Page 9

8

BODHI

“Let’s talk about the last six months. Would you say you’ve felt your best self or your worst?”

How do I explain to Dr. Banks that I wake up daily and feel different? There are no days that are the same. The struggle is unpredictable. That’s the hardest part. I can beg and plead for my mind to be on my side, but if I wake and it’s against me, the torment remains.

My eyes find Dr. Banks across from me, and I draw in a long breath.

“There have been some good and some bad. I never really know how I’ll feel until I wake up. I have been thinking about Gwendolyn more than usual, though.”

Dr. Banks begins scribbling notes in her journal. She’s always taking notes.

What does she do with them?

I bet she goes home at night and studies what a lost cause I am.

Her next question surprises me. “Do you mostly struggle with thinking about Gwendolyn and the day of the accident or Gwendolyn and what came after ?”

In a way, the moment of the accident will always be in my head because it was such a pivotal event in my life, as unfortunate as it may have been.

But it’s not what I think about the most.

I served my time, and despite what my wounded mind fights for me to believe, I know it was an accident.

My incarceration gave me plenty of time to think through my actions and the consequences of them. That’s why I haven’t taken a sip of alcohol since—and I never plan to.

The accident is what haunts my nightmares.

They’re occasional, thank fuck, and most of the time, I forget the effects of them in the morning. The sound of metal screeching across the gravel road is what triggers me the most—that and the agony I heard vividly in Gwendolyn’s screams.

I plead with myself to remember the moments we shared before.

She was my best friend.

Despite what other people may have thought, we never saw each other romantically. It felt good to have a female friend who was only a friend.

Similar to how Navy is to me now—or was.

But I miss Gwendolyn and the friendship we shared.

“I think I can manage my emotions on the cause of the accident. Maybe if I never served time, I would have felt differently, but I know it was a product of being young and stupid. It’s strange, but I think about what Gwendolyn is doing now the most. It’s shitty that I couldn’t help her after, and I know I’ll always feel guilty for that.”

The guilt will always be there, no matter what comes from therapy.

“You said the accident was from being young and stupid…why is that?”

Because it felt that way. “I wasn’t exactly young, I was twenty-six, but I didn’t seem to give a shit.”

The way Dr. Banks stares at me makes me feel like she’s seeing something written on my skin. It’s intimidating, but her questions make sense.

Maybe that’s her way of processing what I’m sharing.

Her hands fold in her lap as she responds, “Would you say twenty-six is quite old for a mistake like that?”

I suddenly feel like I’m suffocating.

The air in the room wafts like fire against my skin, and my clothes are strangling me of all circulation.

My instinct is to run and hide somewhere far and alone.

But I won’t. I’m here to be better for myself and fuck that if I let myself quit the progress I’ve made over a difficult question.

Anxiety treads over me, replacing comfort with hesitation as I answer Dr. Banks, “Maybe. But most adults at twenty-six don’t have to face what I did.”

I am waiting for the response; I know which one is coming.

“Would you mind telling me about that?”

There it is—the inevitable question and the main reason behind my avoidance of therapy all this time. I prepared myself for the question as much as possible, but nothing compares to hearing it and having to vocalize the pain.

If Dad could see me now, he would shit a brick.

St. James men are built tough and fear nothing.

Right.

“That was the year my mom left.”

I let out a long exhale, one that I didn’t realize I was holding in for so long—maybe even longer than today.

My mom left me, our family, this town, and I haven’t heard from or seen her since.

It’s been four years.

Four long and lonely years without her, if I’m being honest with myself. I never knew how much I craved a motherly touch. It sounds juvenile saying it out loud as an independent thirty-year-old man, but the weight of her loss is fucking heavy.

There’s also a livid side of me that says “fuck you and good riddance” to her in my head daily.

I want to hate her, but I can’t. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to.

It’s impossible to forget how good she was to me and my sister when she was here. I think Penelope has a more difficult time than I do without her. It would have been different if I had never gotten answers, but I did, and I want nothing more from her.

Nothing she could say would make me forgive her, and I’ve made peace with that.

I’m okay with it.

Dr. Banks continues to study me as she rhythmically taps her pen against her nose. “That must have been extremely difficult, Bodhi. How did her leaving your family make you feel at the time?”

“Fucking heartbroken.”

“And what about now?”

Easy. “Like I dodged a bullet.”

I expect to see shock painted across Dr. Banks’ face, but the opposite is true. It’s not a smile but more of a smirk. I’m not sure if therapists are allowed to react, which makes me think she did her best to hold it in.

She makes no effort to respond to my sadness, and her next question sinks me further into uncharted territory.

“Do you think her absence was a driving force to that night in the car with Gwendolyn?”

One hundred percent.

“Absolutely. It altered my fucking brain chemistry.”

My eyes lift at Dr. Banks leaning back in her chair before she replies, “What makes you say that?”

Good question, Doc.

I’ve waited years to admit it, finally.

“Because right before the accident, I caught her in bed with my dad’s brother.”