He kicks his feet up onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “And what made you put the hose in the exhaust and start the car?”
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“What does it feel like?”
How can I possibly describe what’s going on inside me? I don’t think there’s any way to do it justice. But I try. “Like I’ve been wandering along an old dirt road for two years with no end in sight. Not a soul around me.” Again, Kacey’s face flashes through my mind. The feel of her mouth against mine, her arms wrapped around mine, her body wanting mine. For her, it was just another drunken night, another moment’s respite from her misery. For me, it was something deeper. On this endless, isolated journey, it was a momentary connection with the only other person to walk away from the accident. And it reminded me of what I’ll never have again, because who the hell would want to be stuck on this lonely road with me?
When I glance up, Dr. Stayner’s blue-gray eyes are dissecting me. Not in a “this idiot’s going to pay for my kitchen reno” way; in a way that’s full of compassion. I swallow against the forming lump. “So how are you gonna fix me?”
“Oh, I can’t fix you, Trent. I’ll take all the credit, mind you. It’s a great boost to my ego. But you have to fix you.”
Curiosity overcomes me. “You know my real name isn’t Trent, right?”
“Yes, your parents filled me in on your history.”
“So why are you calling me Trent? Do you agree that I should have changed my name?”
He shrugs. “Who do you want to be?”
“Not Cole Reynolds.”
“Then I guess that makes you Trent Emerson, now doesn’t it?” He tosses the ball a few more times. “I had a patient once. His name was Benny Flanagan, but he insisted that we call him Fidel Castro.”
I can’t stifle my snort. “What did you—”
“Fidel Castro.” He chuckles. “Fiddy, for short. He had some very serious identity issues. But, eventually he remembered that he was Benny Flanagan.”
“And what if I don’t ever want to go back to being Cole Reynolds again?”
“What if you can’t?” Dr. Stayner counters without missing a beat.
I frown. Is that a trick question?
He slaps the ball on his desk with a hard thud. “That’s what this is all about. You can’t go back. You can’t change what happened. You can’t resurrect the dead. You can only find ways to help yourself come to terms with it all. That’s the only way you’ll ever move on. What do you, Cole, Trent—whoever you want to be—need in order to move on? Because we can change where your future is heading. That’s why you’re here. We all want you to have a long and happy future.”
“Okay . . .” What he’s saying makes sense. To be honest, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. But when Dr. Stayner says it, I feel like he’s giving me the permission that I can’t give myself. “So, how am I going to fix myself?”
His feet slide unceremoniously off the desk. “Well, first and foremost, by remembering that you’re human.”
For a glorified mental hospital, this isn’t so bad. It’s not what I ever imagined a place like this to be. There are definitely no lunatics ranting about the end of the world or the army of voices in their heads. There are a lot of really nice people in private rooms and smiling staff to get you whatever you need; there’s a gym that I’ve spent a good deal of time in; there’s a small yard with oak trees and tiny purple flowers waking up after a long winter, and wooden benches you can sit on to enjoy the spring air.
Of course, I assume that not every place is like this. I’m sure my parents are paying for these niceties. I’ll be working double-time to pay them back for this, whether they like it or not.
“Beautiful day.”
I shield my eyes against the sun as a woman takes a seat, adjusting her long, brown ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s nice to feel the sun again.” I grin to myself, realizing that I actually meant that.
“I’m Sheila.” She holds a hand out, her eyes crinkling at the corners with her smile. I can’t help but notice the pink slashes along the wrist that lies on her lap. “How long have you been here?”
“Almost two weeks. You?”
“Six weeks.”
“That’s a long time.”
“That’s a long time to deal with Dr. Stayner,” she corrects, and we both share a chuckle. She pauses. “What are you in for?” She asks it so casually, proving to me that her time here has probably been well spent.
Two weeks ago, I couldn’t care less about some stranger’s plight or telling her about mine, because I’d been so swallowed up by my own turmoil that I didn’t believe anything was going to get me out of it. But if my time in group therapy sessions has taught me anything, it’s that talking about the accident and the aftermath with people who understand does actually help. And every single person in that session does understand. Or, at least, they can empathize. They don’t know Sasha and Derek, and they may not have been in a car accident, but some personal hardship has landed them here. And they don’t judge me, because doing that quickly leads them to judging themselves.
