Far From You

17

NOW (JUNE)

I call Trev three times over the next week, but he won’t answer. After the third unanswered call, I switch gears and go by the Harper Beacon office, only to be told that Tom Wells, the head of the internship program, is out of town.

With my parents still watching me so closely, I spend most of my days in my garden, among the redwood beds Trev built for me.

After the crash, Mina had insisted I needed a hobby and presented me with a preapproved list. I’d chosen gardening to get her off my back, but then, as usual, she’d taken it to extremes. She’d shown up the next day, Trev in tow with lumber, hammer and nails, bags of soil, a box of seedlings, and foam knee pads so I wouldn’t hurt myself.

I like the feel of dirt between my fingers, nursing delicate plants into strength and bloom. I like watching things flourish, like the swath of colors I can grow, bright and alive. It hurts to get up and down, but the pain’s worth the effort. At least I have something pretty to show for it.

After a full day of weeding, removing rocks and clay soil from the neglected beds, I spend another filling them with fresh, rich compost. Midweek, I’ve got the first two beds in good enough shape to think about planting. I run my fingers compulsively over the worn wood, making lists in my head of flowers that’ll thrive this late.

Mina had painted hearts and infinity symbols on the outsides of the beds, adding to them when she’d sit out here with me: her favorite quotes surrounded by stars, a pair of crooked stick-figure girls holding hands and faded red balloons. I brush my dirty fingers over the wood to touch what she’d touched.

“Sophie.”

I look up from my spot on the ground. Dad’s on the porch, dressed in his regular blue button-down and tie. His tie is crooked, and I want to reach out and fix it, but I can’t.

“You have your first therapy appointment with Dr. Hughes in an hour,” he says. “I moved some appointments so I can drive you. You should clean up.”

I let go of the wood and follow him into the house.

Dr. Hughes’s practice is in one of the older neighborhoods, on a block where most of the houses have been turned into offices. Dad parks the car in front of the blue-and-white sign with Dr. Hughes’s name on it. The little one-story Craftsman is painted the same color as the sign, cheerful against the lighter blue sky.

I’m surprised when my dad gets out of the car after me. “You’re coming in?”

“I’ll sit in the waiting room.”

“I’m not going to ditch therapy.”

His mouth tightens, his hand drops from the car door. “I’ll pick you up in an hour, then.”

I’m almost at the door when he stops me in my tracks. “We just want you to be better. That’s why we sent you away. You know that, don’t you?”

I don’t look at him. I can’t give him the confirmation he wants. Not without lying.

I was already better.

The office is full of comfortable-looking furniture and ­Norman Rockwell prints on the walls. A receptionist looks up with a smile from the papers she’s filing. “Good morning.”

“Hi. I’m Sophie Winters. I have a twelve thirty appointment.”

“Come with me, please.”

She brings me to a large room with a desk, an overstuffed couch, and a few leather chairs. I take a seat on the couch as she closes the door behind her. My shoulders sink into the cushions, half of my body lost in brown suede.

Dr. Hughes comes in without knocking. He’s an older man, with dark skin, a neat silver goatee, and square black glasses. He’s short—I’d be taller than him if I were standing up—and his sweater-vest is stretched snugly over his round stomach. “Hi, Sophie.” He sits down at his desk and spins in his chair to face me with a smile. His eyes are kind underneath his glasses. He radiates thoughtfulness. Just as a good therapist should.

It makes me want to run.

“Hi.” I burrow deeper into the couch, wishing it’d just swallow me up.

“I’m Dr. Hughes, but feel free to call me David. How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.”

“I’ve talked to Dr. Charles on the phone about you, and I have her notes and your medical history. I’ve also had several sessions with your parents.”

“Okay.”

“How are you adjusting?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is—it’s all fine.”

He taps his pen against his notebook, watching me. “Dr. Charles said you’d be a hard nut to crack.”

I sit up straighter, on guard. “I don’t mean to be.”

