“How long are you here?” she says.
“We might be here permanently.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she says. “I’m tickled. How are you? It’s been, what, a year?”
“A little over a year, yes. We were here last June through September.”
“How has your year been?” she says, pushing back her ponytail. “You had a lot of plans, as I recall.”
“Plans, yes. To come back here! And here we are!” I force a smile. Can she see how fake it is? How fake I feel?
“Here you are!” she says, but her smile falters. “You made it work after all.”
“Made it work?” Did I discuss my personal life with her? Our marital problems? Did I come in here without Jacob?
“The move,” she says, clasping her hands together, then opening them in an expansive gesture. “You said it would take a lot of finagling to be able to move to an island. Finagling and maneuvering.”
“We did a lot of finagling and maneuvering, yes,” I say. “It all worked out.”
“I bet you’re looking for this.” She hands me a small bottle labeled Mystic Thyme Oil for Spiritual Healing. “A housewarming gift. Your favorite.”
I read the ingredients. Arnica montana, St. John’s wort, lavender, essential oils. “I needed spiritual healing.”
“I could tell,” she says. “How are you doing now?”
“Much better, thanks.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but your aura was tightly closed in around you last time you were here.”
“My aura.”
“I see auras, remember? I see black auras when people are sick or dying—”
“But I wasn’t sick or dying.”
“No, but you said you were worried your life was out of your control.”
“What about now?”
Her brow wrinkles as she assesses me. “Your aura is fuzzy and gray now.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re here but part of you is not here.”
“That sounds almost poetic,” I say.
“If you want a reading, I can give you a more detailed analysis.” She hands me a business card reading, Eliza Penny, Owner, Mystic Thyme. “Call me anytime. Or just come in.”
“Thanks. I will. But right now I’m looking for the therapist’s office. I’m going to be late in a minute.”
She points back through the store. “You’ll see the stairs to the second floor.”
*
Sylvia opens her office door before I can even knock. She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn, clad in soft black slacks and beige cashmere sweater, her black hair tied back. Her office is all cushions, tissue boxes, and tall windows.
“Thank you for seeing me so soon,” I say.
“Serendipity. I had a last-minute cancellation.” She hangs up my raincoat on a hook by the door. “Would you like a cup of chamomile tea?”
“I could use some water. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.” She brings me a tall glass of ice water. An antique table clock ticks away the hour. “Have a seat anywhere you like.”
I see only comfortable armchairs. “You mean I don’t lie down on a couch?”
“Would you like to lie down on a couch?”
“No, it’s just . . . I pictured you sitting behind me, taking notes while I lie on a couch and talk about my thoughts and dreams.”
“That sounds very Freudian,” she says.
“Freudian, yes. I talk while you analyze what I say.”
She laughs. “Is that what you would like me to do?”
“Not really,” I say truthfully.
“I’m glad. I practice a different form of therapy. More interactive. More . . . twenty-first century.”
“So I can sit there.” I point to a plush armchair.
“You most certainly may.”
I sink into the comfortable cushion. There is something safe about the room—its simple furnishings, the throw pillows, the leafy plants.
She sits in the armchair directly in front of me, a wooden coffee table between us. She crosses her legs, revealing black pumps with one-inch heels. I never liked high heels, but I owned pumps in a few different colors, for special outings. But in the last four years, I traded in the bold colors for muted browns and black.
“What brings you to see me today?” she says, clasping her hands in her lap.
I look out the window and focus on the distant horizon. “You have a great view from here. The vistas on this island take my breath away.”
I expect her to say, You came here for a therapy session, and you’re avoiding the subject. Let’s get to the point. But instead she says, “It is soothing.” She follows my gaze. Her expression is open, receptive.
“Must be different from where you were before. Nancy said you worked for Pierce County.”
“In Tacoma, yes,” she says, turning back to face me.
“She said you’re semiretired. Why did you move out here?”
“I was trying to simplify my life.” She rests a notebook on her lap, pencil in hand.
“Me, too,” I say.
“Why don’t you tell me more about yourself? Whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”
“I’m not sure how much you know about me.”
“Nancy told me a little about your accident. But I don’t know the details.”
“I don’t really know them, either,” I say, looking at my hands in my lap.