In a room with these people, holding hands with all of our demons, I feel a sense of peace.
That’s why I tell Sheila everything. I even tell her about Kacey, things I haven’t admitted to Stayner. Not all the gritty details, but I think enough to make her see how much Kacey has come to mean to me.
How much I hope that she’s all right.
That’s my only regret, being in this place. There’s no internet, no cell phones. No way for me to make sure that Kacey makes it home at night.
Sheila listens through the entire story, twirling the wedding band around her finger absently. And when it’s her turn to talk, she takes a deep breath. And tells me about her eleven-month-old daughter, Claire, and how she turned her attention away from the happy, splashing baby sitting in a turtle pool with four inches of water for no more than ten seconds—she swears—while saying goodbye to guests.
And how Claire must have tried to get up but fell into the water.
And how Sheila found her, facedown and eerily still.
By the time she’s done, my chest is heavy to the point of pain.
“I’m really sorry.”
She smiles sadly, her gaze drifting out over the park-like setting. “So am I. I think I’ve said that word a thousand times. My husband hasn’t forgiven me. He says he has, but I see it in his eyes. I don’t blame him. I can’t forgive myself either. I never will. But I think it’d help if I had forgiveness from him.”
Silence settles over us.
And I ponder what it would be like to have Kacey’s forgiveness. Would it lessen the burden of this weight just a little?
Would that be something too selfish to ask for?
“You made an incredibly stupid mistake,” Dr. Stayner confirms matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I know. Thanks. We’ve been over this already.” Four weeks in group therapy sessions and private chats with the renowned doctor have taught me that I can say and do whatever I want without insulting or offending him. He seems to think the same applies to him with his patients.
“Imagine being Captain Edward J. Smith.” My puzzled brow earns an eye roll. “The guy who plowed the unsinkable ship into an iceberg and sank it? Killing fifteen hundred people? Making world history?” His eyes are wide with disbelief. “You kids, these days . . . What do they teach you?”
I never know what I’m walking into when I step into Dr. Stayner’s office.
“He ignored several warnings about the icebergs. Why? No one knows for sure. I’m guessing that he assumed that the builders were right and the ship was indestructible. Maybe he assumed that a ship that size would simply cut through an iceberg. Whatever the reason, he was responsible for that ship and that ship didn’t change course. Because of his actions, or inactions, all those people died. Because of a mistake. Something that every human being makes.”
Now I think I know where he’s going with this. But maybe not. Stayner tends to go off on tangents now and again.
“You assumed that your friend was fine to drive because he’d never get behind the wheel drunk, just like you’d never get behind the wheel knowingly drunk, right?”
“Never,” I answer without hesitation. I knew Sasha as well as I know myself.
“And he probably seemed fine to you at the time, because you yourself were drunk, and because you wanted to get home to study.” He shrugs. “And because simple human nature operates under an ‘it won’t ever happen to me’ mentality.”
“Stop making excuses for me.” We’ve been dancing this dance for a while now, where he tells me that I can’t hold myself responsible and I tell him that I am responsible and no psychological mumbo jumbo will change that.
“I’m not making excuses for you. I’m just stating facts. Giving you reasons. The fact is, you didn’t mean to hand keys over to your drunk friend. If you had known he was drunk, you probably would have waited and then driven yourself. Right?”
“Right, but—”
“And the fact is you didn’t intentionally drink too much.”
“Right, but that doesn’t change that I did it.”
“That’s right. You did it. And you can’t undo it. But your friend Sasha also asked you for the keys. And your friend Derek was perfectly capable of putting his seat belt on. So was Sasha. That was a choice they made—or didn’t make—and they paid for it with their lives.”
“And the Clearys? They didn’t ask for this.”
“No, they didn’t,” he agrees soberly. “They were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just think, if they hadn’t stopped for pizza, if they didn’t go to that game . . .”
A shudder runs through me. “I know.” I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m sure Kacey has, too.
