Page 37 of The Unraveling

“The maker of Tylenol PM.” He flashes a playful smile. “Sorry, I’m just teasing. I saw an ad for your practice, for people who are having trouble sleeping, on the Johnson and Johnson website when I was looking up how long the sleep-aid effect should last for Tylenol PM. I thought it sounded better to say I was referred.”

“Oh. Okay.” I swallow. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I have a few basic questions I do for intake, and then we can really talk. How does that sound?”

He nods along, and I take him through a basic patient intake—verifying his primary physician, his demographic data, family psychiatric history, medications, and so on. No red flags. No history at all, really, besides the obvious—what you did to him. What we did to him. Gabriel speaks easily, relaxing back on the couch, talking with his hands. He has good eye contact, and I find myself starting to relax, noticing he’s even more handsome up close. Soft fuzz peppers his angular jaw, telling me he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. When he speaks, his whole body grows animated, and his entire face smiles, not just his very full lips. His emotions are on display through his big brown eyes, as though he holds nothing back, and something about that seems almost freeing.

But he can’t be free. I know that better than anyone.

“What brings you in today?” I circle back to the moment at hand, waiting, pen poised, to take detailed notes. It’s only when I look down and scribble his name at the top—Gabriel Wright—that I become aware I didn’t pull a patient notebook from my desk. I pulled my notebook from my desk. The one that already has pages and pages of notes and observations on him. Whatever calm I’d begun to feel disappears, and my hand starts shaking. I grip the notebook as tightly as possible to try to stop it.

“I’m struggling with sleep. I’ve tried everything—over-the-counter stuff, even got a prescription for Ambien. It does put me to sleep. But I’ve been on it a while now.” He takes a breath. “I don’t want to be on a medication forever. I’d rather deal with the root of the problem.”

My insides quiver. With dread. With anticipation. I knew he couldn’t have gotten over what happened. Maybe this is the reason we’ve crossed paths again. I’m meant to help him. Help him move forward, get over his grief.

Grief that I caused.

Something niggles at my brain.

I swallow hard. But how did this happen? There are millions of people in this city—how is it we just happened to be in the same coffee shop at the same time those months ago? And now, for him to sit across from me in my office? Does he really not know who I am?

My eyes come into focus once again, and I realize Gabriel has been silent for too long. He’s waiting for me to say something. But what the hell was the last thing he said? Something about sleep. Medication. Oh! Root cause!

I clear my throat. “And what is the root of the problem?”

His chest lifts as he takes a deep breath. “Sorry, this is difficult for me to talk about.” He looks anywhere but at me, and my gaze follows his to a nearby shelf, books lined up on all topics of psychiatry, mixed with a few coffee table books I swap out in the waiting room. And that’s when I notice the piece of you I’ve missed.

Our wedding photo. You, me, arm in arm, white dress and black tux, laughing as though we haven’t a care in the world. And we didn’t back then. The frame had been on my desk, photo facing away from patient view. But I moved it while I was packing earlier, set it aside to wrap so the glass wouldn’t break. Now it’s on full display, staring at my patient…

Gabriel might not have recognized me, but he certainly would recognize you—if not from your days playing hockey, then from the photos that were plastered all over the papers and social media after your “accident.”

Shit.

“My wife and child died last year.” Gabriel looks down at his hands, loose in his lap. “They were killed by a driver who was under the influence of…” He waves a hand. “Whatever the fuck he was under the influence of. Sorry. I didn’t mean to curse, I just…” He sighs heavily.

I sit in my chair, vibrating with tension. I have to move that photo. Have to get rid of the damn thing. But this is important, this moment. Gabriel Wright, sharing his inner thoughts with me. His truths.

Usually I sit quietly, patiently. Silence encourages someone to continue talking, to fill the space. But today I can’t.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I say. “Tell me more. Did your sleeping issues start when they died? And excuse me for a moment, please. I just need to grab a new pen.”

I’m on my feet, moving toward the frame. I used to love that photo. It made me smile every time I looked over at it. But now my husband’s smiling face no longer looks joyous to me. It’s marred with the knowledge of what you did. What I allowed you to do. A glass of new pens sits nearby, and I reach for one, simultaneously reaching for you—hoping, as blood thrums through my veins, that I can move it before he notices.

A loud slap echoes around the room as the frame smacks face down against the wood of the shelf.

Gabriel immediately stands. “Are you okay? Do you need help?” He takes a step toward me—toward the photo I’ve just pretended to accidentally knock over.

I wave him off. “Oh no, thank you. It’s fine. I’m so sorry to interrupt. Tell me about your family.”

He eases back on the couch, uncertain. As though manners dictate that he help me.

I like that about him.

Settling back in my chair, I offer a warm smile. “Please, continue.”

It takes a moment, but then he does. Gabriel dives right into the deep end. He tells me things I already know—how his wife and child were mowed down. How they were killed instantly. But he also tells me things that I didn’t know, like how his daughter was hearing impaired and wore hearing aids, and his wife came from a wealthy family. I listen, riveted, but when he talks about their funeral, I find myself wondering if he’ll mention where they were buried. But he doesn’t, and there’s no way to ask. I scribble detailed notes, knowing I’ll pore over them a million times tonight. I’ll try to remember every face he made, every emotion that spilled from his warm eyes. I suddenly wish I recorded my sessions.

I’m also intensely aware that my behavior is anything but professional. That accepting him as a patient—which I’ve effectively already done by continuing this session—is morally wrong. And yet another thing I could get in trouble for with the medical board. Big trouble. But it’s like the universe wants me to right my wrongs.

Or… and I can’t help returning to this again. Or it’s not a coincidence he keeps popping up in my life. I squirm at that thought, at why he might be here besides truly wanting help. Except I started this all by following him.

---