Page 18 of Little Shattered Dreams

“I’m fine,” I said.

“It’s okay if you’renotfine, you know. It’s also okay to talk about it. I’m a good listener.”

Not even one minute into the conversation, and I was already being offered unsolicited advice.

Terrific.

“I’ve been around my fair share of death,” I said. “And this may sound … well, like I have few screws loose, and look, I do, but being around death doesn’t bother me. It’s a lot more comfortable than being at this place for a week.”

She crossed one leg over the other, staring at me like she wasn’t sure how to take what I’d said. “Why do you feel that way? What about this place has been difficult for you?”

“I’m a private person. I’m not big on sharing my feelings unless it’s with someone I trust, and even then, it’s not easy.”

“You’re just the type of person who belongs here, then. There is so much a place like this could offer you if you let it.”

“I’m just trying to get through the week.”

She leaned forward and laced her hands together on top of the desk. “I was like you once.”

“Like mehow?”

“I didn’t enjoy talking about my feelings either. I was raised in a family where none of our conversations were personal in nature. My mom would ask me about my day but pay little attention to my answer. My dad would ask simple questions, such as if my homework was done. Don’t get me wrong. I had wonderful parents. They were just the conservative, quiet type. Even when they fell on hard times, they just rolled up their sleeves and acted like everything was fine. I suppose that’s the way it was back then. But times have changed. We live in a world where therapy and working on oneself is seen as a positive step in the right direction.”

“There are other ways to deal with things,” I said.

“You’re here. Why not give it a try? Immerse yourself in this experience, see what happens.”

“I find it’s easier to process most feelings myself.”

“Keeping things bottled up is much like a volcano. It’s only a matter of time before it explodes.”

Explosions.

I’d had a handful of them over my lifetime, and they were almost always tied to one thing—lack of sleep. I’d never considered myself to be an emotional person, not even when I was a kid. Compassionate? Yes. Teary-eyed? No. Whenever I started to feel the waterworks coming on, it almost always meant one thing: I needed rest.

For now, what I wanted most was to steer the conversation away from any topic that centered on me.

“Speaking of explosions, Clara didn’t seem happy when she left your office just now,” I said.

“Quinn’s death brings up an old memory of hers, one she’d prefer to forget.”

“I’m guessing you aren’t going to share it with me.”

“Whatever is said between me and anyone else here, be it staff or guest, remains in this room.”

“We’re in this room now, so …?”

She wasn’t amused at my attempt to be funny.

“Clara didn’tknowQuinn, did she?” I asked.

Grace shook her head. “They’d just met when Quinn arrived here a few days ago.”

“Why is she taking her death so hard then?”

“We all have triggers, parts of our past that are easier to forget than to remember. It’s my philosophy that the best way to handle triggers is to talk through them with someone else. It’s amazing how freeing it can be to relieve yourself of the baggage you’ve been carrying around for so long.”

No matter what I said, I couldn’t help but feel the conversation kept circling back to me. “I get the feeling Clara still suspects me of being involved in Quinn’s death in some way.”

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