“But that’s life, Trent. Whether we like it or not, we live and die by an endless stream of choices that affect each next step in our lives. Sometimes in ways we never dared think of or hoped for. Sometimes in ways we can’t make sense of for a long time. I’m trying to help you make sense of what happened because the sooner you do that, the sooner you can move on. You made a mistake, Trent. A mistake of drinking too much and believing that your friend was fine to drive. Sasha made the mistake of thinking he was fine to drive. Sasha and Derek made the mistake of not wearing their seat belts. And all of those mistakes turned into a tragic accident that claimed six people’s lives.”
He pauses, as if to let his words sink into my head. “I told my sons about this very case last night over dinner. They’re still too young to drive, but I like to scare the snot out of them with real-life scenarios every once in a while.”
“Isn’t that unethical?”
He waves my doubtful tone away with his free hand. “The accident is public knowledge.”
“What about everything else?” I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Stayner has provided a play-by-play review of our conversation to his kids over a plate of fried chicken. In the time that I’ve been here, I’ve quickly learned that the patient, pragmatic doctor is also a loud and insistent man, willing to roll up his sleeves and climb into the trenches with his patients. He pushes boundaries and he doesn’t mince words. Sometimes that causes problems. Last week, I saw him tearing out of this very office and toward the orderlies, a distraught patient hot on his heels, shrieking at him. They had to sedate her. Two days ago, he had a three-hundred-pound man named Terrence sobbing uncontrollably.
He says both of those cases were major breakthroughs.
I’ll reserve my judgment on that for now.
“I didn’t tell them the rest. Would you like me to? Or, better yet . . .” He holds up the large navel orange sitting on his desk, which has held my attention for some reason, and then tosses it to me. “Would you like to? Because I can guarantee you that your story matters. You can’t save your friends or the people in the other car. That’s in the past. But you can save lives now. In the future. When I talk about making amends, that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
“So you finally agree that this was my fault,” I mutter wryly.
He throws his hands up in frustration. “I agree that you think it’s your fault. I can’t change that. You need to change that. Or accept it and move on. And the only way you’re going to do that is by easing your guilt. Feeling like you can earn some level of forgiveness. And the only way to do that is by making the amends that you feel you need to make. So, how about we draw a line in the sand and move on. Agree?”
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“What does it feel like?”
How can I possibly describe what’s going on inside me? I don’t think there’s any way to do it justice. But I try. “Like I’ve been wandering along an old dirt road for two years with no end in sight. Not a soul around me.” Again, Kacey’s face flashes through my mind. The feel of her mouth against mine, her arms wrapped around mine, her body wanting mine. For her, it was just another drunken night, another moment’s respite from her misery. For me, it was something deeper. On this endless, isolated journey, it was a momentary connection with the only other person to walk away from the accident. And it reminded me of what I’ll never have again, because who the hell would want to be stuck on this lonely road with me?
When I glance up, Dr. Stayner’s blue-gray eyes are dissecting me. Not in a “this idiot’s going to pay for my kitchen reno” way; in a way that’s full of compassion. I swallow against the forming lump. “So how are you gonna fix me?”
“Oh, I can’t fix you, Trent. I’ll take all the credit, mind you. It’s a great boost to my ego. But you have to fix you.”
Curiosity overcomes me. “You know my real name isn’t Trent, right?”
“Yes, your parents filled me in on your history.”
“So why are you calling me Trent? Do you agree that I should have changed my name?”
He shrugs. “Who do you want to be?”
“Not Cole Reynolds.”
“Then I guess that makes you Trent Emerson, now doesn’t it?” He tosses the ball a few more times. “I had a patient once. His name was Benny Flanagan, but he insisted that we call him Fidel Castro.”
I can’t stifle my snort. “What did you—”
“Fidel Castro.” He chuckles. “Fiddy, for short. He had some very serious identity issues. But, eventually he remembered that he was Benny Flanagan.”
“And what if I don’t ever want to go back to being Cole Reynolds again?”
“What if you can’t?” Dr. Stayner counters without missing a beat.
I frown. Is that a trick question?
He slaps the ball on his desk with a hard thud. “That’s what this is all about. You can’t go back. You can’t change what happened. You can’t resurrect the dead. You can only find ways to help yourself come to terms with it all. That’s the only way you’ll ever move on. What do you, Cole, Trent—whoever you want to be—need in order to move on? Because we can change where your future is heading. That’s why you’re here. We all want you to have a long and happy future.”