David leans back in his chair, his eyes crinkling as his lips twitch. “I think you do,” he says. “I think that you’re an intelligent young woman who is very good at keeping secrets.”

“Got that from a few notes and, what, an hour-long talk with Dr. Charles?”

He grins. “Now that’s more like it. Dr. Charles is excellent at what she does. But as soon as you stopped resisting therapy at Seaside, all you did was tell her exactly what she wanted to hear—what she expected to hear from an addict on the verge of relapse.”

“I am an addict.”

“It’s good that you acknowledge that,” David says. “That’s important. But at the moment, I’m more concerned with the trauma you suffered. What jumped out at me, from Dr. Charles’s notes, is how you sidestep the subject of Mina every time she’s brought up.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You didn’t break a coffee table when Dr. Charles asked you about the night Mina was killed?”

“My leg makes me clumsy; it was an accident.”

David raises an eyebrow. I’ve done something that’s made him take notice, and I’m not sure what it is. It makes heat prickle down my back. I’m not going to be able to play him like Dr. Charles.

“Why don’t you tell me about Mina?” he asks.

“What do you want to know?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Mina moved here after her dad died. The teacher sat us next to each other in second grade.”

“Did you spend a lot of time together?”

I don’t answer immediately.

“Sophie?” he prompts gently.

“We were always together,” I say. I can’t keep it out of my voice. That choked-up emotion bleeds through, makes it waver. I look away from him, my nails digging into my jeans. “I don’t want to talk about Mina.”

“We’re going to have to talk about Mina,” David says ­quietly. “Sophie, you were put into an environment designed to get you clean right after you experienced a major trauma and loss. While I understand what motivated your parents to do that, it might not have been the best thing for you in terms of processing your grief.

“Most of your therapy at Seaside was focused on your problems with addiction. I don’t think you’ve been given the space or the tools you need to deal with what happened to you and Mina the night she was killed. But I can help you with that, if you let me.”

Anger surges inside me, stampedes through my veins at his words. I want to hit him. To throw the stupid tasseled pillows on the couch at him.

“You think I haven’t dealt with it?” I ask. My voice is horribly low. I’m about to cry. It builds in the back of my eyes, threatening to break through. “She died scared and in pain, and I felt it—when she went, when she left, I felt it. Don’t you dare tell me I haven’t dealt with that. Every day, I deal with it.”

“Okay,” David says. “Tell me how you do that.”

“I just do,” I say. I’m still breathing hard, but I will myself not to cry in front of him. “I have to.”

“Why do you have to? What’s keeping you motivated?”

“I have to stay clean,” I say.

The answer would’ve worked with Dr. Charles, but not with this guy. My quick search before Dad had driven me over had pulled up four articles Dr. Hughes wrote about PTSD and its effects on teenagers. Mom and Dad have done their homework. With my addiction tackled, now they’re setting out to fix me completely. A New and Improved Sophie. Whole and mended, with no jagged edges or sharp points. Someone who doesn’t look like she knows how death feels.

“I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth,” David says.

“You a human lie detector?”

“Sophie, you can trust me.” David leans forward intently. “Anything you say here, any secrets you choose to share, nobody else will know, and there’ll be no judgment from me. I am here for you. To help you.”

I glare at him. “You already got me to talk about it when I didn’t want to,” I say. “That doesn’t really breed trust.”

“Getting you to open up isn’t tricking you. It’s about your having a safe outlet to talk. You have to share with someone or you’ll burst.”

“Is that in your professional medical opinion?”

He smiles, dispassionate, with no edge to it, no pity, no judgment. It’s a nice change from everyone else. “Absolutely,” he says wryly. He pushes the box of tissues across the coffee table at me. I take a few, but instead of patting my eyes, or blowing my nose, I twist them in my hands.

“This won’t happen again,” I tell him. “Don’t start expecting it.”

“Whatever you say.” He nods and smiles. I look away.