The Visit

She sits on the couch in the sparsely lit room. It had been months since she started and even she didn’t believe there was much progress being made. The therapist looks at her cautiously, waiting for a response. She wasn’t paying any attention. Her mind had drifted back to that night.

It was a cool June night, she was walking with some friends laughing and joking. They stopped short when they saw the commotion.

Cop cars were everywhere, people had gathered in the streets while some neighbors looked out their windows. As they walked closer, she discovered what the commotion was about. There on the sidewalk, she saw him. His hands cuffed behind his back as cops lifted him off the curb.

She looked up to see her front door wide open. The paramedics were rolling a stretcher toward the door with a black bag on top. Before she realized it, she was running, past the onlookers, past the police tape. She stopped just as the paramedics lifted the stretcher over the final step. “Can I see, please let me see!” The paramedic looked somberly at her, he unzipped the bag, she wept.

Now as she sat here, tears welling in her eyes, she looked at the therapist, “I can’t do it doc, I can’t.” She sat back on the couch, letting the tears finally fall. “I’m sorry doc, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t working. We aren’t making any progress.” The therapist looked at her, “No, it’s OK, you are doing better. This isn’t going to be easy, it will take some time.”

She looked off toward the window. “I don’t want to remember. I want it to go away. Why did this happen?”

The therapist passed her a tissue.

The session was over. She would return next week.


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