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It was another new level of trust in our relationship. We were both survivors of the mistakes we’d made and the subsequent interference of others. But together we’d found those missing parts of us in each other, that had helped make us whole.
Another thing that emerged from our conversation was how Tricia’s trust in me grew, and the more secure she became, the more I learned about her trauma from her adolescence. Whenever she talked about it, she cried, and afterward I’d take her to bed, hold her protectively with my chest to her back, and do what I could to console her.
* * *
“I’ve found a therapist,” she mumbled, one night after dinner when we were stacking the dishes.
“You have?” I asked, trying to sound calm, but my heart leapt when she gave me that news.
“Yeah, the office is only a block from yours, young, too. That was part of the reason why I made the appointment. Most of the ones I’ve seen that deal with loss and PTSD are knocking on seventy. I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t want some wise ol’ lady judging me like I was some kind of a whore in my teens.”
“Baby, that would never happen. Those people answer that calling because they want people to heal, not to condemn you.”
“We’ll see. This guy’s only the same age as Sawyer—”
“A guy? You’re going to lie on a couch and talk to another man about this when you’ve struggled to spill your story to me?”
“Yeah, I am, and I can because it’s his job and he’s not you. Besides, I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about it with a woman. Do you have a problem with that?” The challenge in her voice told me if I had objected, she’d have given up on the whole idea. “I thought you wanted me to—”
“I do,” I blurted, “I just never figured you’d want to share such an intimate subject with another man.”
“It beats facing a woman, James. Men can’t get pregnant, and I figure that’ll give me a better head start on handling my emotions. He’s less likely to say something judgmental that would make me want to kick him in the balls. And if he’s a dick, I don’t have to go back, right?”
“Right,” I replied, agreeing. I blew out a breath and felt the sudden tension that had grown in my chest subside.
This was her story, her trauma, and she had obviously thought long and hard about how best to face her feelings. My jealousy was on me, and the only way to help Tricia through her pain was to support the choices she made.
“Then I’m going to take you there and be there when you come out. If for any reason I can’t I’ll make sure you have a driver to take you home.”
“The therapist’s office is less than a mile from home.”
“I don’t care if it’s in the next building, Tricia. I’m not leaving you to walk home alone after some guy has pulled your head apart and left you with feelings you’re not prepared to handle. Who knows what may come up?” I expected another argument, but she smiled instead and pecked me on the lips.
“You’re wasted on me. You can be such a gentleman at times.” I nodded, smiling. “In bed… not so much sometimes…” she added and sighed dreamily.
I laughed because I had won a small battle, or she had let me win … whichever it was made no difference to me, because she had made a small concession by allowing me to ensure she was safe.
* * *
When Tricia first started her therapeutic journey, there were times when I seriously wondered if I’d done the right thing by talking her into it. Her mood swings felt like she was bipolar at times. There were days when she coped well and would tell me what she thought about her hour with the therapist. At other times her mood swings had made it difficult for me to even hazard a guess.
What had kept me going was some of the comments she made, which gave me a glimpse of the life she had lived before, what she had blamed herself for, and gradually I noticed her thought processes began to change.
When she first began working with Miles, I found her hard to reach at times. As the weeks passed by, I saw lighter moments again and outwardly she had appeared more like the woman I’d fallen in love with. There were windows where her sassy and feisty persona shone through and her behavior was much less adrift as time went on.
“My mom should have handled my situation better,” Tricia commented out of nowhere one evening when we had been drinking wine, cuddling, and watching a movie on TV.
The story was an action adventure and had nothing to do with her outburst, so I knew she’d been thinking about her therapy session earlier that day.
Since she had entered her therapeutic process I had been careful not to expand on something she said, preferring to agree or ask her to think again because I hadn’t wanted to put thoughts in her head that would impede the work of Miles, her shrink.
“Yeah, she should have,” I agreed, kissed the top of her head, and tightened my arms around her.
“Miles wants me to confront her, he thinks it would help me to hear her take responsibility for making a decision without my consent.”
“And what do you think?” Tricia grabbed my free hand that had been resting on her lap and laced her fingers with mine.
“I think he’s right. While my mom has gone on with her life apparently unaffected, and our neighbors are none the wiser, she sacrificed my mental health in favor of people who shouldn’t have mattered.”
