“October.”
When she just stared at him patiently, he rubbed his face. “Okay, fine, it’s getting better. Compared to the every-waking-minute it used to be. But goddamn… I just get exhausted retreading the same territory. The same pain. The same weakness.”
Mary nodded. And then said, “You know, I have a theory about injury and healing. It’s just anecdotal, from my own personal experience with trauma—which, granted, is nothing measured against your own.” She shifted around to sit cross-legged, like she was prepared to stay for however long he needed her to. “In my opinion, souls are no different than limbs. If you break a leg or an arm, it’s going to hurt when it happens, sharply and unbearably. Therapy is like what you do to set the bone properly in a cast and monitor its mending. It’s the physical rehab, the stretching, the follow-up X-rays. But the limb is never the same. On rainy days, the joint aches. If you run a marathon on it, it will be sore. Maybe the healed part isn’t quite right. Souls are the same. There are different marathons we run, whether it’s the day-to-day interactions with our spouses or the people we work with. Maybe it’s an event like Balthazar getting hurt. Perhaps it’s an anniversary of a bad night—or even a good one, like a holiday or a birthday. These are the marathons our souls run, and sometimes, where we have healed aches. Or worse. And that is a nonnegotiable part of being a survivor.”
Z stroked the felt with his hand, feeling the coarse nap. “I guess I thought the work was over.”
“It’s never over. If we want to be conscious in our lives, in ourselves, the work is always necessary.”
“Physical therapy forever.”
“So that you can function better and feel better and be healthier. You can’t undo the injury, but you can always work with what you have.”
“I wish I didn’t have to.” He looked back at her. “Shit. That sounds lame.”
“No, that sounds very human.” Mary shook her head with a little laugh. “I mean vampire.”
Silence eased into the space between them, and in the back of his mind, he thought that Mary’s ability to be comfortable in the quiet was one of the many reasons she was the right therapist for him.
Taking a deep breath, he returned the pallet to where it had been and placed the lid back on top. Then he pushed the box into its previous position.
He stayed where he was for a couple of heartbeats. Then he got to his full heigh
t and offered his dagger hand to his brother’s precious shellan.
“Care to hit Last Meal?” he said as he helped her to her feet.
“I want you to keep something in mind.” She stared up at him. “You know all the hours we’ve spent together?”
“Yes?”
“Were they so bad?”
“You mean, did I like them? No. I’m sorry, but that would be a no.”
Mary shook her head. “Not what I asked. Were they so bad?”
“No.”
“Could you do it all over again? Like from the start ’til this moment right here?” She pointed to the concrete between them. “From when we first met down here to now?”
He thought about the conversations. Some had been like pulling teeth. Some had been kind of easy. Others had wiped him out emotionally. One—or no, two—had actually made him vomit.
A few they had even laughed through.
“Yes,” he said. “I could do it all over again.”
Mary put her hand on his forearm. “Then you have exactly what you need to continue to heal and survive and thrive. If you can look me right in the eye, and say, yup, I got this. I can continue talking. I can keep learning about myself and my place in the world. I can express my doubts and fears, in a supportive environment, and know that I’m not dirty. I am not filthy. I was abused. I was a victim. And none of it was my fault—nor did it change the purity of my soul or the depth and beauty of my heart. If you can keep working those tendons and ligaments and joints? You will be okay, no matter how many times you feel as you do tonight.”
Z took another deep breath. “You know, I try to say those words in my head. When I get like this, when I doubt… what I am inside.”
“Good.” She patted his arm and dropped her hand. “Someday, you’ll believe them.”
He considered his chaotic, nasty thoughts. “How do you know that for sure?”
She leaned in and kept eye contact with him. “Because, my friend, they’re true.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN