Water From Mud

Twenty-One.

Rain pattered against the windows. The sky was blanketed with gray clouds, inciting a chill in the air that should've been nonexistent in the middle of summer. George watched the droplets slide down the glass and made the oak tree outside resemble a watercolor painting.

Bea sat against the dreary backdrop, her expression neutral as always, no matter it was an unseasonably wet day. But she never looked any different during an unseasonably hot day, either. A notebook and pen rested along her crossed legs, and her hair was effortlessly clipped back with pieces framing her face.

"How's Maeve's research paper coming?"

A stream of water was falling from the gutter to the ground. "I don't know."

Bea waited. "I recall her completion of the paper being very important to you."

"It's very important to her," George corrected. She added quietly, "Or it should be."

"How is Maeve?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Bea asked, causing George to snap her eyes upwards and pause. As a stipulation of the guardianship, George had to see a counselor once a month. So, she saw Bea. While she assumed their sessions would revolve around Maeve, more often than not, they didn't. Bea seemed more interested in hearing about George, which had initially bothered her because she wasn't keen on talking about herself; however, as Maeve grew older and grew into more problems, George worried that divulging too much information—such as how lax she could be with her sister—would result in unfavorable consequences.

But, Bea, time and time again, had assured George that so long as no one was in immediate danger, their sessions would remain confidential.

George drew a breath. "She thought she was pregnant."

Even the shocking news didn't alter Bea's expression. She simply waited.

"But she wasn't."

"Did she tell you before she found out that she wasn't pregnant?"

"Yes."

"And how did she react?" Bea asked.

George reflected on their painful conversation in Maeve's bedroom. But, most of their conversations had been painful as of late. "She was angry. Confused, maybe."

"Two emotions that don't tend to work well together."

"Is there any emotion that works well with anger?" George asked derisively.

Bea's guise did not sway, but George could see her analyzing the comment with a frightening amount of scrutiny.

"And how did you react to the news?" Bea questioned.

George averted her gaze to the water-pebbled window again. "Calmly."

"Anything you felt when she told you?"

Bubbling inside of George was everything from the moment she'd felt inside Maeve's bedroom, recalling her detached attitude, messy room, and cold words. But more than that, George felt a deep, historic ache. She clasped her hands tightly.

"I don't know," she answered.

"You don't know if you felt something else or you don't know how to verbalize it?"

When she didn't respond, Bea stated, "It matters, Georgia."

Fighting the urge to squirm on the couch, George scratched her cheek. Bea was incredibly perceptive when observing body language, and this sometimes lent to George thinking that Bea knew her better than she was comfortable admitting.