Love Me Like That (31 page)

Weeks. London has been gone for weeks, and I wish I could say that I’m in a better place. I wish I could, but I can’t. The only thing I have done besides wallow in grief over my deceased wife and the girl that got away is start therapy.

I thought going back to the same therapist I saw shortly after the accident would keep me from having to talk about, in detail, the events leading up to my desperate need for professional help. I was wrong. I was seeing Dr. Long twice a week in the beginning but the emotional turmoil I was in after each visit wasn’t something I could continue to do to myself, so we dropped it down to one agonizing day per week. When I say agonizing I mean I pay her double to see me on Saturdays, so I have Sunday to try to get back to some semblance of normal before work on Monday.

I could barely function the first week I saw her, which left me wondering if I was going to shift back to prior coping mechanisms. Needless to say, the very next visit was spent more on how to deal with the bombardment of emotions and less with the subject matter causing the distress. So now I work-out until muscle fatigue every night, hoping for a few hours of sleep as a result.

“Are you ready to talk about Sierra?” Dr. Long asks.

I shift my weight in my chair, uncomfortable with anything pertaining to Sierra but knowing I have to deal with it at some point. With everything that’s happened most of my shame revolves around what Sierra and I’ve done.

“Now’s as good a time as any I guess.” I crack my neck preparing for her battery of questions, reminding myself to answer openly and honestly because that’s the only way this works.

“Have you heard from her?” She asks keeping in safe territory to begin with, easing me into the topic I despise the most.

“No. She’s still hospitalized. I spoke with her mother last week. They can’t find the right mix of medicine to keep her leveled out.”

“But when she gets out?” She prods gently.

“When she gets out, she’ll be right back at my door. Expecting…” I trail off even though I know she won’t allow it. She remains silent, so eventually I continue, “She’ll expect to pick up right where things were left off before I went to the cabin. If I know her, she’ll pretend like her last breakdown didn’t happen. She’ll act like I didn’t tell her we couldn’t continue.”

She waits silently again and stubbornly I remain quiet.

“Couldn’t continue what, Kadin?” This is how she works and although it’s been extremely helpful in the past it’s a rough time getting to the end.

“Pretending,” I tell her.

I wake up on the floor of my condo, my head throbbing from the obscene amount of whiskey I drank last night. I groan and curse my existence as I roll over on the carpet that only feels soft under your feet but grows unbearably inflexible when you lay on it if for several hours.

I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to accept what I did last night. I know it happened even though the details are blurry and almost ungraspable, skating on the very edge of lucid thought. I pray she’s gone, but I know she’s not. I can hear her breathing deeply beside me. I can feel the slender arm she has thrown over my waist.

I try to slip out from underneath our connection but stiffen when she mumbles something in her sleep. If this seemed like a bad idea last night, I can’t even begin to explain how atrocious of a choice it is in the full light of day.

While contemplating how to handle the situation and coming up empty, my hand is forced into action. “Good morning.” Her voice is soft and hopeful.

This is the last woman I’d ever want to hurt. Savannah adored her sister, and no doubt would be very disappointed with what I’ve done. Not only did I sleep with her sister but my actions may compromise her delicate mental health.

“Hey,” I respond and climb to my feet.

I wrap a throw blanket around my waist and hand one to her, hoping she’ll follow my lead and cover up. She doesn’t, and I can tell by the glimmer in her eye she’s trying to entice me, but all I feel when I look at her is regret and shame. Even though she and Savannah were identical twins, to me, they are worlds apart. A man knows his wife like the back of his hand and this woman is most definitely not my wife.

I knew that last night. I knew it when my hands touched her when my mouth tasted her, but I still followed through and used Sierra. If I wasn’t going to hell before, I sure as shit am now.

“Listen, Sierra,” I begin.

“Don’t,” she pleads and climbs onto the couch to sit beside me.

I do my best not to wince when she runs her fingers through my unruly hair and kiss my shoulder.

“We can’t do this again, Sierra. I’m sorry I let it get so far last night.” I tell her even though what I want to say is: “Please don’t have a breakdown in my living room. I can hardly deal with my own shit, let alone someone else’s even though I created this situation.”

She sits quietly for a minute, her hand continuing its stroking along my back.

“You called me Savannah,” she whispers. I squeeze my eyes tight wishing I had a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of me. “I can pretend to be her. If that’s what you need.”

My eyes go wide, and I scoot away from her, breaking our connection. She grins at me. I discovered a long time ago that Sierra finds amusement in the most uncomfortable things. “I was drunk,” I explain, even though we both know that’s no excuse.

She stands from the couch and begins to get dressed, and I’m grateful for her intentions to leave. Once fully dressed she stands in front of me until I lift my eyes to hers. “So then drink, Kadin.” She bends down and kisses my head like a mother would a child and leaves my condo. The click of the door closing behind her rattles around in my head for hours, until the bottle of whiskey I put in my system, silences it.