“Okay . . .” What he’s saying makes sense. To be honest, it’s nothing I didn’t already know. But when Dr. Stayner says it, I feel like he’s giving me the permission that I can’t give myself. “So, how am I going to fix myself?”
His feet slide unceremoniously off the desk. “Well, first and foremost, by remembering that you’re human.”
For a glorified mental hospital, this isn’t so bad. It’s not what I ever imagined a place like this to be. There are definitely no lunatics ranting about the end of the world or the army of voices in their heads. There are a lot of really nice people in private rooms and smiling staff to get you whatever you need; there’s a gym that I’ve spent a good deal of time in; there’s a small yard with oak trees and tiny purple flowers waking up after a long winter, and wooden benches you can sit on to enjoy the spring air.
Of course, I assume that not every place is like this. I’m sure my parents are paying for these niceties. I’ll be working double-time to pay them back for this, whether they like it or not.
“Beautiful day.”
I shield my eyes against the sun as a woman takes a seat, adjusting her long, brown ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s nice to feel the sun again.” I grin to myself, realizing that I actually meant that.
“I’m Sheila.” She holds a hand out, her eyes crinkling at the corners with her smile. I can’t help but notice the pink slashes along the wrist that lies on her lap. “How long have you been here?”
“Almost two weeks. You?”
“Six weeks.”
“That’s a long time.”
“That’s a long time to deal with Dr. Stayner,” she corrects, and we both share a chuckle. She pauses. “What are you in for?” She asks it so casually, proving to me that her time here has probably been well spent.
Two weeks ago, I couldn’t care less about some stranger’s plight or telling her about mine, because I’d been so swallowed up by my own turmoil that I didn’t believe anything was going to get me out of it. But if my time in group therapy sessions has taught me anything, it’s that talking about the accident and the aftermath with people who understand does actually help. And every single person in that session does understand. Or, at least, they can empathize. They don’t know Sasha and Derek, and they may not have been in a car accident, but some personal hardship has landed them here. And they don’t judge me, because doing that quickly leads them to judging themselves.
In a room with these people, holding hands with all of our demons, I feel a sense of peace.
That’s why I tell Sheila everything. I even tell her about Kacey, things I haven’t admitted to Stayner. Not all the gritty details, but I think enough to make her see how much Kacey has come to mean to me.
How much I hope that she’s all right.
That’s my only regret, being in this place. There’s no internet, no cell phones. No way for me to make sure that Kacey makes it home at night.
Sheila listens through the entire story, twirling the wedding band around her finger absently. And when it’s her turn to talk, she takes a deep breath. And tells me about her eleven-month-old daughter, Claire, and how she turned her attention away from the happy, splashing baby sitting in a turtle pool with four inches of water for no more than ten seconds—she swears—while saying goodbye to guests.
And how Claire must have tried to get up but fell into the water.
And how Sheila found her, facedown and eerily still.
By the time she’s done, my chest is heavy to the point of pain.
“I’m really sorry.”
She smiles sadly, her gaze drifting out over the park-like setting. “So am I. I think I’ve said that word a thousand times. My husband hasn’t forgiven me. He says he has, but I see it in his eyes. I don’t blame him. I can’t forgive myself either. I never will. But I think it’d help if I had forgiveness from him.”
Silence settles over us.
And I ponder what it would be like to have Kacey’s forgiveness. Would it lessen the burden of this weight just a little?
Would that be something too selfish to ask for?
“You made an incredibly stupid mistake,” Dr. Stayner confirms matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I know. Thanks. We’ve been over this already.” Four weeks in group therapy sessions and private chats with the renowned doctor have taught me that I can say and do whatever I want without insulting or offending him. He seems to think the same applies to him with his patients.
“Imagine being Captain Edward J. Smith.” My puzzled brow earns an eye roll. “The guy who plowed the unsinkable ship into an iceberg and sank it? Killing fifteen hundred people? Making world history?” His eyes are wide with disbelief. “You kids, these days . . . What do they teach you?”
I never know what I’m walking into when I step into Dr. Stayner’s office.
