Always and Everything

1

Modern Day, The Wittorf Residence

"Good morning, Juliet," she says as I take my seat across from her in her overly-stuffed, brown couch covered in pillows designated for her patients. She sits in a smaller, professional-looking armchair with her clipboard resting on her knees and a pen in one hand.

"Morning." I've lost the ability to fake enthusiasm the longer I've come here. It didn't matter anyways because she always saw right through it. She's good at her job. She always knows just how I feel.

"How are you feeling today?" she says holding my gaze. I used to find her continuous eye contact unsettling, but now I've grown numb to it, like I've grown numb to everything else.

"Just peachy," I respond. Though I've stopped faking enthusiasm, I have yet to stop with the sarcasm. She says it's a coping mechanism for the pain, but I say it's the last piece of him I have left.

"So about the same?" She says as she breaks eye contact long enough to scribble something down on her notepad. I don't say anything in response because she already knows the answer to that question. As she writes on her notepad, I do what I always do, look around the room.

It doesn't look like a therapist's office. There's no long couch for me to lay on and confess my feelings. There are no pieces of paper which splotches of paint for me to decipher. There are a couple of bookshelves filled to the brim with books. On the floor is an old, rugged carpet fraying at the edges. There is a wooden desk shoved into the corner with a laptop and piles of paper stacked on top. It just looks like someone's home office, which it is. Mrs. Wittorf works out of her home.

"So today we are going to talk about something a little heavy," she says when we've locked eyes again.

"Shoot," I say. We've been avoided the serious stuff most sessions. I think she's trying to get a feel for my past or something. I started seeing her for grief counseling, but we haven't talked much about my grief.

"I want you to tell me about everyone you've lost."

"Everyone?"

She nods.

"Uh, okay." I say. I search my mind to remember the beginning of all this...

"When I was 5, maybe 6, my aunt died. She was young, thirty, maybe a little older. She suffered from anorexia, anxiety, depression, all that stuff. I didn't know that at the time though. She was just the cool aunt who always got me cool Barbie stuff for my birthday."

I stop and let out a small, sad laugh.

"I remember, her picture was in the obituary section of the newspaper and I colored on it with crayons because I wanted her to look pretty. Everyone got so mad at me. I felt so bad."

The small glimpse of humor fades away as the reality of her death hits me again.

"I was told that she fell asleep in the bathtub and drowned. It wasn't until recently that I learned that wasn't the whole story. She took medication for her anorexia, which she knew would make her drowsy. Then she got in the tub and let the water run. I don't think it was officially ruled a suicide, but my family knew better."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says sincerely. She says no more and I take that as my que to continue.

"When I was 10 or 11 I lost my great grandmother. We weren't extremely close. She always told me the same thing every time she saw me. 'You are exactly what my mother ordered'. I don't know what she meant by that, but she said it every time without fail."

"She sounds lovely," she says, jotting down notes.

"In high school, one of my close friends died in her sleep. It wasn't a suicide or anything, she just died. No one ever told me exactly what caused her death."

"Losing a friend is difficult," she says.

"Yeah, it is, but I can't imagine how her parents must have felt. She was so young, only 16..."

"Yes, some would say losing a child is one of the hardest things to recover from."

I nod in agreement and say no more. I know what's coming next, but I don't want to go there. Though I complain about talking about my past, I much prefer that to talking about losing him.

"And since then, have you lost anyone since high school?"

I look up slowly and nod, "yes".

"You said before that you couldn't have imagined how your friend's parents must have felt, but I think you might have an idea.

"Well, he wasn't my son," I say but my heart isn't into the joke and my voice cracks slightly.

"What was he then?"

"He was my... my best friend..." I look down at my hands, holding back tears.

"I get a feeling he was more than that."

"I don't know how someone could be more than that," I pause and sniffle, fiddling with my thumbs "But he was. He was so much more than that..."

I pause again.

"He was everything." It's almost a whisper.

She gives me a sad smile. In that look, I know she understands exactly how I feel. I begin to wonder who she lost, but she starts asking questions before my mind can linger on that thought for too long.

"How did you know each other?"

"He was like my annoying little brother, but he was older than me. I don't know how he did it." I smile at the memory, "I couldn't stand him."