“How long has this continued?” Dr. Long asks as I finish explaining just how the chaos got started between Sierra and me.

“It wasn’t an ongoing thing. It happened five, maybe six, times. Sierra spends most of her time in and out of psych wards so there were long periods where it wasn’t even possible.” I explain.

“Did you ever seek her out?” I shake my head no. “How did it happen then?”

I scrub my hands over the top of my head before openly admitting my weaknesses. “A bottle of whiskey would be delivered to my door. Later that night it would be followed by a visit from her.”

“And each time she pretended to be Savannah?” I nod. “And each time you let her?” I nod again and hang my head in shame.

The rest of that session was spent on ways to finally let go of the grief I felt over Savannah’s death and giving a voice to the shame and coming to terms with it. Dr. Long emphasized that I’d not be able to move on until those two things were accomplished. She reminded me that I’d always love Savannah and moving on from the idea of a future that is no longer an option doesn’t mean I forget her.

“You think it’s time for me to let her go?” I’m trying my best not to let my anger bubble over. The doctor means well, but frankly she’s not the one dealing with the loss of a spouse.

“I’m not saying ‘let her go’ Kadin. I’m telling you it’s time to start moving on. You won’t heal until you do.” Her voice is firm and shows no sign of pity, of which I’m grateful. I’ve had my fair share of pity for both myself and my family. I can’t stomach another ounce of it.

That particular conversation is on a constant loop inside my head. It sounds simple enough, but every time I make a plan to follow through with goals we set while in session, I always find a reason not to. Then the next week’s session begins reviewing what we discussed the week prior. I’ve reached an expert level on reasons and excuses for why I haven’t done the things I agreed to try the week before. Work is too hectic; I’ve been spending more time with my family, etc.

I’ve got reasons for days when the truth is the idea of packing Savannah’s things from the home we share physically makes me sick. Dr. Long says keeping her side of the closet like it was when she left it, along with her things in the bathroom and shower, is detrimental to my recovery. Recovery. That’s what she calls this since my sudden turn into alcoholism after the accident is always a consideration of hers.

She reminds me weekly that getting rid of all but a few mementos will help the healing process along much quicker. I know she’s fully aware of what her request means. She said she’d offer to come over and help me, but she knows it’s something I have to do on my own. It’s exactly what I repeated to Kegan when I mentioned what she wanted me to do, and he offered to help.

There’s no reasoning I can find in keeping her clothes in the closet or the blazer on the chair she carelessly tossed aside the morning of her death because she found a snag on the sleeve. I can’t voice one sane reason why her toothbrush is beside mine or why her face cream, even though it is now dried out because she left the lid off, is still on the bathroom counter. What I can admit to is not being ready to see it all gone; not having the strength to let her go.

I’ve spent eighteen months rolling around in my grief, torturing myself with it every chance I got. Feeling remorse and derision if I caught myself smiling or showed the slightest hint of moving on became a pastime I frequently sought.

I haven’t breathed a word about London to Dr. Long. I didn’t mention that I have felt happiness; no matter how short-lived it was, since Savannah passed away. I’ve not mentioned how I’m not grieving the loss of just one woman but struggling at the deprivation of two. There is no reasoning behind leaving that little nugget of information out other than feeling the need to deal with one thing at a time.

“What excuse are you going to come up with this weekend?” I gasp at the sudden intrusion into my work.

I turn to look at Jillian and find her standing in the doorway of my office. I complete the email I was working on as she settles in the chair across from me, making herself at home like she always does.

I know exactly what she’s asking because it’s been the same thing week after week, but I play coy just because it riles her up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jillian. Please elaborate.” I smile at her innocently and playfully bat my eyes at her.

“Cut the shit, London. I won’t let you turn me down this weekend. You’re going out with us.”

She crosses her arms over her chest like a petulant child, and it makes me laugh. Even though she’s only a few months younger than I am our maturity levels are years apart, and she proves it every chance she gets. I envy her carefreeness, knowing it means she’s not been tainted by the cruel world. I hope she never is.

I’ve run out of excuses, so I go with as much shock value as I can. I know she’s already gearing up to give me the riot act about being so young and sitting at home just like she does every week when she’s trying to guilt me into going out. “Sounds like fun. Can’t wait.”

“You say that every damn…wait. What?” She looks confused, and I smile.

“I said,” I speak slowly pretending she’s hard of hearing just to annoy her. “Sounds like fun. I can’t wait.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you fucking with me?”

I chuckle. “No. I’ll go out. But no seedy ass bars with cigarette smoke. That I can’t handle.”

“Only the best for you, London.” She claps her hands together like a preteen and stands from her seat. “I’ll be at your house at six on Saturday so we can get ready together.”

I groan but nod my head in agreement. “I can hardly wait,” I say flatly as she leaves my office.

The second she’s out of earshot I laugh quietly again. I’m actually looking forward to getting out for a change. My morning sickness seems to be subsiding, so I’m not as fearful of getting sick as I have been the last couple of weeks.