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“Hettie said something to me that I didn’t agree with.” His face loses his customary grin. “Something about how you feel responsible for your mother’s death.”
My stomach twists painfully and I search for the right thing to say. “Yeah,” I come up with.
“Is that true?”
I shrug.
“Bo—you can’t be serious.”
I can’t meet his gaze. “I told her about Hettie,” I mutter, staring at the wall behind his head. “She left to pick up Lyra and never made it home.” I drag my gaze to him, so afraid of what I’ll find in his expression. “What would you think?”
“I wouldn’t think anything like that.” He grips my shoulder, his expression earnest, like he’s begging me to believe him. “Son, it was the weather. It was a storm in October that surprised everyone. Ice on the roads. And really, bad luck. It was an accident.”
“She was upset,” I say doggedly, like I’m a broken record skipping on the lyrics.
“You don’t know that.”
“She was when she left.”
“But you have no idea what she was like in the car. Your mother was rarely upset, unless it was at me. She loved you, so so much, and I can’t imagine her ever being as upset as you think she was.”
I shrug because there’s nothing I can say. There’s nothing my father can say. I’ve felt this way for eight years and I’m not about to change just because he saysno, it ain’t so.
Dad stands and watches me for a moment. He’s a tall man but I still have an inch or so overhim.
His beard is mostly white now, with more in his hair as well. It’s a new thing and I can chalk that up to his recent bout of appendicitis, the stress of running a country, and Lyra.
“I’m not going to convince you that you don’t need to blame yourself, am I?” he asks ruefully.
“Probably not.”
Dad nods. “Have it your way. I made an appointment with you tomorrow with a Dr. Patel.”
I take a step back with surprise. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“She’s a psychologist. I want you to talk to her. I think it’ll help.”
“I—what? You want me to see a shrink?”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say.
“I should have made you go years ago,” Dad continues. “Gunnar and Lyra have both talked to someone. Odin too. I should have made it mandatory for you all to go.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say with more heat than I need to.
“I know.” He squeezes my shoulder. “But you’re going to.”
Doesn’t sound like I have a choice.
I turn and walk—stomp—away. It’s difficult for me to talk to people on a regular basis but delving into emotional terrain isn’t my idea of a good time. What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to bring things up? Am I even allowed to talk about royal stuff?
All this flies around my mind with warp speed, distracting me enough that I don’t realize I’m outside Hettie’s door. And my hand is raised to knock before I can stop my whirling thoughts.
Hettie opens the door just as a squeal of Tema’s laughter drifts out. “She’s almost ready,” Hettie begins, but I cut her off.
“You talked to my father,” I blurt.
Her mouth opens with surprise. “I—yes, I did.” She steps back to allow me to come in. I know it’s not because I’m welcome, but she had always hated confrontations where other people could hear. She spent years hiding her family issues even before we got together, and any disagreements—not that there were many—would happen in private.