Page 102 of The Two of Us

She gives me my space over the following days. I walk through the cobblestone streets and pretend like everywhere I go, I take Cat with me. So far, I’ve taken Cat to experience the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and overpriced crepes. Maybe that’s how we are supposed to honor those who are no longer with us. Maybe we’re supposed to keep living for them. And if that’s the case, I’ll do it for Cat. And my dad.

When I’m ready to leave, JP drives me to the airport.

“You look different. Lighter. I’ve never seen you look at Paris through such eyes,” he says. His rich, ebony skin glows in the morning light. I’m lucky to know someone like him and I’m glad he’s able to love my mom in a way I’m not able to.

I hug him as I grab my duffel bag. “I have a feeling I need to take another look at a lot of things.”

I start therapy the day after I get back to New York.

It’s easy to fall back into my old routine when I return to the city, but I’m determined to keep my promise to Ambrose and take the time to work on myself.

When I have my first session with Mitsu, she tells me she does things a little differently and I don’t really know what that means but I know I need different.

She’s kind and patient and she gets me to talk about Cat in a way that feels like I’m celebrating her and mourning her at the same time. I really like that. I like that I don’t have to choose between the two. Because I’ll always mourn Cat.

“Healing isn’t linear, Mara,” Mitsu says. “Some days it’s five steps forward and other days it’s seven steps back. There’s no finish line. The goal is just to keep stepping.”

So I do just that. And there are days when thinking about Cat makes me laugh until my belly hurts and days where it makes me cry so hard I’m afraid I’ll drown.

But I’m thinking about her.

On the day that marks two months since our first session, Mitsu hands me a box with a green bow.

“Are you supposed to give clients presents? Doesn’t that cross some sort of line?” I tease.

She rolls her eyes at me. I like that she doesn’t treat me like porcelain about to break. “It’s not a present. It’s homework.”

I open the box to reveal its contents. My eyebrows scrunch in confusion as I hold up the broken pieces of a ceramic bowl. “Thank you?”

She chuckles. “It’s called kintsugi.”

I repeat the word back to her and she nods. “It’s the art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold. The idea behind it is that even when something’s broken, we can always put it back together. And when we put it back together and embrace those cracks of imperfection, it’s even stronger and more beautiful than before.”

And as I glue the pieces together that night on the floor of my tiny New York apartment, I imagine Ambrose, Cat, and I as the shards in my hands finally coming back together. Held firmly in place by the gold. A material known for being malleable; open to change, but one that never tarnishes.

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