Page 26 of The River Is Waiting

I’m too stunned to say anything. Too confused to react. Patel says, “Well, you and I will want to explore that during our one-to-one session if you choose to continue the work we began today. I do have one last question I’d like each of you to answer. If we move forward with this process, what would you hope to gain from it?”

I go first. “I want to save our marriage.”

“And you, Emily?”

“I’m looking for clarity.” When Patel asks her whether she can be more specific, she says she doesn’t know whether she can stay married to me. Turning to me, she says, “I guess it depends on whether or not I can ever forgive you.”

At her office door, Dr. Patel takes each of us by the hand. “You both did some important work today and I would very much like to keep working with you. If that is to be, I suggest we focus first on Niko’s death as atraumaticexperience. Trauma is different than grief. So perhaps the grieving process can be put on hold while we look at ways to deal with the trauma. Then we can explore grieving in a constructive way that will give clarity to you, Emily, and make it more likely, Corby, that your relationship can be saved and maybe even strengthened. Talk it over and give me a call if you think that would be worthwhile. Then we can set up some appointments.”

I ask her whether, in the meantime, there are any websites she’d recommend we look at. Dr. Patel advises that we should not put too much stock in information on the internet. Not everything on there is reliable. “But off the top of my head, there’s the Butterfly Project, which might be helpful. It’s a British website for health givers on how to help the parents of twins or multiples cope when one has died—how to cherish and meet the needs of the living child or children while grieving, in their terminology, the ‘butterfly baby.’ You might find something useful on that website. Or not. The most valuable work, in my opinion, can be done right here.”

In the car on the way back to my mother’s place, neither of us speaks for the first couple of miles. “Well, what did you think?” I finally ask.

“I think you were trying hard to win the popularity contest.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you were trying to come off as the reasonable husband who has a difficult wife. I bet she saw right through that.”

“I was just trying to take in what she was saying, Em. Stay open-minded.”

“The ‘butterfly baby’?” she says, shaking her head. “Are we supposedto pretend he didn’t die? That he just hatched and migrated to Mexico? That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but how do you feel about the session other than that?”

“I thought the tea party at the beginning was a little weird.”

“I guess she was just trying to put us at ease,” I say. “How do you feel about continuing with her?”

She shrugs. Says she has to think about it. “But not if you’re going to keep sucking up to her.” I manage to hold my tongue. “And what about how much this is going to cost? I assume her services come with a price tag.”

“Yeah, but if it helps…” I reach out to touch her, then stop. Decide not to risk it. “You want to go get coffee or something and talk?”

She shakes her head. Says she needs to get back for Maisie. Glancing out the driver’s-side window, she says, “They’re really developing this area out here. Price Chopper, Lowe’s, Starbucks. When did all this happen?”

In other words, let’s change the subject. But aren’t wesupposedto talk about it? Acknowledge each other’s feelings? “I think it was good that you vented back there, Em. The more you deal with your anger—”

She looks over at me, frowning. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”

“What do you mean? How am I patronizing you?”

“By sounding likeyou’rethe therapist. ‘It’s good you vented, Emily. You need to deal with your anger.’ You’re not the shrink, Corby. You’re theproblem.”

“I know I am. Believe me. If I could exchange my life for his, I’d do it in a second.” She offers no reaction other than hitting the gas a little harder.

Another couple of miles and two red-light stops pass by in silence before I say that I’d like to continue with Dr. Patel. “At least for the time before my sentencing hearing. And if I get lucky and don’t have to go to prison, maybe after that, too. She seems to know what she’s doing. And those one-to-one sessions are a good idea. Can’t hurt, right?”

Her only response is an impatient sigh.

“I was surprised, though, when you said you suspected I might be day-drinking. I thought I’d been so good at keeping it from you.”

“Shut up, Corby. That hour was hard enough without having to listen to your fucking analysis of it.” She was driving about ten miles over the speed limit, but now it’s more like fifteen or sixteen.

“Yeah, okay. But you don’t need to feel guilty about not saying anything. If you had, I would have just denied it.”

“Please juststop!” she says. She’s white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“You might want to slow down a little,” I tell her. “I’ve seen cops in unmarked cars along this stretch.”

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