Page 62 of Escape Girl

Jo’s voice grew stronger, more assured. “How did that make you feel?”

What a stereotypical, bullshit therapist question.How did that make you feel?I echoed the question in my head, high-pitched and bratty.

It should have made me feel happy, right? That my father and my husband were getting along so well. That my dad was so comfortable in Bobby’s presence that he’d invited him along to his most favorite past-time. The one that he’d only ever played with…

“It made me furious,” I said now, seething through my teeth.

“Because?”

“Because it’s like we were replacing her,” I shouted, only half understanding what I was even saying. “There were three of us again, and there was love and laughing and joy, but she wasn’t there! She wasn’t there and I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t stand it—”

My voice broke into uncontrollable sobs, and I crossed my arms over my face.

I cried loud and long, until I was empty.

So hard I wasn’t sure where I was.

So loud that the front desk was probably getting calls from anyone sharing walls with me.

When the storm finally passed, I dropped my arms and opened my eyes, wrung out. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the room had emptied. But Jo and Tess were still there, watching me. With sympathy and empathy, not pity.

“Emily,” Jo started. “Do you know what delayed grief, or repressed grief, is?” She fidgeted with her braid. “I’m not a licensed therapist, but in my layman’s opinion, you are suffering from delayed grief.”

She sighed. “When I leave, I’m going to give you a list of some very good therapists you should call ASAP. But here’s what I think is going on. When your mom died, you had so much to handle and no one to help you, especially since your father pulled his disappearing act. He dealt with his own grief so poorly that I don’t blame you for never wanting to raise the subject with him again. And then you threw yourself into a career that demanded all of your time and energy.”

She allowed a small, chagrined smile. “It’s a coping mechanism I’m very familiar with.”

Now, she raised her eyebrows as if underscoring a very important point. “But then you met Bobby and fell in love, possibly the most powerful emotional experience there is—the only one that comes close to matching the strength of grief. So, it kind of opened you up, emotionally—it made you vulnerable toallemotions.”

She leaned forward to take my hand and squeezed it. “You fell in love with someone very much like your mother in personality, which compounded things.”

Another squeeze. “All of the symptoms you described experiencing last winter—the depression, the paranoia, the irritability—they can all be attributed to processing delayed grief. You’re right in that Bobby was the reason. But he was the catalyst, not the cause. Grief can’t be ignored, and it can’t be permanently skipped.”

Tess stood, went to the closet, and retrieved a blanket. She carefully placed it over my shoulders, and I looked up at her in confusion. “You’re shaking,” she informed me.

Oh. OK. I clutched the ends of the blanket together, forming a soft cape. “I’m so…tired.” I sighed. I wanted to think about everything Jo said—how her words made me go hot and cold before turning me completely numb. But all the crying had wrung me dry, and my eyelids were so, so heavy.

Jo stood and gave me a sadder smile. “Exhaustion is another symptom of grief.” She grabbed a folded sheet of paper out of her purse and placed it on my desk. “Here’s the list of therapists. We’ll leave you to rest, but I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Tess gathered up the rest of the food and put the three remaining Coronas in the fridge. “I’ll call you too.”

I closed my eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered—or at least I meant to.

Chapter Twenty

“Tell me whyyou’re here today.”

I fidgeted in the chair, with my purse on my lap and my right leg twitching up and down, nonstop. Across the table, Dr. Rivera waited for my response with a pleasant, relaxed expression on her face. She’d been at the top of Jo’s list of therapists, with several stars next to her name.

I’d woken up in my hotel bed this morning, completely at odds. I knew what I should be doing: calling Bella to have a come-to-Jesus talk about the state of our case, booking a flight back to New York, catching up with work emails, and reaching out to the partners to apologize for my recent absence.

But I didn’t do any of those things. Because Jo’s words last night had birthed a tiny kernel in my chest. It took a full pot of tea and a twenty-minute shower for me to be able to name that kernel: it was hope.

So I’d picked up my phone and the list of therapists instead.

Dr. Rivera was clearly a woman comfortable with silence. Her shoulders were relaxed, her lips turned up just a bit at the corners. Her whole office emanated comfort, actually. It wasn’t sterile or medicinal in any way. The chairs were softly cushioned, her desk was a gorgeous antique, and she wore a thick, cream-colored cardigan that looked so cozy I immediately wanted one for myself.

“I left my husband seven months ago,” I whispered. “I left him, even though I love him more than anything, because I was suffering unmanageable symptoms of depression and anger and anxiety.” I swallowed over that horrible ever-present lump inmy throat. “A friend of mine believes that my symptoms weren’t caused by my marriage but because I never properly grieved my mother, who passed away six years ago.”

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