Georgia's Last Words

Chapter Twelve

The walls are white, the dirt clings lightly to the color. There is a long couch, a couple of plush chairs, and a desk fill the room. The colors of everything are neutral, nothing to dark or bright. Paintings hang from the white walls. They’re nothing special, a dog, a cat, some houses. Everything seems to be the same, nothing too out there; safe and calming. 

“Tell me why you’re here.” He taps his pen against the clipboard. 

I shrug my shoulders. My butt has sunk into the beige cushion of one of the chairs. The grief counselor, Dr. S, sits across the room from me on the couch. His feet dangle a inch from the ground. He watches me, but waits for an answer that I don’t know. 

Leaning forward, forcing his feet to the floor. His elbows balance on his knees and I wait for his clipboard to fall to the ground. 

“Skylar, what’s wrong?” Dr. S has a smooth voice that soothes me, probably the sole reason why he is a counselor. 

I peel away a piece of dead skin from my thumb. “My Grams died a couple weeks ago.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Of course he’d ask a moronic question as such. 

“How do you think? I’m here aren’t I?” My sarcastic tone catches me off guard. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, writes something down, and says, “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel this way.”

“What way?” My voice finds me. Suddenly all my thoughts spill from my lips to a complete stranger. “I feel like the world is on my shoulders and yet like I am weightless. She died, I didn’t get to hear her last words. I didn’t get to say goodbye properly. I hate her for being so selfish.” My finger pull tightly on the hem of my t-shirt.

Dr. S seems surprised by my small, or rather great revelation. “Selfish? What did she do that was selfish?”

“She didn’t fight. The heart attack hit her and then days later she just died.”

He scribbles more notes, my eyes watch the loops and line hoping to make out the words. “It wasn’t her choice.”

“We always have a choice.”

“Do we?” 

I open my mouth, then shut it. After minutes pass, I whisper, “I’m done talking today.”

He nods. “Okay. Now, Skylar I’d like to have you back here next week. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure.” I stand. 

At first I don’t head for the door, my body waits for something. I look at the books on shelves, the framed diplomas hanging from the wall, and the lack of personal items. Something keeps me from walking out the door. I sit back down, Dr. S doesn’t comment.

“Am I depressed?” A small voice escapes through my lips. 

He thinks for a bit, leaving me waiting. “Yes, but it’ll be okay.”

“What do you mean?”

“From our fifteen minute talk, you already admitted to being mad at your grandmother, asked if you were depressed, and showed me you want help. You’ll make it to the other side, not everyone does.” 

Another question blurts from my mouth, “I’ll be okay?”

“It’ll take time, but you’ll come out the other end. Now, we still have half an hour, can we talk some more?”

I nod. 

He jots down a few things as I shift awkwardly in my seat. I end up crossing my legs, putting my hair in a ponytail, and braiding & unbraiding my bangs.