“Come, child. Sit,” she said to me. I sat down on one end of the couch, and she sank into the other side. She pulled the lid off of the jar and set it on the cushion that was between us.
“Fear is a powerful thing,” she said in her warm, smooth tone. “It keeps us trapped in the darkness.”
I nodded, unsure what she wanted me to say. She reached inside the jar and pulled out several slips of plain white paper and a pencil, handing them to me.
“What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Don’t tell me what it is. Just write it down on a slip of paper, fold it, and put it inside the container.
I wrinkled my face with dismay. “Um … I really don’t have anything.”
“Nonsense. Everyone is afraid of something. Go ahead.”
“What are you afraid of?” I asked. She met my eyes and considered.
“My mother has cancer, and I’m afraid of watching her suffer,” she said. “I’m afraid that when the end comes and I need to be strong, I’ll fail her.”
“You don’t seem like the sort of person who’s afraid of anything.”
“We all have fears, child. Share one of yours.”
I took a deep breath and stared at the slip of paper. What would it hurt? I scrawled I’m afraid I’ll have another miscarriage on it, and folded it in half. Harmony pointed a plump finger at the jar and I dropped it in.
“Now,” she said. “Dig a little deeper. Write something down that you’re so afraid of, it pains you to think about it.”
I glanced at her and wrote out another fear: I’m afraid of disappointing Ryke. Harmony gestured at the jar again and I folded the paper and dropped it in.
“More,” she said. I wanted to roll my eyes at her. I was a counselor. Helping people get feelings out was what I did for a living. I didn’t need an ugly homemade jar to get in touch with my own feelings. But I complied anyway, just to placate her.
I’m afraid of becoming bitter because I can’t have babies like other women can.
I dropped it in and kept writing.
I’m afraid I won’t love an adopted baby as much as I would my own.
I’m afraid to fall asleep because I might wake up and be losing the baby.
I’m afraid I’m not as strong as I thought I was.
I’m afraid to even think about the baby inside me.
I stuffed the last one in and wiped the corner of my eye. Harmony’s gaze met mine.
“Done?” she asked. I nodded, taken aback by the well of emotion that had risen inside me. She put the lid back on the jar and tightened it.
“When I leave here, I’m taking these with me,” she said softly, stuffing the jar into her bag. “They won’t disappear, but they’ll be far away from now on. Admitting your fears to yourself is the first step in cleansing them from your body. And it’s the hardest part. You’ve taken on the hardest part. I’m proud of you, Katherine.”
I smiled. My instinct was to make a crack about her having low expectations, but I forced myself to stay silent. Because surprisingly, I was feeling kind of proud, too.
Chapter 12
Fatigue hit like a punch when I stepped off the elevator and smelled fresh flowers in the small lobby outside our apartment. Kate always kept roses out here, and the scent told me I was finally home.
After a long day that ended with a late-night plane flight, I was sure as hell glad to be here. I’d met my agent in New York so we could go over my next contract and finalize an endorsement deal for a line of athletic gear. The next five years would be very lucrative for me and Kate, as long as I stayed healthy.
When I walked in and closed the door behind me, I couldn’t see a thing, but I smelled paint. Kate had drawn the blackout shades. Hopefully they were down in our bedroom, too, because it was 2 a.m., and I needed to sleep past sunrise.
I planned to find something to eat and then go straight to bed. I dropped my suitcase to the floor and slipped my stiff dress shoes off. I’d almost made it to the kitchen when my foot hit something hard. Pain shot through my big toe.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, reaching down in the darkness. There was something there, though this had always been a wide open area in the apartment. I stepped slowly and felt my way to a light switch in the kitchen.
My muscles all tightened at the same moment. I was in the wrong fucking apartment. I’d gotten off on the wrong goddamned floor and I was in someone else’s kitchen right now. Some guy with a gun would probably run out of the bedroom and shoot my ass any second.
I turned to the door, hoping to creep over to it, and squinted with confusion when I saw our kitchen table. And there was our wedding photo in its usual spot on the wall.