She waited until Ashley nodded her silent acceptance of the situation before continuing. “How are you doing, Echo?”
Splendid. Fantastic. Never worse. “Fine.”
“Really?” She tapped a finger against her chin. “Because I would have thought that the anniversary of your brother’s death might trigger painful emotions.”
Mrs. Collins eyed me while I stared blankly in return. My father and Ashley watched the uncomfortable showdown. Guilt nagged at me. She didn’t technically ask me a question, so in theory, I didn’t owe her a response, but the need to please her swept over me like a tidal wave. But why? She was another therapist in the revolving door. They all asked the same questions and promised help, but each of them left me in the same condition as they found me—broken.
“She cries.” Ashley’s high-pitched voice cut through the silence as if she were dispensing juicy country-club gossip. “All the time. She really misses Aires.”
Both my father and I turned our heads to look at the blond bimbo. I willed her to continue while my father, I’m sure, willed her to shut up. God listened to me for once. Ashley went on, “We all miss him. It’s so sad that the baby will never know him.”
And once again, welcome to the Ashley show, sponsored by Ashley and my father’s money. Mrs. Collins wrote briskly, no doubt etching each of Ashley’s unguarded words into my file while my father groaned.
“Echo, would you like to talk about Aires during today’s session?” Mrs. Collins asked.
“No.” That was possibly the most honest answer I’d given all morning.
“That’s fine,” she said. “We’ll save him for a later date. What about your mother? Have you had any contact with her?”
Ashley and my father answered simultaneously, “No,” while I blurted, “Kind of.”
I felt like the middle of a ham sandwich the way the two of them leaned toward me. I wasn’t sure what prompted me to tell the truth. “I tried calling her over break.” When she didn’t answer, I’d sat next to the phone for days, hoping and praying my mother would care that two years before, my brother, her son, had died.
My father ran a hand over his face. “You know you’re not allowed to have contact with your mother.” The anger in his voice hinted that he couldn’t believe I’d told the therapist this tantalizing tidbit. I imagined visions of social workers dancing in his head. “There is a restraining order. Tell me, Echo, landline or cell phone?”
“Landline,” I choked out. “But we never talked. I swear.”
He swiped at his BlackBerry and his lawyer’s number appeared on the screen. I clutched the dog tags, Aires’ name and serial number embedding in my palm. “Please, Daddy, don’t,” I whispered.
He hesitated and my heart pressed against my rib cage. Then, by the grace of God, he dropped the phone to his lap. “We’re going to have to change the number now.”
I nodded. It stunk that my mom would never be able to call my home, but I’d take the hit … for her. Of all the things my mother needed, prison wasn’t one of them.
“Have you had contact with your mother since then?” Mrs. Collins lost her friendliness.
“No.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Everything inside of me ached. I couldn’t keep up the “I’m fine” facade much longer. This line of questioning ripped at my soul’s freshly scabbed wounds.
“To confirm we’re on the same page, you understand that contact between you and your mother while there is a restraining order, even if you initiate it, is forbidden.”
“Yes.” I took another gulp of air. The lump in my throat denied the entry of the precious oxygen. I missed Aires and, God, my mom, and Ashley was having a baby, and my dad was on me all the time, and … I needed something, anything.
Against my better judgment, I let the words tumble out of my mouth. “I want to fix Aires’ car.” Maybe, just maybe, restoring something of his would make the pain go away.
“Oh, not this again,” my father muttered.
“Wait. Not what again? Echo, what are you talking about?” asked Mrs. Collins.
I stared at the gloves on my hands. “Aires found a 1965 Corvette in a scrap yard. He spent all of his free time fixing it up and he was almost done before he went to Afghanistan. I want to restore it. For Aires.” For me. He didn’t leave anything behind when he left, except the car.
“That sounds like a healthy way to grieve. What are your thoughts on this, Mr. Emerson?” Mrs. Collins gave great puppy dog eyes—a trait I had yet to master.
My father scrolled again through his BlackBerry, his body present but his mind already at work. “It costs money and I don’t see the point in fixing up a broken-down car when she has a car that works.”
“Then let me get a job,” I snapped. “And we can sell my car once I get Aires’ working.”
All eyes were on him and now his were on me. Without meaning to, I’d backed him into a corner. He wanted to say no, but that would bring down the wrath of the new therapist. After all, we had to be perfect in therapy. God forbid we take advantage of it and hash out some issues.
“Fine, but she has to pay for the car herself, and Echo knows my rules regarding employment. She has to find a flexible job that will not interfere with her schoolwork, the clubs we agreed upon or her grades. Now, are we done here?”
Mrs. Collins glanced at the clock. “Not quite. Echo, your social worker extended your therapy until graduation because of your teacher evaluations. Since the beginning of your junior year, each of your teachers has noted a distinct withdrawal from your participation in class and in your social interactions with your peers.” Her kind eyes bored into mine. “Everyone wants you to be happy, Echo, and I’d like you to give me the opportunity to help.”
I cocked an eyebrow. Like I had a choice about therapy, and as for my happiness—good freaking luck. “Sure.”
Ashley’s perky voice startled me. “She has a date for the Valentine’s Dance.”