“Is something funny?”
“One of the times I tried to hug my brother, I literally choked. On a chip.”
“Oh no.” Dr. West also breathed a laugh and gave me a sympathetic look. “What happened with the chip?”
“Let me start at the beginning. After work, he followed me to my house. He still thinks—or I’m assuming he still thinks—that I have trouble in public places.”
“Why didn’t you correct him?”
“It didn’t occur to me. I was . . . flustered and upset about what I did to Beau.” Crap. Crap. Crap. There it is. I’m a terrible person.
My chest felt too tight and my molars hurt.
Why do my molars hurt?
Dr. West gave me a commiserating smile, writing something down in her notes. “We’ll get to Beau in a moment. One thing at a time. Tell me what happened with Quinn. You choked on a chip?”
I was thankful for the reprieve. “We arrived at my house and I put out tortilla chips and salsa.”
“Good!”
“Yes,” I agreed, feeling a little proud of myself despite everything.
Before therapy, I’d never been able to think past the worries in my own mind when someone came to my house. Moving past the big anxieties to the normal niceties had felt impossible.
I would focus on things that ultimately didn’t matter during a visit. Did they brush their teeth that morning? When had he or she had their last dental checkup? Were their parents still alive? And, if not, how were they coping with the loss? If a woman was in my house, I worried about her HPV vaccine status.
But Dr. West had provided a checklist of the things I should focus on, like taking a bag or a coat and placing it someplace accessible. Putting out food, offering something to drink, asking about the person’s day.
When she spelled it out for me, it made complete sense. Getting over my embarrassment—for not figuring this out on my own—took me longer.
“Then I offered him something to drink. He said he could get it himself. I’d just taken a bite of a chip as he turned away, and I decided I would try. I could hug him. I felt a sense of clarity, really and truly saw how ridiculous my previous fears and avoidance had been. In that moment I believed it.” And I wanted to do it before the clarity passed, before the doubting voice in my head increased in volume.
“Then what happened?” Dr. West was on the edge of her seat.
“I stepped forward, planning to hug his back, and I took a deep breath, and I . . . inhaled a chip.”
“Oh no.” She set her chin in the palm of her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t beat yourself up too much about it.”
“No. The chip already did that,” I mumbled.
Dr. West sat up straighter, like I’d surprised her, and then barked a laugh. I also laughed, allowing myself to see the humor in the situation. But then I stopped, because ultimately, it had been a disappointing moment. And I’d spent the last two days mourning lost opportunities—not just with Quinn, but with Beau as well.
When she spotted my mood swing, her laughter tapered. Her eyes, both warm and shrewd, examined me.
“I count this as a victory, Shelly. Look at the big picture. You were able to move past being flustered, focus on the checklist, and you had a moment of clarity. Three steps forward, one step back.”
I nodded, seeing her point, but still too raw over the events of the last few days to concede it.
“What else happened? With your brother? What was his reason for coming?”
I dropped my eyes to my hands. “He wants me to move back to Chicago. He wants me to be an aunt to Desmond.”
“That is great. See?”
“What?”
“All your worries about Quinn, about him writing you off, about it being too late to be a part of your family. It’s not too late. Your brother loves you and wants you in his life.”
“Yes. Yes, he does.” I should be happy.
Be happy. Be happy. Be happy.
I felt her eyes on me, still examining. “Why don’t you sound happy about this?”
“I am happy.” I nodded, closing my eyes.
I heard Dr. West flip through her papers. “When you came to me originally, your main goal—and these are your words—was, ‘Frequent, normal, affectionate interaction with my family.’”
“That is still my goal.” And I needed to focus on it. I owed it to my family to put them first.
She was silent for a moment before asking, “What’s going on?”
I opened my eyes and tried to find the right words. “You are here, in Tennessee. I see a difference in myself, and I don’t want to lose that. I’m getting better.”
And then there’s my art space, and my little house, and the auto shop and . . . and Beau.
She considered me for a moment, still warmly, still shrewdly. “Did you show Quinn what you’ve been working on?”
“Yes. He liked them.” I considered the accuracy of my words, then decided to amend my statement. “Actually, he loved the angels. He said he was proud of me, said it was the best thing I have made.”
My face flushed, heated at the memory, but in a good way. After not seeing my brother in two years, I was glad we’d ended the visit with the angels. My brother didn’t smile often, he was more prone to observe than to join. His smiles and praise were a welcomed surprise.
“Do you think he came to check on your progress?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “That is not like Quinn. He knows, despite everything, if I say I’m going to finish a project for a client he’s lined up, I will do it. He did not ask about my progress. I was the one who offered to show him.” It was the least I could do.
“Anything else you want to tell me about the visit with your brother?”
“Two other things happened that you should know about.” A deep breath was required prior to continuing. “He is sending his plane in November for me to go to Chicago and visit. To meet Desmond.”
Concern flashed behind her eyes before she could completely mask it. “How do you feel about that?”
“Hopeful, but worried.”
“Do you think you’re ready?”
“I don’t know.”
Dr. West considered me for a few seconds, her expression blank. “I suggest you be honest with your brother about the fact that you might not be able to hold your nephew—or touch him—while you’re there.”
“I think he knows that.”
“May I suggest you spell it out. Maybe it’s time to sit him down and explain what your diagnosis means, what you’ve been doing about it over the past several months, as well was what your goals are moving forward.”
“I will think about it.”
Her answering smile was warmer, less shrewd. “Good. What is the second thing?”
This was less easy for me to discuss. “When we got to my house, the first thing he did was check my arms and legs.”
Her expression grew sober. “But you understand why he did that.”