Page 28 of The River Is Waiting

“Television programs might not be your best source of information,” she says.

“No, but I look at a lot of stuff on the internet, too. Things ex-cons write about after they’re released. It’s pretty bleak.”

“Perhaps you should look less at these things. Wait until you’re in a position to judge the experience for yourself, if indeed you end up having that experience.”

“Yeah, makes sense. But that’s not the only thing I get scared about.”

“No? What else?”

“Let’s say I go to prison for however long they’re going to give me. But eventually I get out and then what? I couldn’t find another job as a commercial artistbeforeall the bad stuff happened. What are my chances going to be when I have a prison record? I’m probably going to end up making minimum wage. Wearing a paper hat and asking people if they want chips and a soda with their sub.”

“That’s your biggest worry, Corby? That you’ll end up working in the fast-food industry?”

I shake my head.

“Then whatistroubling you the most?”

“You know.”

Patel says she needs to hear it from me.

“I’m afraid she’s never going to be able to forgive me and let me come home. That she’s going to want to cut her losses and divorce me. Maybekeep me from our daughter because she doesn’t think she’d be safe with me back in the picture? And in the middle of freaking out about everything thatcouldhappen, I start going back to whatdidhappen.”

“The accident?”

“You can say it. The day I backed up my car and killed my own son.”

She cocks her head. Frowns a little. “That seems harsh, don’t you think? Putting it that way?”

I shrug. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? What difference does it make how you put it?”

“Well, legally, it could mean the difference between involuntary manslaughter and homicide. The former indicates it was accidental, the latter implies intent.”

“Involuntary manslaughterwhile under the influence. Don’t forget that little detail.”

She stares at me; I stare back. If she’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable, it’s working. To break the impasse, I get up and go over to that thing on her wall. Up close, I see it’s a kind of fountain. Water comes out of a spout at the top, spilling down the ribs of a slate slab. A metal base at the bottom catches the water. It’s got smooth white stones in it and the water splashing down on them is what makes the sound. “This is cool,” I tell her.

“Glad you like it,” she says. “But since our time together is limited, might we return to the business at hand?”

I go back to my chair and sit down. Wait.

“Corby, I’m wondering why you requested this appointment. Is it because you wanted to talk about your panic attacks or because you want me to participate in cudgeling you? Because it seems to me that you’re doing a fine job of that all by yourself.” She suggests that I try to be kinder to myself—put some work into self-forgiveness.

“Tall order,” I tell her. “Before? When you said these panic attacks can be managed? How would that work?”

Instead, she asks me to describe what happens when I go back to theday of the tragedy. Is it a memory or does it feel like I’m experiencing it again?

“It’s like… I relive it. I hear the neighbors across the street screaming for me to stop.… See him lying there beneath the car, his little chest heaving as he tries to… I hear the sirens, the cops asking me if I’m ‘the operator of the vehicle.’?”

“You’re having flashbacks then. Yes?”

I nod. I’m close to tears. “Yes.”

“Are these flashbacks part of what’s been triggering your panic episodes?”

“Yeah.… Yes.”

“Well then, let’s figure out how these might be short-circuited before they get to the point of debilitating you. Wouldn’t it be lovely if you could exert some control over these traumatic memories and your fears about what’s to come?”

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