Page 86 of Luca

I instantly feel like I’ve been teleported back to high school, sweating because I didn’t do my homework. I should’ve prepared better for this question. I mean, where the heck do I start?

“Has something happened that caused you to seek out my services, or are there things you’ve been trying to work on with your mental health?”

I appreciate him trying to lead me to an answer. You’d think I’d have this down pat by now. “Let’s see. I have had something tragic happen. But that occurred several years ago. I attempted to get counseling at that time, for myself and my children, but it felt like we weren’t making any progress so we stopped.”

“I see.” He rubs his fingers over his clean-shaven chin. “I’m sorry you struggled in that regard.”

Do I keep pussyfooting around this or just dump it in his lap? I mean, it’s been two years. Plus, confessing the details to Luca the other evening should’ve laid the groundwork for today. Keeping my eyes trained on my hands, I proceed. “My husbandcommitted suicide two years ago. In our home. I found him, and our daughter witnessed the scene not long after I did.”

Dr. Miller doesn’t say anything initially, so I look up from where I’m wringing my fingers together to see he’s merely waiting for me to continue.

“He shot himself. It was a gruesome scene. My daughter hasn’t spoken since. She’s eight.”

After a few moments, Dr. Miller decides to join the conversation. “Is she your only child?”

“No. My son was three. He slept through everything. He’s managed the best of any of us. He doesn’t remember much of his father beyond what he sees in pictures. He sleeps in an old shirt of Dillon’s every night. I think that’s his way of maintaining a connection to him. He thinks of him like a cartoon superhero.” I wince at the admission. My husband was brave. And I’m sure many military children regard their parents that way. Yet I have a hard time with the reference, giving how Dillon left us.

“My youngest is only eighteen months. He has some developmental delay I can’t help but blame myself for. Well, the stress. I blame the stress. I was five months pregnant when Dillon took his life.”

Dr. Miller steeples his fingers together and rests his chin atop them. I decide to take a moment to catch my breath. It’s always draining to share these details with people.

“Other than not speaking, your daughter is doing okay?”

“She seems to be. She makes straight A’s in school, is thoughtful, kind, and looks out for her siblings. I didn’t want to keep pushing her with therapy. If nothing else, I felt she needed a break for a while. Plus, I’d just had a baby. It was a lot if we weren’t seeing any progress.” I look back down at my hands. “My mother encouraged me to try again, hoping it would set a good example for Myla.”

“What kind of example?” Dr. Miller asks.

“That I’m taking the steps I need to have a healthy life. Showing her there are people you can trust, ones who truly want to help.” Fixing my eyes back on Dr. Miller, I continue, “I’m hoping if she can see I’m happy, she’ll be more relaxed and willing to come out of her shell.”

The doctor readjusts himself in his seat. “I think that’s a good place to start. Your happiness.”

I’m not sure why, but this makes me smile. In the past, the psychiatrists have always pushed for all the gruesome details. This man seems more interested in making my visits about returning to a joyful life.

“Where are you in your recovery? Are you still struggling with the aftermath, or do you feel like you’re at a better place?”

I almost laugh. I mean, I wouldn’t be here if I was in a better place. Right? “It’s hard to answer that. I still have nightmares, as does Myla, but they’re not as often. I’m back at work and the kids are back at school. And most days are happy ones.”

“It sounds as if you’ve adjusted amazingly well for all you’ve endured.”

I give a proud smile. He’s right. I need to acknowledge this more often. “Yes. My mother has been my rock. I don’t have a lot of friends. Mostly acquaintances at work who understand all we’ve been through.”

Dr. Miller unfolds his arms and sits back in his chair. One that looks far more comfortable than the thing I’m currently in. “Do you mind my asking if you still live in the home where this trauma occurred?”

“First, I’m here to hopefully make progress. Feel free to ask whatever you believe will get us there.” I catch the doctor’s appreciative grin as I push on. “And no. My husband was in the military. It wasn’t a conventional situation for us. We got pregnant when we were both twenty. I barely knew him. But I fell hard and fast, and he committed himself to me and ourfamily. I’d just graduated nursing school, with an infant, and so I lived with my mother in the early years of our marriage. We moved to join him when Caleb was two. It was less than a year later that… well, you know.” I shrug my shoulders.

Thinking of that time is so deflating. Not only because of the enormous grief, but I came home feeling so defeated. And try as I might, every day since has felt like one I’m trying to ‘get through.’ My kids and I deserve so much more. I pray Kat’s right and this man can help us find our way.

“Do you talk about this much?”

“God no.”

“Because of the memories it evokes or the sensitive nature of how he died?”

“All of it.” I don’t even hesitate.

“Are you embarrassed by what he did?”

Taking a moment to pause, I try not to keep blurting out the first word that lands on my tongue. “No. I don’t think so. It’s just no one else’s business.”

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