A Therapy Session

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms Mori," Dr Iwasaki says, beckoning me to take a seat in a puffy armchair before seating herself in an identical one, facing mine. It's very comfortable, just like the room. Muted soft colors, some lush thriving plants. A desk with a computer standing almost shamefully in the corner, all the focus is clearly on the two soft chairs and the low table between them. A table that held a pretty carafe with water, two glasses, and… a large packet of tissue. I almost huff, but manage to turn the sound into a polite cough. Tissue? Does she really think I'm going to break down and cry?

"It's nice to be here." A lie. Hope you're happy now, Mom. I'm here. Wasting time and money. The doctor gives me a knowing smile, straightening her glasses and leaning back, pen and a notebook ready in her hands.

"So, why don't you tell me about what’s been going on for you lately. What brings you here?"

"A… person close to me died. It was very sudden."

"That sounds like it must have been quite the shock." She scribbles something in her notebook. "Can you tell me more about your relationship with this person? What was their name?"

"Nina. Her name was Nina. We live… lived together." I pause then add, "Sharing an apartment, I mean." The words tumble out too fast. Does she notice? Her face doesn't change, but another scribble joins the first in her book.

"I see. It must feel very empty now?" Seriously? What an insight. Is this what I’m paying for?

"It is."

"In what way?"

"Just quieter, I guess. I haven't really thought about it." Wrong, everything is wrong when you're not there. The sofa is too big, the food too bland, the smells are strange, and the shower… 

"How are you feeling right now? Talking about her?"

"Okay, I guess. I miss her, but life goes on." But it doesn't. Not really. Days pass, but they're not new… just… stagnant. Like in the dreams where time stands still, just before the new day can begin.

"So you feel you’re ready to move forward?"

"I'm doing fine. Keeping busy at work helps. I'm thinking that it's soon time to find a new tenant." Lies. Lies. Lies. But they work. The doctor scribbles more in her notebook, face still unreadable. The pen dances over the paper, its top making intricate patterns in the air.

Notebooks. I have some of yours at home. Filled with your poetry, with your thoughts. More precious words. I haven't touched them since I placed them in my drawers, but now I'm filled with the desperate urge to read them. To hold them. 

A polite cough brings me back and I look into the Doctor’s calm eyes. Had she asked something? How long had I been lost in thought?

“What were you thinking about right now? You were smiling.”

“Um, I was just remembering some of her poetry.” Why did I tell her that? That’s private. To my horror, my mouth keeps clarifying it. “Nina is very good with words.”

Dr Iwasaki smiles that polite, deceptively warm, professional little smile again. Nods. Taps the pen on the edge of the notebook.

“Is? So she’s still very much present in your thoughts?”

“No. Yes. I mean, not more than normal.”

“You’re right. That is normal. As is wanting to have one last conversation. Closure.”

I just nod, and she launches into a speech about how grief rituals, such as incense or candle lighting, can give relief, a way out for the emotions. 

“Of course,” I agree. “Those are universal traditions.”

She smiles at that, nods, scribbles. “Still, we need to come to terms with the fact that it’s not possible to get a response. That whatever we do is one-way communication, meant to comfort the living.”

“Some traditions claim it’s not,” I blurt out, cursing underneath my breath as she raises an eyebrow.

“This is very true. Some people claim they can speak to the dead. Are you a believer?”

“Of course not. That similar superstitions have risen all over the world does not make them true.” Good, I sound strong, none of my internal realizations showing on my voice. Professor Kawano’s words repeat in my mind, and I see the truth in them now. It’s so clear, so obvious that I can’t believe I ever doubted it. Found it foolish? So many cultures coming to the same conclusion -- there must be some truth to it. And, if there’s even the smallest chance of me seeing you again. Hear your voice again… wouldn’t it be even more foolish not to try it? To not try everything?

“Perhaps it’s just that humans, no matter their culture, have similar psychological needs, and have created similar systems to cope with the inexplicable? To handle the pain?”

“That’s the only logical explanation,” I state curtly.

“I’m sure many would agree with you there. But from a psychological standpoint….” She launches into a lecture about stages of grief, and I nod, making humming sounds as if I agree.

“Do you recognize yourself in any of these stages?” She asks it so casually. As if what we have can be so easily explained? Some points make sense, sure, but no… My love for you can’t fit some stupid template.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “Perhaps I should study them.”

“That’s a good idea, if you want to take a more academic approach. There are some excellent books and apps I can recommend. You also seem tense…” No, I’m not. Just bored. “...so if you agree, I’ll show you some breathing techniques for relaxation and focus. We can do one before we finish.”

“I’d like that.” I don’t. But I keep nodding and agreeing for the rest of the session. I can’t wait to get back home. To the notebooks. To make a plan.

*

Once home, I sit on my bed, the notebooks next to me, fingers trembling slightly as I open the first one.

Roses are red, violets blue

Aki’s so pretty and I love her so

The words jump out at me, surrounded by drawn hearts and flowers, and my eyes immediately tear up. All those little rhymes that you used to send me, or leave little notes around the apartment… they all live here in this book. Each one bringing memories of how happy we were. 

Tears running down my cheeks, I turn pages into the past, the hollow space in my chest expanding, aching as I shift between laughter and wheezing sobs. Is this one of those stages the doctor referred to? Nonsense. She can’t possibly know what it’s like.

Once I reach the last page, a dried, pressed flower falls out. A purple lily. One of the first I gave you. Still sitting here. Immortal. As we should be. But it doesn’t have its fragrance. Without you it smells only of dust and paper. I tuck it back into its tomb, filled with your loving words, and reach for the next notebook.

I’m so happy. Professor Kawano asked me specifically to join his big project. He read some of my previous work on wedding rituals in pre- medieval Europe and said he was impressed. Impressed! It’s so exciting. Aki’s going to be so proud. I’m so proud. I can’t wait to get started.

Yes, I was so proud. Am so proud. We went out for dinner that night to celebrate your bright academic future. My chest lurches itself inside out. Hollow. Cold. 

Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll buy you flowers. Bring the notebooks. Read you some of my favorite poems. I keep leafing through the pages, notes of your work, lots of bunnies, hearts, and flowers filling the margins.

Then the drawings grow darker, and strangely shaped plants take over from the pretty flowers. The lines harden, the ink blackens… I turn another page and am met by a face filling the entire page. Human, but not quite… but then drawing wasn’t your strongest suit. You always said you were terrible with proportions, and they’re certainly off here. Lips too wide, something odd about the shape of the face. And the eyes are too big. Too dark.

I startle, stare at it. It can’t be… yet it gives me the same feeling as another image… one I saw recently. But no, it’s not the same, or is it? You aren't really an artist, perhaps you got it wrong…

But the eyes, they stare into my soul. For one heartbeat, two, three… The world spins. Red dances before my vision as I rip out the page, tear it into pieces. Smaller and smaller until they rain down on the floor, falling from my hands. Like snow. Tainted snow. 

So cold.

I curl up on the bed, clutching the book to my chest. The room grows darker. Quiet. Until a draft makes the pieces rattle across the floor. 

It sounds like hollow laughter.