sure he can handle this loss either.
“Please,” my mother pleads. “The party is in two weeks, Isaac. Can’t you just make this perfect for two weeks?”
Isaac laughs softly, sadly. “I’m sorry, Eva,” he tells her. “But I can’t do that.” He moves past my dad, patting his upper arm as he does. Without even a curious glance back at me, Isaac exits the room and leaves the therapy behind. Leaves us in his emotional wake.
* * *
The rest of dinner is solemn and uneventful. My prom dress, maybe at first nostalgic, feels garish and silly now that Isaac has shattered the illusion. I stay in character, though, and Marie directs the conversation with a friendly set of questions meant to offer comfort as my parents reminisce about our lives. My dad doesn’t participate much, although he sits through the entire meal. I offer to clear the plates, and my mother chuckles and tells me not to worry about it tonight.
“Chores can start again tomorrow,” she says good-naturedly, slipping back into her denial. My mother takes my plate, but pauses next to me. She’s surrounded in the soft scent of detergent and flowery perfume, both subtle and comforting. When I look up, she brushes her hand over my hair adoringly. Her eyes are the same color as my contacts. Then she takes my dirty dish to the kitchen.
“I think we’re done for the evening,” my father says to Marie. She nods, and they both stand. For a moment I wonder if this means he wants me to leave, and I’m truly afraid of failure. “Thank you for bringing her,” he tells Marie, and presses his mouth into a closed-lip smile. I’m awash with relief.
“Of course,” she murmurs. “Now, Catalina,” she says, turning to me, “would you mind walking me to the door?”
I get up and follow her out of the room, wilting slightly under my father’s study. He doesn’t trust me, but something about the evening has made him at least willing to give therapy a shot. For that I’m grateful, because it’s obvious how much the family needs
“You can get closure,” I say in a soft, familiar voice, making the entire room fall silent. “You can tell me everything you never got the chance to. I can hear you and react. I can make you stop longing and hurting and suffering. It’s all part of the process.” I’m not immune to the weight of my words; I know from the outside they can appear cruel or delusional. But this therapy has been tried and tested—it works. And right now, my heart aches for this boy in front of me. I understand why he’s been flagged by the grief department. He’s a risk to himself. If I can’t help him . . . I’m not sure what will become of him.
My words play across Isaac’s features—a flinch of love, of hate, of disbelief. He wants to pull me into his arms and never let me go. He wants to shove me away and tell me to never come back. He’s so conflicted I’m not sure there’s much I can do to bring him peace. I want to cross to him and wipe away his tears, stitch together his pieces. That’s what I would have done before. But right now I’m not the remedy for his breaking heart. I’m the cause.
When he doesn’t answer, I try a different path. “We can talk online instead,” I offer. “That’s easier sometimes.”
He blinks, his movements slow and exhausted. If my dad wasn’t holding him up, I’m afraid he would fall. Isaac examines me again, taking a long time on the prom dress. His expression empties, as if all of his emotions have drained away.
“No,” he says simply. “I want nothing to do with you.”
Both of my parents react as if he’s really just broken up with me. As if I’m not dead and this is my future husband telling me it’s over. In truth, it does hurt. Isaac is a huge part of my history, my personality. We’ve shared so much—I’m not sure he can handle this loss either.
“Please,” my mother pleads. “The party is in two weeks, Isaac. Can’t you just make this perfect for two weeks?”
Isaac laughs softly, sadly. “I’m sorry, Eva,” he tells her. “But I can’t do that.” He moves past my dad, patting his upper arm as he does. Without even a curious glance back at me, Isaac exits the room and leaves the therapy behind. Leaves us in his emotional wake.
* * *
The rest of dinner is solemn and uneventful. My prom dress, maybe at first nostalgic, feels garish and silly now that Isaac has shattered the illusion. I stay in character, though, and Marie directs the conversation with a friendly set of questions meant to offer comfort as my parents reminisce about our lives. My dad doesn’t participate much, although he sits through the entire meal. I offer to clear the plates, and my mother chuckles and tells me not to worry about it tonight.
“Chores can start again tomorrow,” she says good-naturedly, slipping back into her denial. My mother takes my plate, but pauses next to me. She’s surrounded in the soft scent of detergent and flowery perfume, both subtle and comforting. When I look up, she brushes her hand over my hair adoringly. Her eyes are the same color as my contacts. Then she takes my dirty dish to the kitchen.
“I think we’re done for the evening,” my father says to Marie. She nods, and they both stand. For a moment I wonder if this means he wants me to leave, and I’m truly afraid of failure. “Thank you for bringing her,” he tells Marie, and presses his mouth into a closed-lip smile. I’m awash with relief.
“Of course,” she murmurs. “Now, Catalina,” she says, turning to me, “would you mind walking me to the door?”
I get up and follow her out of the room, wilting slightly under my father’s study. He doesn’t trust me, but something about the evening has made him at least willing to give therapy a shot. For that I’m grateful, because it’s obvious how much the family needs
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