Page 5 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

Mike rejoined us, holding two cups of coffee. He offered one to me, but feeling shaky, I declined. Instead, I left the room so they could have some time alone together.

I half stumbled to the end of the corridor and collapsed in a seat near the elevators.

Closing my eyes, I felt a tidal wave of memories wash over me—Sylvia ruffling my hair when I was a toddler; staring with fascination out the window of her bedroom; gazing with pride at me as I pointed out a home in East Hampton that I had designed.

I recalled the joy of her wedding day and the wild delight of her laughter.

When it struck me that there would be no more memories to come, I felt the weight of an unbearable future descend on me like an anvil.

How long I sat there, sobbing quietly into my hands, I do not know.

· · ·

On my last day at the hospital, I recounted that memory to Dr. Rollins.

“You’ve told me about your final visit with Sylvia before.” He leaned back in his chair, hands interlaced over his belly.

“I know,” I said. “I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Do you think there’s a reason you brought it up again today?”

“It’s appropriate, don’t you think? Since today is my last day?”

“Because it was the precipitating event that led to your stay here?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. For a moment I struggled to identify what I was feeling. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I’d have a greater sense of closure by the time I left here, although I do feel better than I did when I arrived.”

“You did a lot of good work here, Tate. But processing grief—and a lot of the questions Sylvia raised in her last days—takes more than a few months.” He watched me with the patience and compassion that had coaxed forth so many of my own revelations.

“I’ve given you the names of several therapists with whom it would be worth continuing your work.

Prozac and inpatient treatment are only a first step,” he reminded me gently.

I nodded, promising to follow up.

“Any problems with sleeping?” Dr. Rollins continued.

And just like that, we were back in our regular, if final, session.

He asked about my specific plans for the next few days, and I went through the basics—that I planned to catch up on mail and email, meet with my accountants, and make some calls to contractors in the Cape Cod area to start the process for Oscar’s construction.

Otherwise, I intended to take it easy until I left for Massachusetts.

Dr. Rollins asked if I had any regrets or negative feelings about my departure from the firm where I’d long worked, and I assured him again that I didn’t.

And so on and so forth. My answers to such questions hadn’t changed during the last few weeks, and I assumed that was a good sign.

On the way out of his office, I shook his hand and agreed to call him after I settled back into real life to let him know how I was doing and whether I had connected with the therapists he’d recommended. It wasn’t until I was almost out the door that I heard him clear his throat.

“Tate, by the way—are you still seeing things?”

I kept my expression steady. “No,” I answered.

His gaze was unwavering but neutral, and I couldn’t tell whether he believed me.

· · ·

Oscar and I were waiting at the picnic table by the time Lorena returned.

While the kids went back to climbing on the playset, he and I ate our salads before we all settled down to business.

Fortunately, Lorena had done a lot of thinking about what they would need.

To my surprise, she agreed that twelve bedrooms was the right number, even if it meant the home would be larger than they’d originally anticipated.

I walked them through a wide sampling of photographs and drawings of summer homes and various interior rooms on my laptop; some of them I’d designed, and most of them I hadn’t.

I noted their likes and dislikes before we all began to zero in on the idea of a large, shingle-style home.

I spent another hour going over what to expect as we moved forward, including various stages of design and construction, approximate time lines, and what to consider when choosing a general contractor.

As I wrapped up the final items on my checklist, we rose from the table, discussing times to get together over the next two days.

I reminded them that I’d already arranged meetings with three potential contractors later in the week on Friday, but since Lorena planned to take the kids to the beach on Thursday, we decided to leave that day open.

Oscar told me he’d figure out something for the two of us to do instead.

“You know how to get to the place I booked for you, right?” Oscar asked, smothering me in one of his bear hugs.

“I wish you were staying with us in Chatham,” Lorena said, elbowing Oscar out of the way for a hug of her own. “But I don’t blame you for choosing a more peaceful environment than our house. Even on the best days it’s bedlam.”

I gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “I like being closer to the site,” I assured her. “Besides, from what I saw of it, Heatherington looks incredibly charming.”

“That’s why we picked it,” Oscar agreed. He looked at his watch. “Hey, you’d better get going—aren’t you supposed to check in soon?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to be late,” I said with a last wave. “Thanks again for finding me a place to stay.”

“No problem,” Oscar said. “And, Tate?”

I stopped and turned as Oscar put his arm around Lorena.

“Get some rest, okay?”