The Moment Before

Chapter Nine

NINE

Beaverton Grief & Family is wedged between a beer-making supply store and a doggy daycare in a strip mall walking distance from Greenmeadow. During our sessions, quiet pauses are often interrupted by yapping pups. On this, our fourth visit, the dogs seem especially agitated. A hound is baying and a few terrier-types are non-stop with their high-pitched barks. Mom’s forehead creases with every yip. Our therapist, Dr. Stern, conducts the session calmly as ever. Leaning forward, the flesh of belly roll obscuring his belt, he invites us to “Speak our hearts.”

            “So, Easter marked the first family holiday without Sabine,” he says, his voice slightly up-speak at the end.

            “It was very difficult,” says Dad. “I thought we could, you know, spread some of her ashes, have some closure, but clearly, that was premature.”

            Dr. Stern nods and scribbles something down in his leather diary.

            Mom, fingers massaging her temples, adds, “I’ve heard that sometimes it takes years—a decade even—to find the right time to distribute cremains. When a child is involved.”

            I know part of Mom’s reluctance is the Catholic thing. Nona and Nono were upset that Sabine was burned up in the first place—they had offered to pay for a burial plot. Dad refused, end of discussion. Dad says, “A decade?”

            Dr. Stern directs his gaze across the room to the farthest chair, at me. “How did it feel, Brady, at the beach without your sister?”

            No hesitation, I offer, “She was there.”

            Dr. Stern’s eyebrows go up and a series of deep growls punctuate the room. “You felt Sabine’s presence then?”

            “She was with us in every way.”

            Dad clears his throat.

            “Brady has been having the hardest time letting go,” Mom says. “She wore Sabine’s prom dress to a school function last Thursday.”

            Again, eyebrows up, Dr. Stern says, “Tell us about that, Brady.”

            “It wasn’t her prom dress.”

            Dr. Stern says, “Did you feel closer to Sabine, wearing her clothes?”
            I don’t offer that I hear her voice. “Sort of.”

            “Our daughter had a traumatic experience last week,” Dad says.

            “Oh?”

            “I wouldn’t call it traumatic. Just, well, annoying, I guess.”

            “Oh, come on Brady,” Mom chimes, “it was horrible. She’s supposed to get an award for a painting she did, and then her best friend comes in and steals her thunder. You may have seen it in yesterday’s paper?”

            “First of all,” I say, through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t call it horrible. And secondly, it was a charcoal sketch, not a painting. And—your threatened lawsuit is the reason they gave it to Martha.”

            Dr. Stern says, “That must have been very difficult, Br—.”

            Mom interrupts, her sharp voice accompanied by a cacophony of pooches, “Lawsuit? No, it’s your grades, Brady. Your truancy and insubordination. That’s why they pulled the scholarship.”