It feels like I’ve been utterly defeated when I mumble my answer. “Yes.”
“I see. And the nightmares? Insomnia?”
He sounds smug, the prick. I grind my back teeth together. “Hmm.”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative. And from what I gather from your mention of things that can’t be explained, you’re still having episodes of magical thinking?”
Ah, yes. The infamous magical thinking, at which my brain is especially adept.
“This is different,” I plead, sounding pathetic. “This man, he’s… There are too many things that have happened. It can’t all be coincidental. It can’t all be meaningless. Can it?”
“Megan, I want you to listen to me carefully. You survived an incredibly violent car accident that killed your husband. He died in your arms. The day of his funeral, you miscarried your child—a child you’d been trying desperately to conceive—and almost died yourself from blood loss. Subsequently, you were told the chances of conceiving again were virtually none.
“You were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and clinical depression but refused medication that would help you cope. You dealt with your suffering like no other patient I’ve ever seen, with a combination of stoicism and plain old stubbornness I was unable, in two years of weekly sessions, to make even the smallest inroads toward healing. You embraced your pain because the alternative was to let it go…and in your mind, letting go of your pain meant letting go of Cass, the baby, and everything you’d lost.
“Now you’ve moved to a new town. You have a new home, a new life. There’s a new man you’re drawn to. And because you never worked through your grief, the only way your mind can cope with what it perceives as a betrayal of the bond you had with your husband is to try to convince you that this new man is your husband.”
Dr. Singer pauses, and it lends his next words more weight. “Subconsciously, you believe that somehow, through some magical combination of events, Cass has returned to you in the body of another man.”
There it is. The ugly truth, dragged out from the rock I’ve been hiding it under.
I’m breathless with the utter foolishness of it.
In a voice as dead as my heart, I say, “Tell me what to do.”
“For starters, make an appointment with Dr. Anders as soon as we get off the phone. I spoke with him earlier in the week, and he said he hadn’t heard from you.”
As if from far away, I hear myself say yes.
“And please—I’d like you to start Lexapro. It’s not a cure for depression, but it will help manage the symptoms. I can also prescribe something to help you sleep. You need help, Megan. There’s no shame in getting it.”
He waits patiently until I give him the name of the local pharmacy so he can call in the prescriptions. Then I listen with half an ear as he talks about possible side effects, dosage instructions, levels of serotonin, blah, blah, blah. By the time he stops talking, I’m exhausted.
“Thanks, Dr. Singer. I appreciate you calling me back.”
“You’re going to be all right, Megan. I promise. It’s a positive sign that you’re willing to start medication. Commit to your therapy with Dr. Anders, please. You’re a wonderful woman. You have so much life ahead of you. So much to offer. And remember, whenever you feel the need to talk, I’ll always be here.”
I’ll always be here.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I say flatly, “Thanks again. Bye.” I hang up and turn to stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are wild, my face is pale, and I’m still shaking. I think Dr. Singer wasn’t being honest when he said I was only a two point five on the nutso scale.
I’m a full-on ten. Maybe even an eleven.
“Megan?”
A gentle knock on the ladies’ room door makes me spin away from the mirror, my heart lurching. “Yes?”
“You okay in there?”
It’s Coop. Pull yourself together. Go face him. Try to act normal.
I smooth a hand over my hair, straighten my sweater, then plaster a fake smile on my face as I head to the door. I open it and find Coop standing there awkwardly, looking worried.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb. Just makin’ sure you’re okay.”
“You should tell her how you feel,” I blurt, and instantly want to smack myself on the forehead.
Coop wrinkles his brow, confused. “Who? What?”
Well, the pitch has already been thrown. Might as well swing for the rafters. “Suzanne. You should tell her how you feel about her.”
Coop wears all his expressions the same way I do, like laundry hung out on a line for the whole neighborhood to see. Right now, his face registers astonishment and pain.