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But she’d talked to Abby this morning, so she sent both kids a quick text saying Uncle Connor was here checking on the storm damage, but everything was under control and he sent his love. The second she hit send, on a rare upward bounce of the signal, she wished she hadn’t been so breezy. Been more caring, asking how they were doing, yadda yadda.
As if anybody, let alone a teenager or just-recently-former teenager, ever responded to mush like that.
Truth was, she didn’t know how to take care of herself in this terrible time, let alone her kids.
Just be there, her therapist would say.
Easy to say, and hard to do. Where exactly was “there”?
Her phone buzzed with a flood of texts. Including a reminder of the call with her therapist at nine thirty. It was nine fifty-three.
Oops.
Could she claim she hadn’t been able to get a line, which was half true? Pretend she’d spaced it out, though she’d seen the reminder yesterday? She sort of had, preoccupied with her brother’s visit and the damage to the lodge.
Face-to-face, she wouldn’t dare lie. Not that the woman would ever call BS or even flick an eyebrow in disappointment. But in-person contact kept her honest, if for no other reason than the unspoken question: what is going on that you feel the need to lie to me?
She punched CALL. Apologized. Told the therapist about the nightmare. The fear that the face of the mysterious woman was her own. The strange discoveries.
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“It’s not unreasonable to fear that your life is falling apart. It just did.”
“And the pennies?”
“It’s common. There is no rational explanation.”
“Meaning it’s all in my head.”
“Good Lord, no. The pennies are real,” the woman said, the delay in the signal giving her voice an other-worldly sound. “That we can’t explain how they got there just means there are limits in our understanding.”
“Ha. That’s my life right now.”
“People have gotten all kinds of reminders or signs from their loved ones who’ve passed on. Butterflies or dragonflies. Certain smells—perfume or aftershave. One client had a sister who was murdered by her husband. She sent clouds in the shape of angels.”
“I don’t think I could handle that.”
“Me neither, but she found them reassuring. I have another client whose husband sends her the number eleven.”
“Why? His lucky number for roulette? They were married on November eleventh, eleven years ago?”
“She has absolutely no idea.”
Great. Just great. “Jeremy didn’t have a thing for pennies. He didn’t save them in a big jar and buy himself a present when he cashed them in. He didn’t habitually find them on the street and consider them lucky. Pennies didn’t mean anything to him.”
“Do they mean something to you?”
Did they? Not that she knew.
“What if,” the woman continued, “they’re simply an indication that he’s thinking of you? Hold that in your heart, see how it feels. Ask your dreams for an interpretation if you’d like.”
She would not like. She would not like to dream again, not if it meant risking another sight of the terror on the young woman’s face, or a midnight tumble down the grand staircase in her rush to catch the specter, to find out who she was. To save her.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I hate to cut things short, but we got started late and I can hear the grief support group arriving. Same time next week, by phone if you’re still in Montana? Though you know you can call me any time. Any time. And think about joining the support group when you get home.”
Not until they’d broken the connection did Sarah realize she hadn’t told her therapist the scariest part. It wasn’t the pennies from her dead husband. Pennies were nothing, compared to letters from a dead man she’d hated.
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