“That’s me.” I jump to my feet.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Clark.” He extends a hand.
“Hi. Please just call me Emma.”
“Okay, Emma. Sarah is waiting for us in my office.”
He guides me through the winding halls. This place is definitely more hospital-like than it is celebrity resort. I guess that’s what you get for a court-mandated treatment facility though.
He stops just outside an office door. “Today is going to be you listening. I wish we could have had more time to discuss things on the phone, but it is what it is. This is not the time for you to tell Sarah how you feel. This is the time to listen and ask questions. Got it?”
“I can do that,” I say, more eager than ever knowing that Sarah is on the other side of the door.
Slowly, the good doctor swings open the door, revealing a woman I barely recognize. She sits in a chair, chewing on her nails and shaking her leg with nervous anticipation. Her hair, which has always been well below her shoulders, is now chin length. It’s blond, but not our natural white color. It’s fried and frizzy from overprocessing. She must have been dying it weekly to cause that kind of damage. She’s entirely too thin, and her clothes hang off her body.
Tears immediately spring to my eyes as the guilt from not being there over the last few years twists a knife in my heart. Her eyes never rise to mine, and as my chin begins to quiver, Dr. Clark gently soothes a calming hand over my back.
“Please have a seat, Emma.” He guides me to the loveseat sitting beside Sarah’s chair.
I quickly run my fingers under my eyes to remove any stray tears that might have escaped. I’m heartbroken, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Hey, sis,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her hand.
She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t reciprocate either. Avoiding me with her eyes, she looks up at Dr. Clark.
“Are okay with Emma being here, Sarah?” She doesn’t respond but offers him a quick nod. “Don’t be nervous. Emma loves you. She was so excited when I called. She insisted on dropping everything and coming straight here.” He smiles at both of us.
“That’s true. I was moving your stuff into our new apartment,” I say, and her eyes immediately flash to mine.
“New apartment?” she questions with wide eyes.
“Yep, two bedrooms with a balcony and everything. It’s really nice.”
“You really moved up here?” she asks with an unreadable expression.
“I told you I was. Besides, I kind of like it here.”
Sarah barks out a laugh. “Just wait until the winter. You’ll be hauling ass back to Savannah,” she says jokingly, and my eyes light up as I get the first true glimpse of my sister.
“It was snowing when I got here. It’s freaking March. What the hell is that all about?” I joke, trying to hold back my happy tears.
Sarah laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound. One that I’ve missed so much over the years. My hands are aching to hug her. I quickly drag the elastic band from my hair and redo my ponytail just to keep from reaching out to grab her.
“Okay. So, Emma, Sarah and I have been discussing quite a few things over the last few weeks. We were in agreement that it was time to bring you in and fill you in on where things are at in her treatment.”
“Oh, yeah. That sounds great,” I rush out, rubbing my hands back and forth over my jeans.
“As you know, Sarah is being treated medically for her brain injury suffered during the accident, and I am helping her emotionally move past it as well. Currently, we are focusing on her guilt over Manda’s death and her role in the accident. During one of our chats, we pinpointed why she has so desperately tried to separate herself from those who love her. Sarah, care to elaborate?”
My eyes move to focus on her, but her eyes frantically jump around the room, looking at anything but me.
“Hey.” I try to catch her attention. “You don’t have to be nervous. There is nothing you could say that would make me think less of you. I love you.” I try to encourage her, but she leans even farther away from me and begins knotting her fingers in her lap.
The doctor tries to prompt her. “Sarah?”
“I killed Manda,” she whispers. “I was driving that night, and I feel guilty that I lived and she didn’t.”
“You remember?” I ask, shocked.
“No.” She finally looks up at me. “I don’t remember. But based on the proof, I’ve accepted it. It doesn’t do me any good to play the what-if game. The only way I will ever truly move on is to own it and figure out how to get better.”
“That’s a really brave thing to say. I respect you for that,” I say, trying to let her know that I’m on her side.