Page 2 of Misery and Ecstasy

Continuing my path through the hallway, I wait impatiently for Royce to finish whatever the fuck it is he’s doing. I should just hang up. If you’re not available to talk, don’t answer the phone. Though he likely answered it as quickly as he did because he saw my name on his screen. He didn’t want to miss my call because he knows it’s now just a waiting game with Mom.

Royce has been nothing but understanding of my situation these past few months. I’ve missed countless days of work, numerous club events and meetings, and he’s granted me endless patience through it all. He deserves a little of my own in return.

“Sorry about that,” Royce speaks into the phone a minute later, and I hear the sound of a door closing on his end of the line. “Delilah needed help with something, but I’m headed back to the showroom now.”

“Dude, I don’t care.”Fuck. So much for patience. Halting my steps, I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, taking a deep, calming breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just wanted to give you an update.”

“Yeah, of course. How is everything?”

“Her pastor just got here. She only has two days left—three at most. I need to get over to the funeral home to finalize plans.”

The eyes of several of the nurses catch mine as I continue my path down the hallway. Some of them are impartial. Others are full of pity. One of them looks at me like she wants to take me home and heal my hurt.

As if sex could ever.

“Well, I’ll meet you there, then.”

“Nah, you don’t have to do that.” I don’t want to accept his offer. I’d prefer to wallow in my grief alone.

“I know I don’thaveto, dipshit.” His comment tugs at my lips. It’s the closest I’ve come to cracking a smile in months. “I want to. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Fine.” Drawing the phone from my ear, I end the call and push through the front doors of the building, out into the parking lot.

Mounting my bike, my engine roars to life before I take off onto the main road. As I ride down the streets of Gettysburg, I can’t help but wonder if I brought the devastating loss of my parents on myself.

If my heartless, unprovoked actions toward Lillian when I was sixteen put my father in the path of his cold-blooded killer. If my idiocy was the true cause of my mother’s suffering.

Like some sort of karmic retribution.

As soon as the thought offers itself to me, I cast it from my mind. I don’t needherthrown at me, reminding me where my downfall as a human being began. Not right now. The reality of my mother’s impending death is hard enough to endure without rehashing the greatest mistake of my life too.

She can regain control of my eternal suffering once Mom has finally joined Dad on the other side.

CHAPTER TWO

MCKINSEY

Discreetly, I press deeply into my temple, trying to alleviate some of the pounding from my headache as Mary—my standing Wednesday, two-o’clock appointment—struggles to describe her newest anxiety to me. The last thing I need her to worry about is whether or not she caused my pain.

Migraines are nothing new to me, but it’s been a while since I last had one.

“I remember when you brought this up last year. We went over some techniques to help you get past the anxiety. I know you struggled with them at first, but with practice, they ended up being mostly successful. Have you been utilizing those techniques? If so, do you know what’s changed that they are no longer effective?”

Tapping her forefinger against her cherry lips, she ponders the question I already know the answer to.

Nothing has changed.

Honestly, I don’t think she suffers from anxiety. Her previous therapist was the one to diagnose her—only a few months before electing to end her sessions. When she first started coming to me, Mary was distraught. She suffered feelings of rejection, and rightly so.

She told me her therapist gave up on her because of Mary’s reluctance toward all forms of medication that could help her, and because she doesn’t put much stock into things like meditation or relaxation techniques.

If anything, I’d diagnose her with a very mild factitious disorder. But even that doesn’t fit perfectly. She’s not purposely harming herself or making herself sick in order to gain attention. She’s just lonely and looking for a friend. She’s not really against medication, she’s just smart enough not to take anything she knows she doesn’t need or that could harm her. She makes up the excuse of not believing in meditation and other methods like it because she needs a reason to come back to therapy week after week.

She’s wasting her money coming here, but some people simply need someone to talk to.

“Oh, yes. Um, well…”

Her eyes dart around the room as she searches for a reason why thisanxietyhas resurfaced, and I struggle over whether or not to keep seeing her. Am I doing her more harm than good by playing an active role in her farce?

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