Page 53 of When Cardinals Appear

“I promised her, Rose, and that means something to me.” As she opened her mouth to protest, I held up a finger. “I’m not saying I won’t stay, but I have some soul-searching to do before I make up my mind.” I blew out a breath. “Besides, I can’t very well ask her to release me from my promise now.”

“Well.” Rose smirked. “You could ask the cardinal.”

Nate still hadn’t responded to my voicemail by the time the sun rose Monday morning. He also hadn’t responded to my five text messages, two emails, or my failed attempts at telepathy. Could I blame him? Of course not, but I still hoped he would let me explain.

It would have been nice to get that chance before my therapy appointment, but it didn’t look likely. With a groan, I dragged myself out of bed and into a hot shower. I was running too late to have my usual leisurely coffee in the kitchen. As I ran out the door with my hair still damp, a spot of red caught my eye. The cardinal was perched on my mother’s car, staring at me.

“Here to wish me luck before I face my doom?” I asked it as I opened the driver’s-side door and tossed my purse in.

It chirped at me before flying away. Much as I wanted to take the cardinal’s appearance as a good omen, Nate’s refusal to respond to any of my attempts at communication made me second-guess the purpose of the cardinal’s visits. Maybe Cassandra was wrong. Maybe it was just a bird looking for its next meal.

As I drove to the therapist’s office, I questioned my decision to forego breakfast. On the one hand, my anxiety had convinced me I wouldn’t be able to keep down any food. But on the other hand, the burning in my stomach would only increase the longer I went without.

I almost chickened out. After parking my car, I breathed deeply, trying to settle the panic clawing up my chest. It was just one appointment. If I hated it, I never had to go back. But I didn’t want to face my grief. Not yet. Let me get through the sale of the house and probate court. Then, I promised myself, I would take the time to grieve.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself out of the car and marched with stiff legs into the office. The receptionist gave me a kind smile as I approached the desk.

“How can I help you?”

“I’m here for my appointment,” I said. “Lanie McAllister.”

She nodded and pushed a clipboard on the counter toward me. “If you’ll just fill this out, I’ll let Dr. Brooks know you’re here.”

I took the clipboard and found a seat, grateful that the waiting room was empty. The first few questions on the form were easy, asking about family history and insurance. More difficult to answer were the sections on symptoms. I did my best, unsure whether I was answering things in the right way or if I’d put myself at risk of being committed. When I finished, I stumbled to the reception desk and shoved the clipboard back, wanting to get it as far away from me as possible.

“Thank you,” the receptionist said. “Dr. Brooks will see you now.” She motioned for me to go through the door behind her.

Every inch of me wanted to run, but it was too late. Dr. Brooks herself opened the door. She was a petite redhead with her hair clipped in a twist behind her head. Her peasant dress flowed loosely down her body, giving her a Bohemian air. I contrasted her appearance with my memories of Dr. Kelvin. Maybe the stark differences were a good sign the visit wouldn’t be a repeat of my last attempt at getting help.

“Welcome, Lanie. Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Her office had several different chairs and a couch set up, allowing patients to choose to sit where they were most comfortable. What did a choice say about me? If I sat on the couch, would she expect me to lie down? Or if I chose a chair with a straight back, would she think I was rigid and incapable of change?

I opted for the chair that looked the most comfortable, with green cushions and wooden legs. It sat directly across from the office chair I assumed was hers.

As she settled into her chair, I hid a smile. What did the office chair say about her? Was it simply easy to maneuver back and forth between her desk and the area where her patients sat? Or did it give her a sense of authority?

I shook my head. Maybe I was going crazy, thinking so much about nonexistent messages from a stupid chair.

She smiled at me. “Why don’t you tell me what brings you in today?”

“Well, my mother passed away this summer—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “That must have been difficult.” Her face softened, and her tone was kind and genuine.

“Yes, it was. I mean, well, we knew it was coming. She had cancer, and I’d come home to take care of her.” I cleared my throat to stop the babble train coming out of my mouth. “Anyway, I’m back now because she appointed me executor of her estate, and I guess I’m struggling?”

Why did I end that speech with a question? “At least, my sister-in-law, who is a nurse, suggested I should go to therapy.”

“Have you tried therapy before?”

“Once, while caring for my mom.” I hung my head, though I couldn’t say why I felt ashamed. Did it count as failing at therapy if I went to only one session? Was it possible to fail therapy?

“Why did you stop going?”

I shifted in my seat. “I felt like the therapist was judging me.”

She nodded and made a note in her clipboard. Oh great, now she probably thinks I’m paranoid.

---