“It’s nice to get out of your own life and see how other people live,” Cora says after we’ve given our order.
A slight wind slaps our faces, but it’s refreshing after being in the car. “Yeah, it is.”
She tells me about how Riley and her husband Leo are always going to his hometown during the weekends. He grew up on a farm.
I love watching Cora talk. She uses her hands a lot, and her face changes depending on the subject. Now, she looks relaxed and easy, and I wish I could keep her like this all the time.
The friendly woman who took our order returns with our food and drinks. The beef sandwiches smell and taste heavenly, as does the freshly made orange juice. She explains that all their ingredients are locally sourced and grown or reared for the café.
Cora and I make fun when she leaves about how little we know about the food we eat back in LA. After lunch, we resume our journey, and she insists on driving, saying that she loves it.
I don’t mind; it gives me a chance to look at her when I want. Her phone rings, and she asks me to answer it and put it on speakerphone.
“Cora, you wouldn’t believe what happened,” her sister screeches on the phone.
“Hi, nice to hear from you,” Cora says, her tone easy.
“I’m with the kids, and we’ve just come from Mom’s. I thought I’d pop in and say hello.”
“Go on,” Cora says.
A deep inhale sounds before Adeline continues, “He moved in,” she screams. “He opened the door wearing a freaking towel.”
“Oh my God!” Cora says.
I wish I was not a witness to this conversation. I feel as if I’m eavesdropping on a family matter.
“I know. What are we going to do, Cora? Did you talk to him?”
Cora shifts in her seat. “No. He hasn’t been coming to the gym.”
It’s clear from Cora’s voice that she hasn’t made much of an effort to talk to Ian. I don’t blame her either. How do you ask an adult male what he wants with your mother?
“We can’t just keep quiet and watch her mess up her life,” Adeline continues. “I have an idea. We can get her an appointment with a therapist.”
“She’ll never agree to it,” Cora says.
The whole conversation leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m a firm believer in respecting people’s decisions. The mention of a therapist reminds me of my constant fight with my family when Tessa died.
They were on my case to see a therapist, and I didn’t want to. Eventually, they wore me down, and I made an appointment, but I did it only to get them off my back. It didn’t help at all, but that wasn’t the therapist’s fault. I had gone under duress, and I hadn’t given her anything to work with.
“Come back to me when you’re ready to give this a real shot,” had been her parting words to me.
Grief has stages, and therapy was not going to help me get well any faster. Only time would, and I still believe that. Cora’s mom doesn’t need a therapist. The woman just needs to be allowed to have a little fun. She’s not hurting anybody, and all her kids are adults who don’t need her anymore.
“She will if you ask her,” Adeline says.
“And what reason will I give her as to why she’s seeing a therapist,” Cora says. “I can’t tell her to her face that she’s behaving crazy.”
“Why not?” Adeline demands.
I switch off as the sisters argue back and forth. I enjoy the passing scenery and allow my mind to become blank. It’s a rare occurrence not to be thinking about one of my patients.
I drift back to the present when Cora disconnects the call.
“That was fun,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“It’s life,” I tell her.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Cora says.
“Sure.” I hate personal questions, but I can’t say no when less than twenty-four hours ago, I asked her the same thing.
“Did you see a therapist when your wife passed on?” she says. “I’m asking because I’m thinking that my mom might be suffering from delayed grief. She never talked to a professional after Dad died.”
I’m astounded. “That was more than ten years ago, right?”
“Well, yes, but you know what they say, you never get over grief; you just learn to live with it.”
I agree with that last part. It’s been almost three and a half years, and I still tear up when I think of the day I lost Tessa. Even now, this conversation is too close to home, and my heart constricts with pain. Some days I think that I’m finally over it, and then pain, like I’m feeling now, comes over me, and I realize how little healing I’ve undergone. From this spot, the future suddenly looks very bleak where it had been colorful only minutes ago.