The Fault In Reality

Chapter Thirty-Three

"If you had to choose one word to describe your summer, what would it be?"

I stare into those beady eyes, give myself a moment to turn the question over in my mind. 

"Redemptive - no, healing." 

My words are a stab through the air, a wild attempt to pin down something too complicated to explain to even myself, much less the pixie-faced woman across from me. None the less, she submits notepad to pen with a ferocity worthy of Oscar Wilde or Stephen Hawkings, as though I've said something of equal genius.

"Good. And how are you feeling?"

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes; remind myself that this is the last session. The last time I'll have to sit in this stupid sangria colored armchair, fidgeting under the therapist's rapt gaze, answering the questions that feel like a drill in my mind. Sometimes it's as though she's sifting through my very thoughts, sorting them into various diagnoses, prescriptions, referrals... Other times her questions are subject to such obvious answers I don't bother reply at all. 

I glance out the window. The usual glinting skyscrapers are in attendance, with some gulls swinging on the breeze. The shadow of a pigeon has been stretched taut over the cement of the balcony, with a garnish of bird dung plastered next to it. It feels strange to be back on the coast, where the salt laced roads are bustling and busy below. People move like ants along the street, darting out in front of cars in their endless rush. 

The therapist shuffles through her papers, flipping them with a cheery enthusiasm I've identified as her response to coming up with nothing more to ask. I see the exact moment her eyes freeze on a tasty morsel, something rich with emotional reaction. She turns a few more pages for show, then crosses her legs and leans over the table. 

"Your mother says you're going back this week," she says. Her voice drops to a soothing whisper."For your step-mother's funeral, isn't it?"

The pink stud in her nose glimmers under the metallic light of the room. I study it with more attention than is necessary, harden my features into a mask of light sadness, and say,

"That's right."

There's no way I'm going to tell her how hard the grief has got me. It tightens its heavy fist around my stomach, prods at my lungs. I know the only way to make it subside is to stop thinking about Pat's beautiful smile, yet doing so feels like like a disgrace to her memory. 

"Hmm..." the therapist says. Her pencil flicks a frenzied beat on her notebook, the only evidence of her racing mind. The rest of her is a composition of serenity, from her stylish, cropped hair to her slightly pointed ears.

"And how does that make you feel?"she lets the words slip out of her impossibly pink lips, lets them slither into the air with the monotonous go-to rhythm of every flummoxed therapist. 

I give her a hard look. How do you think? 

After a second of the clock worrying its dial, her face tightens and takes on an empathetic expression. 

"Era, I want you to be completely honest with me," she says, in that soft kind of way that's supposed to serve as apology for whatever sharp words are coming next. "Now that your step-mother is out of the picture, do you want your father and mother to get back together?"

I stiffen in my chair. The thought is disgusting; it implies I feel some kind of happiness at Pat's passing. 

"No," I say firmly. Hearing it in the air - simple and shepherded by nothing but itself - makes me realize its truth. If I can in any way believe what my parents say, it isn't, as I've long believed, my fault they divorced. And without that implication I can appreciate the absence of their arguments. 

My thoughts are scattered by the shrill wail of the timer, proclaiming the end of our session with a prideful note to its shriek. Relief floods me as I rise to my feet, wiping my inexplicably sweaty hands on my jeans. 

"So how's the horse - Devany?" the therapist asks over the rim of her working fingers. She arranges the papers into a neat pile - several years worth of counselling - and lies them gently on the table, the expression on her face clearly saying: case closed. 

A grin steals over my features at the thought of him, finally settled in his new stall. 

"He's good," I say. 

"Can I ask you one more question?"

"Just one," I agree. 

"Eclipse - do you still feel guilty about her? What happened?"

My hand pauses on the knob of the door. My smiles turns bitter. 

"Always."

-

A/N: It's almost finished. I'm toying with the idea of writing an epilogue, but the story has wrapped up nicely and I don't know what I'd do with more chapters - so it is with sadness and slight relief I bid adieu to Era and Devany. They were challenging to write, but it was definitely fun bringing my eleven year old's messy draft to life. As always, thanks for reading.