“He ignored several warnings about the icebergs. Why? No one knows for sure. I’m guessing that he assumed that the builders were right and the ship was indestructible. Maybe he assumed that a ship that size would simply cut through an iceberg. Whatever the reason, he was responsible for that ship and that ship didn’t change course. Because of his actions, or inactions, all those people died. Because of a mistake. Something that every human being makes.”
Now I think I know where he’s going with this. But maybe not. Stayner tends to go off on tangents now and again.
“You assumed that your friend was fine to drive because he’d never get behind the wheel drunk, just like you’d never get behind the wheel knowingly drunk, right?”
“Never,” I answer without hesitation. I knew Sasha as well as I know myself.
“And he probably seemed fine to you at the time, because you yourself were drunk, and because you wanted to get home to study.” He shrugs. “And because simple human nature operates under an ‘it won’t ever happen to me’ mentality.”
“Stop making excuses for me.” We’ve been dancing this dance for a while now, where he tells me that I can’t hold myself responsible and I tell him that I am responsible and no psychological mumbo jumbo will change that.
“I’m not making excuses for you. I’m just stating facts. Giving you reasons. The fact is, you didn’t mean to hand keys over to your drunk friend. If you had known he was drunk, you probably would have waited and then driven yourself. Right?”
“Right, but—”
“And the fact is you didn’t intentionally drink too much.”
“Right, but that doesn’t change that I did it.”
“That’s right. You did it. And you can’t undo it. But your friend Sasha also asked you for the keys. And your friend Derek was perfectly capable of putting his seat belt on. So was Sasha. That was a choice they made—or didn’t make—and they paid for it with their lives.”
“And the Clearys? They didn’t ask for this.”
“No, they didn’t,” he agrees soberly. “They were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Just think, if they hadn’t stopped for pizza, if they didn’t go to that game . . .”
A shudder runs through me. “I know.” I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m sure Kacey has, too.
“But that’s life, Trent. Whether we like it or not, we live and die by an endless stream of choices that affect each next step in our lives. Sometimes in ways we never dared think of or hoped for. Sometimes in ways we can’t make sense of for a long time. I’m trying to help you make sense of what happened because the sooner you do that, the sooner you can move on. You made a mistake, Trent. A mistake of drinking too much and believing that your friend was fine to drive. Sasha made the mistake of thinking he was fine to drive. Sasha and Derek made the mistake of not wearing their seat belts. And all of those mistakes turned into a tragic accident that claimed six people’s lives.”
He pauses, as if to let his words sink into my head. “I told my sons about this very case last night over dinner. They’re still too young to drive, but I like to scare the snot out of them with real-life scenarios every once in a while.”
“Isn’t that unethical?”
He waves my doubtful tone away with his free hand. “The accident is public knowledge.”
“What about everything else?” I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Stayner has provided a play-by-play review of our conversation to his kids over a plate of fried chicken. In the time that I’ve been here, I’ve quickly learned that the patient, pragmatic doctor is also a loud and insistent man, willing to roll up his sleeves and climb into the trenches with his patients. He pushes boundaries and he doesn’t mince words. Sometimes that causes problems. Last week, I saw him tearing out of this very office and toward the orderlies, a distraught patient hot on his heels, shrieking at him. They had to sedate her. Two days ago, he had a three-hundred-pound man named Terrence sobbing uncontrollably.
He says both of those cases were major breakthroughs.
I’ll reserve my judgment on that for now.
“I didn’t tell them the rest. Would you like me to? Or, better yet . . .” He holds up the large navel orange sitting on his desk, which has held my attention for some reason, and then tosses it to me. “Would you like to? Because I can guarantee you that your story matters. You can’t save your friends or the people in the other car. That’s in the past. But you can save lives now. In the future. When I talk about making amends, that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
“So you finally agree that this was my fault,” I mutter wryly.
He throws his hands up in frustration. “I agree that you think it’s your fault. I can’t change that. You need to change that. Or accept it and move on. And the only way you’re going to do that is by easing your guilt. Feeling like you can earn some level of forgiveness. And the only way to do that is by making the amends that you feel you need to make. So, how about we draw a line in the sand and move on. Agree?”
