Page 103 of Broken Dream

“It’s not just it,” I snap back. “It’s everything. It’s this room, this situation, my life. All of it.”

Dr. Morgan scribbles something in her notepad. It’s a distant scratching sound, like mice in the walls. For a moment I imagine that she’s just doodling, maybe drawing zeros and ones or houses and trees. But I know she’s writing about me.

“I know this is a difficult time for you,” she begins.

I cut her off. “Difficult?” I laugh harshly. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She nods, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. “Perhaps you’d like to talk about Lindsay?”

The mention of her name causes a lump to lodge firmly in my throat. I can taste the saltiness of impending tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I never did read her letter. I showed it to the cops and then shoved it back into its envelope.

I swallow hard, narrowing my eyes at Dr. Morgan. “Perhaps I’d like to drown in the ocean,” I retort. “Feels about the same.”

Silence spills between us again, heavier this time. Dr. Morgan doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t try to fill the void with empty reassurances or clinical observations. Instead, she inclines her head slightly and just waits.

It’s like being under a microscope, tiny particles of my grief magnified and scrutinized.

“I’m not here for your amusement, Doctor,” I spit out.

“And I’m not here to amuse you, Jason,” she responds evenly.

I scoff again. “Like I said. Crap. That’s what this is.”

“What?”

“All of this.” I gesture. “Psychiatry. All you do is throw my own words back at me. So you’re not here to amuse me. This is what I’m paying God knows how many dollars an hour for? What a crock.”

“You’re angry, Jason,” Dr. Morgan states.

I laugh, the sound bitter and empty. “Did it take you four years of med school and five years of residency to figure that one out? Because I could’ve told you that for free.”

She doesn’t rise to my bait. Just watches me with those unwavering eyes. There’s no judgment, just…understanding? No, not quite. Empathy, maybe? I don’t want her empathy.

“Anger is a part of grief,” she says.

I grip the armrests of my chair, my knuckles turning white. “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to grieve. Maybe I want to be angry.”

“And that’s okay,” she replies calmly. “You’re allowed to be angry, Jason.”

I snap my arm out, pointing a cold finger directly at her. “You were supposed to help her. To help Lindsay deal with the loss of her daughter. Our daughter. You said you could help. And now she’s gone. By her own hand. And it’s your fucking fault!”

Dr. Morgan’s expression finally changes. It’s not shock or surprise or even defense that crosses her face, but a kind of quiet sorrow. She doesn’t look away from me, still meeting my gaze with her own. Her pen is suspended over her notebook.

“Jason…” she begins, her voice soft, measured even, as I hurl blame at her.

“No,” I interrupt harshly. “Don’t Jason me.” My heart is pounding, a drumbeat of guilt mixed with grief and anger. Anger at Lindsay for leaving me alone in this mess, anger at myself for not being able to stop her, and anger at Dr. Morgan for failing us. “I didn’t come here to be placated. I came here to tell you that you failed. You failed Lindsay, and you failed me.”

“Psychiatry isn’t a?—”

I scoff. “Psychiatry is quackery. Psychiatry failed Lindsay. It failed me. And I’m done here.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Angie

Guilt consumes me as I sit next to Aunt Melanie over breakfast at a local Boulder diner. I want to talk to her about Jason, about what I’ve done, but I can’t.

First, she’d be so disappointed in me that I got involved with a professor. And second, and more importantly, she’s got her own problems with Uncle Joe’s illness. I can’t give her more of a burden to bear.