I tried to pull on the bravest, half-grin I could muster, “Yeah, Cal. I’m good. Just miss Randy from time to time. Mornings are not that great for me.” I grimaced and rested my head back down next to my best friend as she stroked my hair, trying to console me. The fact that I just lied to her, or at least told a half-truth, made me feel even worse; I hated lying to her.
She shot me a sympathetic smile and wrapped her arms around me, pulling my whole body tightly to her., “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through,” she whispered softly, and then kissed the top of my head.
We cuddled for a few minutes and Cali insisted on borrowing clothes of mine, getting ready with me and driving the both of us to work. I figured she was worried about me, so I didn’t protest her offer. Luckily, we worked close enough to each other downtown, and dropping me off would only be five minutes out of her way.
I hopped off my bed and slowly made my way into the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, waiting for my shower to get hot, I let myself cry. I wasn’t sure why I was crying this time. Was it that I missed Randy, felt guilty for having random, borderline romantic feelings for Walker, or was it just loneliness? The whole grieving process I had been going through was odd, onerous to deal with, and, frankly, freaking me out. I guess there isn’t a guidebook on being a widow in your twenties, other than stupid pamphlets that make my stomach tangle into knots, so I just have to wing it.
Cali and I got ready for work together, just like in the old days when we would get ready for class. We rocked out to ‘Summer Hits of the 90s’, danced around, joked and acted like total fools. It was great to be so light-hearted for a little while with my best friend, and, again, I silently thanked her for being simply amazing.
Once I got to work, I remembered I had my first therapy session that afternoon, and wished I had driven myself. I was pretty fortunate Walker was still on leave, and virtually had nothing to do with himself all day until the Army called him again. He agreed to drive me to and from my doctor’s office, claiming to have some reading to catch up on anyway.
My workday rushed by while I dreaded my first session with Dr. Candice Davenport. I found myself restless in the waiting room, wishing I was there alone. Walker smiled at me, assuring me this was for the best, and that he should do the same thing. Realizing I really didn’t feel like talking, he dove back into some zombie book with a big “Z” on the cover, shoving me with his elbow and muttering softly, “Like I said before, as long as you’re taking care of yourself, I’m happy. I’m here to support you, Mags.”
I bit my lip and glanced away. “Thanks, Walker. It means a lot to me that you’re here.” He looked up, smiled and patted my shoulder, without another word.
Trying to read the random editions of US Weekly and People were futile, and I just stared at the ocean scene paintings lining the walls. I could not understand why I was so nervous. She’s just a therapist, someone who solely wants to help me cope. In every sense, this was the best decision I had made for myself since Randy’s death, I just had trouble convincing myself wholeheartedly of that fact.
After waiting for about fifteen minutes, a hunched over, middle-aged man with sunken, black eyes opened the door, followed by a very petite woman in a navy business suit. Her smile seemed a little eerie after the depressing sight of her last patient. Dr. Davenport quickly made eye contact with me, never breaking her cheery grin and walked across the room, hand fully extended. “Margret McManus?”
I took her hand, meeting her beaming eyes with a sheepish smirk and a quick nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”
Walker looked up from his book, gave me a quick, supportive wink and then went back to reading; a sly, sexy, half-grin lingering on his lips just long enough to make my cheeks turn an obnoxious shade of red.
Dr. Davenport ushered me into her office and closed the door quietly. The room had a massive mahogany desk, overly tidy, and polished so much so that there was a glare coming off the top of it. The walls were painted a light, depressing gray, complimenting the dark blue couch and recliner. The only piece of artwork was a nice beach sunset, which reminded me of my honeymoon in Bimini.
A flashback to Randy sitting in the captain’s chair with a tumbler full of rum, laughing about how terrible I was at baiting hooks with live shrimp, brought me back to one of my happiest memories of us. That was how we spent our honeymoon; fishing and basking in our love, and the sun. I always loved how many things we had in common, and I loved the simplicity of fishing. Suddenly, a fake cough from the doctor made me remember where I was, and I forced myself to come back down to reality.
Candice Davenport was not what I was expecting at all. By the look of her, she couldn’t have been much older than me, with mousey blonde hair, kind, rounded blue eyes, and the biggest smile I’d even seen. I couldn’t help but question her qualifications for helping me. How could someone my age or younger know how to fix someone with a broken heart like mine; someone this damaged? I figured I had to remember that you never knew someone’s past, and she could be forty, for all I knew, with fantastic skin; she was a doctor for crying out loud.
Taking a seat in the recliner, after grabbing her writing pad and pen off her desk, Doctor Davenport extended an open hand, gesturing me to sit on the couch. I fought the urge to roll my eyes at how cliché this was, but I just nodded, trying to hide my nerves with a smile as I sat.
“So, Margret, I have a few quick get-to-know-you type questions to ask, and then we’ll get into the meat and potatoes of why we’re here. If, for any reason, you want to stop the conversation or move on to another topic, just say the word. Please, I want you to be comfortable.” She paused waiting to make sure I was okay with all of this, and when I nodded, she settled into her chair to get ready to write. We went over the basics; my name, where I lived, how old I was, where I worked, if I enjoyed my job or not. I gave her quiet and short answers as she frowned at me. I could tell I was not giving her much information to work with.
The doctor’s eyes brightened a little once the red tape was over. “I think that does it for the formalities. Now, why don’t we start off with why you’re here?”
I knew, at that moment, I must have looked like a deer in the headlights. How could I start off by saying my husband was ripped away from me? The fraternity guy with the amazing smile had stolen my heart and then left it alone to break over and over. My whole life stopped when he was taken from me and I had not been able to make it start again. How could you begin a story with a broken heart? Panic, followed by fear, then finally calm settled in me after I took a few deep breaths. For some reason, I became almost grateful to be preparing to start this story, to finally, really, get better.
I closed my tear-filled eyes, took one last deep breath and kicked off with the only words that would form in my choking throat. “My husband died in an accident.” Keeping eye contact with her was impossible, she looked instantly pained for me. That probably was not what she was expecting. I could feel hot tears falling from my eyes. I promised myself I would not cry, but I’d gotten really good at letting myself down over the last few months.
A tiny voice crackled in the uncomfortable silence that had taken over the office. “How did he die?” The words were distant from my thoughts and it took a few moments for them to register.
“He was in a parachuting accident. He was a soldier. His chute never opened. He crashed into the ground and died, there was no saving him.” My throat was dry, my voice quiet and shaky, I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth, it didn’t even sound like my voice.