Page 48 of Goodbye Days

He earns points for using the phrase “precipitating event.” He seems to have perceived that I don’t have patience for people who talk down to me. But that doesn’t make me any more excited to talk about said precipitating event.

I stare at the Oriental rug under me because I’m unsure what sort of facial expression is appropriate to introduce the death of your three best friends to a total stranger who you’d prefer not to be talking to. Impassiveness doesn’t seem quite right. Smiling is definitely out.

“The stuff we discuss in here, it’s super, super private, right? Like you won’t tell the police?” I ask.

His face doesn’t register even a hint of shock. “Absolutely private. Unless I have reason to believe that you may be an imminent harm to yourself or others. Anything in your past is strictly between us.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you withholding because you think I can’t handle it. I promise you, I can.”

“I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

Dr. Mendez doesn’t respond.

“I don’t really want to talk about why.”

He still doesn’t respond. Just listens.

“I’ve barely even talked about it with my own parents.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No, not really. They’re great parents. I’ve always just been kinda private with them about my feelings and stuff. I don’t know why.”

“Parents can be tricky.”

This guy is difficult not to talk to. It’s like the words are butting past my teeth and lips, going, Excuse me, guys, if you’re not going to help us make it to the doc’s ears, we’ll just take matters into our own hands.

I clench and unclench my fists. “A few weeks ago my best friends died in a car wreck. All three of them.” I’m still looking at the floor until I say “all three of them,” when I look up and meet Dr. Mendez’s gaze.

He doesn’t flinch. His eyes are an open door. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly. “How awful.”

I glance away and rub my face because I’m starting to choke up. I hope he doesn’t keep probing. For starters, I’m not ready to talk about how I hold myself responsible; how Judge Edwards is coming for me. I’m not ready to hear myself saying those things yet. I’m scared it will make them more real to say them out loud. An incantation summoning a soul-sucking demon from a flaming pit.

I breathe through the tightness of my throat. “Yeah. It’s bad. So the night of the last funeral was the first. I went to the ER that time. Yesterday, the first day of school, was the second attack. I’m here because I don’t want there to be a third.”

Dr. Mendez nods. “That gives us a fairly clear idea of where our work should start. So talk to me about what you’re feeling right now. If you’ve had any reflections on the grief you’re experiencing?”

It’s such a simple question, but I’m completely without an answer. There’s something priestly about Dr. Mendez that makes me want to confess. His demeanor is so open, gentle, and nonjudgmental. I seesaw between not trusting Dr. Mendez enough to tell him about how I wear Sauce Crew’s death around my neck and not wanting to disappoint him by telling him.

“I miss them.”

Dr. Mendez nods but says nothing. He’s obviously not the type to nervously fill lulls in the conversation. He’ll let silence breathe.

“I…forget sometimes that they’re gone. It happens right after I wake up. For about five seconds each day. For that little moment I’m free. Then I remember. I also remember sometimes right as I’m trying to fall asleep, and it snaps me awake.”

I pour myself a glass of water and take a sip. I’m not particularly thirsty but I don’t know what to do with my hands. “This friend of mine—she dated one of my friends I lost—talked about grief coming in waves and at weird times.”

“Has your grief taken a similar form?”

“Yes.”

“This girl you mentioned; is she somebody who’s a source of support and comfort to you?”

“Yeah, she is.”

“Do you have other people who can share in your experience of this grief in a similar way?”