“Katie—”
“No.” I shake my head, refusing to let her try and change my mind. “It’s true. He murdered my dad. I don’t give a shit what he’s gone through or how many lives he’s saved. It doesn’t give him the right to do what he did. It doesn’t give him the right to get behind the wheel three sheets to the wind and put everyone else’s life in danger.”
“Do you think about him often?” Dr. Perry’s question throws me off balance. I take a step back.
“Yes, I think about him often,” I admit. “I think about him rotting in jail.”
“How about your mom and sister?” she asks. “How do they feel about him?”
A maniacal laugh falls from my mouth. “They’ve forgiven him.” My eyebrows furrow and I search Dr. Perry’s face for something—anything—that tells me she thinks that sounds as crazy as I think it does. “They’ve actually forgiven him.”
Dr. Perry’s knowing eyes watch me. Her stare becomes too intense. Turning away, I walk back to the couch and sit down. Crossing my arms over my chest, I effectively close myself off … or put on my armor … no difference, I guess.
Dr. Perry follows suit and sits down across from me in her plush chair, but she doesn’t look comfortable. She scoots to the edge and props her elbows on her knees. “Katie.” Her voice is careful and I lean back, unsure of what she’s about to say. “Have you ever wondered what he’s been through?” My jaw drops and her words rush out before I have the chance to argue. “Have you wondered what kind of life he’s lived, or the things he might have seen at war, or worse yet, what he’s had to do at war?”
“No!” I answer, a scowl plastered to my face. Shit, I can’t even seem to care about my family and how they’re feeling—how could I possibly care about how a murderer is feeling? “Hell no. Why in the world would I care what he’s been through? I don’t give a fuck about him. He killed my father.” The pain I felt earlier releases its grip around my heart as the anger trickles back in, and I feel like I can breathe again. This is what I’m used to. Anger I can handle. “I don’t care what he’s seen, or had to do. That’s the life he chose. And it doesn’t matter what he’s been through; it doesn’t make what he did right.”
“I’m not making excuses for him,” Dr. Perry states, reaching for her notepad. She scribbles something down and looks up at me. “I’m trying to find a way to help you move past the anger, and it seems to me that you’re holding on to the resentment you feel toward Lieutenant Drexler as a way to keep from moving forward.”
“I don’t want to move forward,” I bite out, grinding my teeth together to keep from screaming.
“Why?”
The truth sits heavy on my chest, but I need to get it off. I suck in a deep breath and let it out roughly. “Because I’ll be moving forward without my dad,” I lament, gripping my hair in my hands. “Then he’ll really be gone.” Those last words were whispered to myself, but I know Dr. Perry heard me … she hears everything.
“He’s already gone, Katie.”
Her words float around in my head as if testing themselves out, and when I don’t immediately feel the need to punch her, I take it as a good sign.
There’s no doubt in my mind that she’s right ... I do need to move forward. Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture the look of disappointment and sadness that I saw on Bailey’s face this morning, and a tiny piece of the wall I’ve erected around my heart falls to the wayside. “Okay,” I breathe, opening my eyes. “What do I need to do?”
The look of pride on Dr. Perry’s face is unmistakable, and her bright smile beams at me. She stands up, walks over to her desk and pulls out a piece of paper, which she hands to me before sitting back down. My eyes roam over the sheet, and when it sinks in what she’s trying to do, I raise my eyebrows and look up at her.
“Really?” I ask, scrunching my nose. “This seems a little silly. I don’t see how reaching out to a soldier is going to make things better. A soldier is my problem, remember?” I ask, dropping the paper next to me. I sit up a little straighter on the couch and cross my legs, knee over knee. “Maybe we should avoid any and all soldiers.”
“I can see why you would think that, I really do. But I believe if you get to know one, it might help you look at the situation differently. It might even make it easier to move past your anger so you can move forward with your life.”
“Fine. I’ll do it,” I say, fighting back an eye roll because that would be childish, and it’s probably something a twenty-seven-year-old woman shouldn’t do. Dr. Perry’s answering smile tells me that I’ve made her happy, and as long as I’m making everyone else happy, then I guess that’s what matters.
“Great.” Looking down, she scribbles something on her yellow legal pad—I hate that damn pad—and then she looks back up at me. “I’ll email you a list of participants in the soldier pen pal program so you can get started.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I ask, suddenly unsure of my decision.
“Whatever you want to say.”
“Fuck you?” I ask without an ounce of sarcasm. Surprisingly, Dr. Perry laughs and a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Well, you might not want to use those exact words, but if you think it’ll make you feel better, then go for it.” I don’t know how she does it, talking to people all day every day. It would drive me absolutely insane. Hell, I drive me absolutely insane.
Looking at the clock, I notice that my time is almost up. “Well, Doc, it’s been fun.” I move to stand up, but she reaches out a hand, stopping my movement.
“Wait,” she says, looking at me curiously. “You never did tell me why you left Wyatt out earlier. Would you like to talk about it before you leave?”
“No, I would not like to talk about it. We’ve talked enough for one day. I’m all talked out.” Plus, I think to myself, I don’t really know why. I guess that’s just one more thing I should add to my list of problems.
“Okay,” she says, laughing. “Then I guess we’re done for today. I’ll send you that list of names, and on Monday you can tell me what you did with it.”
“Sounds fantastic.” Sarcasm is dripping from my voice, but I don’t really give a shit. Right now, I just want to get home, take a shower and go to bed. Pushing up from the couch, I shake Dr. Perry’s hand and make my way out of her office.
“Oh, and Katie”—I stop and glance over my shoulder—“I want you to write the letter, not type it.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because writing it is much more personal.” She offers me a small wave and then turns toward her desk. I shake my head as I walk out.
What in the hell did I get myself into? I don’t want to write a letter to some stranger, and I sure as hell don’t want to write to a soldier. As I head toward the car, my mind races with all the different things I could say to piss him or her off. Then that damn look on Bailey’s face pops in my head, and by the time I climb into my car, thoughts of what I should say to try and help me get through this have taken over.
Do I tell them about the accident and who it was that killed my dad? Do I tell them about everything I’ve been feeling and thinking since I woke up? How much is too much? My mind continues in a thousand different directions, so fast that I can’t even keep up with it. Before I know it, I’m pulling into my driveway with absolutely no recollection of driving here.
I put my car in park and stare at my house. It’s nothing special, just a small, two-bedroom home, but it’s mine and I’m damn proud of it. Last summer, Dad worked hard to make the outside look presentable. He repainted the house, added some landscaping, planted a tree in the front yard, and he even hung up a porch swing. Tears fill my eyes when I think about all the things my dad did for me … all the things we did together.