Page 78 of Goodbye Days

“Do you feel guilty about that?”

“Not that as much as other stuff.”

“Other stuff?”

I look at the floor and rub my face. I want to tell him and also I don’t. It’s not that I’m worried about his judging me. I’m worried about his not judging me. And then I wonder if my panic-attack near miss just before the call to Mitzi means I’m doing better or if it means I’ll backslide on any progress I’m making if I don’t tell him.

So I tell him.

Everything. Every detail I can remember. I confess as completely as I did to my lawyer. More, because I add emotion, whereas with Mr. Krantz it was facts only. I tell Dr. Mendez about the DA’s investigation. He takes it all in without a twitch. The occasional slight shake of the head or nod and “Mmm.”

“So,” he says, folding one arm under the other and tapping his lips with his index finger. He holds up three fingers. “It appears there are three components to your present emotional condition. You have grief—you’ve experienced loss and everything that comes with that. You have fear, over this investigation into the accident. And then, on top of that, you have guilt—you believe that you were the cause of your friends’ deaths. Am I hearing you right?”

“Pretty much. I’m also afraid of what this will cost my parents: paying the lawyer.”

“Okay.”

“Also, one of my friends’ sisters is out to get me at school.”

“I see. And I’m guessing that here, the grief, fear, and guilt have a synergistic effect. One plus one plus one equals ten, not three.”

“Pretty much.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He leans back and tents his fingers in front of his mouth. We stare at each other for a few seconds, listening to the clock tick; our breathing. We let the silence bloom.

“Tell me a story,” he says softly.

“Like any story?”

“A story of your friends’ deaths where you remove yourself from the question of causation.”

“We called ourselves Sauce Crew.”

He smiles. “I bet there’s a good story there too.”

“There is. Can I tell you that one instead?”

“Sometime, sure. But just bear with me for now.”

“So you want me to tell you a story where I’m not to blame?”

“Exactly.”

My mind whirls, looking for something to grab onto. Some scrap I can unravel and reweave into something. It’s not happening. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because. That’s not what happened.”

“Oh, come on,” he says. “You’re a storyteller. You’re a writer.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Tell me a story. What’s the harm in trying?”

“I like to earn things.”

“You’ve suffered, haven’t you?”