Page 76 of Midnight Valentine
“He…we…I keep running into him everywhere. Everywhere. And, uh, there are a lot of things about him…many, many things…that sort of…remind me…” I suck in a breath and blurt it out. “Of Cass.”
“That’s normal.”
Dr. Singer sounds completely blasé. Meanwhile, I’m about to collapse onto the hideous brown tile and never get up. “Normal?” I shout. “It’s normal that a stranger reminds me of my dead husband?”
“Do you recall our talks about what might happen when you started dating?”
“I recall I told you I’d rather be fed limb by limb to a pack of wolves than start dating.”
Dr. Singer is unfazed by my snappy tone. “Indeed. And for five years, during the prime of your life, you refused to even look at another man. I counseled you that not allowing yourself the possibility of happiness again was unhealthy. I believe your response was ‘There is no happiness for me without Cass.’ So without knowing anything other than this new man ‘affects’ you, I can surmise from what I know of you, Megan, that you’re now paralyzed by guilt.”
Cold blasts over me, as if I’ve been doused with a bucket of ice water.
I whisper, “Guilt?”
“We’ve already established that you suffer from survivor’s guilt. Guilt for living when someone you loved so deeply is gone. Now it seems we can add guilt for feeling a normal, natural attraction to a man who isn’t Cass. Honestly, I’m surprised this didn’t come up sooner.”
No. No, this is too easy. Too simple. Guilt can’t be the explanation for everything I’m thinking and feeling, all this madness running rampant through my veins.
“But…there are all these things that can’t be explained…like the bear claw, and the sweet peas planted along the porch, and he knows how I like my coffee! And there was this painting of lightning that had his initials, and he put out a fire at my house—and the Denver omelets! The note that was Cass’s tattoo! May seventeenth!”
I’m not making sense. I’m also starting to worry Dr. Singer, because his tone changes to the stern one he used to use when he was insisting, for the nth time, that I get on antidepressants.
“Let’s talk about your panic attacks. Have you had any since you moved to Seaside?”
It feels like I’ve been utterly defeated when I mumble my answer. “Yes.”
“I see. And the nightmares? Insomnia?”
He sounds smug, the prick. I grind my back teeth together. “Hmm.”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative. And from what I gather from your mention of things that can’t be explained, you’re still having episodes of magical thinking?”
Ah, yes. The infamous magical thinking, at which my brain is especially adept.
“This is different,” I plead, sounding pathetic. “This man, he’s… There are too many things that have happened. It can’t all be coincidental. It can’t all be meaningless. Can it?”
“Megan, I want you to listen to me carefully. You survived an incredibly violent car accident that killed your husband. He died in your arms. The day of his funeral, you miscarried your child—a child you’d been trying desperately to conceive—and almost died yourself from blood loss. Subsequently, you were told the chances of conceiving again were virtually none.
“You were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and clinical depression but refused medication that would help you cope.
You dealt with your suffering like no other patient I’ve ever seen, with a combination of stoicism and plain old stubbornness I was unable, in two years of weekly sessions, to make even the smallest inroads toward healing. You embraced your pain because the alternative was to let it go…and in your mind, letting go of your pain meant letting go of Cass, the baby, and everything you’d lost.
“Now you’ve moved to a new town. You have a new home, a new life. There’s a new man you’re drawn to. And because you never worked through your grief, the only way your mind can cope with what it perceives as a betrayal of the bond you had with your husband is to try to convince you that this new man is your husband.”
Dr. Singer pauses, and it lends his next words more weight. “Subconsciously, you believe that somehow, through some magical combination of events, Cass has returned to you in the body of another man.”
There it is. The ugly truth, dragged out from the rock I’ve been hiding it under.
I’m breathless with the utter foolishness of it.
In a voice as dead as my heart, I say, “Tell me what to do.”
“For starters, make an appointment with Dr. Anders as soon as we get off the phone. I spoke with him earlier in the week, and he said he hadn’t heard from you.”
As if from far away, I hear myself say yes.
“And please—I’d like you to start Lexapro. It’s not a cure for depression, but it will help manage the symptoms. I can also prescribe something to help you sleep. You need help, Megan. There’s no shame in getting it.”
