Page 102 of Broken Dream

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

He sighs into the phone. “Look, we all know what you’ve been through, Jace. We all?—”

“Stop it. Just stop it.” My voice cracks slightly, but I steady it. “Until you lose a spouse and child and your ability to perform in your chosen career, don’t tell me you know what I’ve been through.”

He pauses a moment.

Then, “Fair enough.”

“Good. So we understand each other, then.”

“Jason, if you’ve been drinking, you need?—”

“I’m not a fucking drunk, Peter. This isn’t a problem. I ordered a pizza and had some bourbon. It’s been a rough fucking day. Hell, it’s been a rough fucking three years. I’m entitled to have a drink if I want to.”

Then again, “Fair enough.”

“Tell Dr. Steel I’ll be there at eleven. How long will it take?”

“As long as she needs to make her assessment.”

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and sigh it out before continuing. “But I’ve been through therapy before, Pete. One hour didn’t do a damn thing. Hell, hours and hours didn’t do a damn thing. It certainly didn’t help my wife. I can’t believe you even had Dr. Morgan at that meeting today.”

“She was…” he begins but then seems to think better of it. “It was probably a mistake to have her at the meeting.”

“Damned right it was.”

“Jason, please. We all know?—”

“There you go again,” I cut him off. “Saying you know. You don’t know shit, Pete. Your wife is alive. Your kids are alive. You can still practice medicine in your chosen field. So shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“I’m going to assume that that’s the alcohol talking,” he says. “I’m still your chief of surgery.”

“I’m no longer a surgeon, Pete. So you’re not my chief of anything.”

I end the call with a click.

And I wish that instead of a cell phone I had an old-fashioned phone that I could fucking slam down.

Three years earlier…

I’ve been sitting in Dr. Morgan’s office for half an hour, and I haven’t said anything. She hasn’t tried to prompt me.

Lindsay’s memorial was this past weekend, but still I came to my session.

With this doctor who couldn’t help my wife.

With this doctor who I know can’t help me.

Yet she’s going to bill me for the hour that I sit here and say nothing.

“This is crap,” I finally say.

“Yes, it is.”

I roll my eyes.

“Is that it, Jason?” Dr. Morgan’s voice is quiet, patient. It’s the kind of voice that makes you feel guilty for yelling, even when you want to yell.