"Tell me about Frank," she says. She's not judging. She's not "shrinking" him. Today, she's just listening. She knows a rare opportunity when she sees one.
It isn't one of their regularly scheduled appointments. He had come in practically off the street. He's fighting one of the worst hangovers he's ever had. He's fighting a lot of things. He's fighting himself, the guilt, the embarrassment; it's all clearly written on his face and in his tired eyes. His therapist can see it and she'll ask him about it, but one step at a time.
He smiles sadly and studies his hands as they fidget in his lap. Since Frank's death, he realized he'd been thinking a lot about when they were kids. Before their lives had taken such drastically different paths. He opens his mouth to respond to her request, but instead, keeps quiet. He savors the memories a little longer, holding onto them. Letting them out into the air would taint them, make them seem less real. He needed to hold on to them. The memories are all he has left now.
"He...used to look out for me," he replies, but keeps his head down. He knows his face gives him away, that she can read his every expression. He's still trying to shield himself from the hurt, even though he wants to get the weight off his chest before it consumes him. He pauses, hesitating, scared to give his thoughts a voice loud enough for a complete stranger to hear. "All we had was each other. All I had...was my brother."
It was true. They stuck together when their father would leave their mother, when the nights he was gone seemed longer than the actually were. When their mother went to the cabin with "Uncle" Mark, Frank was the one who looked after them even though he was no older than seven. Now that Frank was gone, there was a piece of Bobby's heart missing. Even though Frank had been estranged from him for the last twenty years, he still filled that space in Bobby's heart, the space that could only be filled by a brother. Now it was empty.
The therapist nods, encouraging him to continue, though she's waiting for him to leave. She's expecting him to avoid everything like he usually does. She's hoping-- since he came here in the first place-- that he's willing to talk.
"We...used to watch Gunsmoke and Gomer Pyle together. Frank said he wanted to be just like Marshal Dillon when he grew up. I used to say I liked Gomer Pyle better and we used to argue over this." He's just talking now, trying to fill that empty space with memories, but the fit isn't right. It's like trying to fill a jell-o mold with whipped cream-- the foam fills all the spaces for a time, but melts quickly.
He looks up at his therapist finally. He's realizing he's said too much. She's still smiling, encouraging. He'd rather fill that empty space with analgesic whiskey. He stands, looking awkward and fumbles to find his voice. It's retreated back to the hollow safe spot where it's been lurking the rest of the week. "I need to go." So he goes.
She watches him go and makes a mental note to call him before she leaves for the day. She'll call to subtly check on him and to make sure they're still scheduled for next week.
