Chapter 27

Arrangements

It was quiet in the lobby of Dr. Paula's office. Rather than meeting him here and delivering the pocket journal to his therapist, Muffy had offered to give Alan a ride to his appointment Monday afternoon, and he had taken her up on it. The short trip had mostly been silent while each concentrated on their respective bottles of sparkling water. Between sips, Alan had taken deep breaths to help calm his nerves. He became aware of how loud his breathing was, and he made an effort to control it after Muffy gave him more than a few concerned side glances. She clutched her handbag in her lap, her hand clamped over the opening as if she feared its contents would spill. That must have been the location of his pocket journal. If she had read it, she said nothing about it. Perhaps that was why she was being so quiet.

They had arrived ten minutes early and entered the mental health center after the patient ahead of Alan cleared the building. That was the detail he disliked about his hour-long therapy sessions: they did not technically last a full hour but rather fifty minutes. Some days, sessions seemed far too short, as if he had only scratched the surface of what was on his mind. Today? He did not think he would be able to unload everything if he were given a hundred minutes. He hoped words would not fail him during this brief span of time, and he hoped Dr. Paula would take notes faster than she had ever taken them before. Mostly, however, he hoped he had the courage to say everything he needed to say.

They remained silent as they waited, sitting awkwardly next to each other while serene instrumental music came through the overhead speakers at an extremely low volume. Julie, Dr. Paula's twenty-something-year-old receptionist, clacked away at her computer keyboard and answered her phone headset in a calm and pleasant voice barely above a whisper. Alan fell back on his standard nervous thinking pose, elbows to knees, fingers steepled, staring ahead. He was breathing again, deeply, loudly, and both he and Muffy took notice.

"How did it go?" Muffy said, and it seemed as if she were relieved to find something to talk about. "With your parents and the Gardens? Did they at least have a good time Saturday night?"

It was difficult not to spare a chuckle for this. Muffy had definitely known what she was doing when she tempted his father with the Splendor of Light tickets and the promise of a wonderful romantic experience.

"They were playing footsie under the breakfast table when I came down yesterday morning," Alan said, still staring at the wall, though he felt himself suppress a smile, "so I should think the night was a complete success."

At this, Julie's gaze shifted in their direction for a moment, and she inclined her head ever so slightly, as if this were the most interesting news she had heard all day and she was curious to hear more.

"Aww," said Muffy. "Good for them."

The door to Dr. Paula's office opened, and his therapist appeared in the frame.

"Good afternoon, Alan," she said, pausing when her eyes fell on Muffy at his side. "Ah, hello."

Muffy drew the pocket journal from her bag as she hopped up from her seat.

"Hi, Dr. Hartmann-Krause. I'm Muffy," she said, crossing the room, "and I have something for you."

"The good news is you're not haunted," said Dr. Paula, looking up from her padfolio, where she had no doubt scribbled copious notes at lightning speed. She regarded Alan with a kind smile.

The Lydia pages were scattered in Alan's lap and across the sofa cushion next to him. To his astonishment, he had not cried that much, nowhere near what he had anticipated. Perhaps that was simply because there had been no time to break for tissues. He had carried on, one page after another, reading them aloud, revealing all the thoughts he had hidden away for weeks, for years, all the things he should have addressed a long time ago. He had not stopped there. He told Dr. Paula about his nightmares, about the anomalous coincidences between real life and Prunella's predictions, how silly the second séance and his temporary faith in the supernatural made him feel in hindsight, how unstable he felt for losing control Saturday night. He was certain he would shed plenty of tears once they delved deeply into these issues. For now, he needed to plow through them and make sure they were all out in the open. Surely, his fifty minutes were almost up.

"I realize that now, Doctor," Alan said, feeling tired from all the talking he had done. "What am I?"

"Besides a young man trying very hard to come to terms with his feelings? I'd say what we have here is a bit of complicated grief, and it happens to way more people than you might think, even to the highly intelligent, such as yourself."

Perhaps she had known he was about to counter with his classic "I thought I was smarter than that" argument and chose to head him off before he could begin.

"Your dreams, your fears, your guilt, and your desire to communicate with Lydia—all commonly associated with complicated grief, but nothing we can't work through."

"I've been afraid to work through it," Alan admitted. "I feel as if I'm constantly torn. I want to be okay with her absence, but I don't want to forget her. I want to be able to remember the good times, but I don't want her to haunt my thoughts. I want to accept her death, but I dread the pain drudging everything up will cause. On the other hand…I never really stopped being in pain, so I don't know what I'm so afraid of. It feels like too much, an all-consuming, confusing cycle. I know what it's like to drown, and this feels very similar."

"This is common," Dr. Paula said again, "which is a good thing because that means it's treatable. Working through something like this is never easy. It requires you to show up and talk about it, but it can be done. I'm going to do everything I can for you; all I ask of you is that you show up and tell me exactly what you're feeling. Stick with your journal, remember your breathing exercises, and try to relax. Also, I know you're not a fan of the idea, but I want you to keep in mind that medication is always an option."

Alan had resisted medication in the past. It felt like cheating. How weak was he if he had to rely on chemicals to get him through the day? Of course, he knew that was a dumb notion. Sometimes people had imbalances, and said imbalances required corrective medication to aid regulation. There should be no shame in it. However, Alan's feelings often did not care about facts, another instance of his anxiety turning him into his own worst enemy. But what was one to do when one felt as exhausted and defeated as he felt right now? Perhaps now it was finally time to fight the enemy.

"I want to change," he said. "Is it okay if I talk with my parents about medication and get back to you?"

Fleetingly, Dr. Paula looked surprised, but she was back to her pleasant expression in no time.

"It's more than okay. In fact, that's exactly what you'll need to do should you decide to pursue it."

"I will," Alan said. "How much time do we have left?"

Dr. Paula checked her watch. "Nine minutes."

"Good. I have an idea, something I'm seriously considering, but I don't know if it's a good one. I know you're not allowed to tell me what to do, but, in your professional opinion, I'd like to know if it might be a sound coping mechanism."

Dr. Paula leaned forward in her chair, curious.

"No problem," she said. "Tell me all about it."

When Alan left Dr. Hartmann-Krause's office, the limo was still parked across the street near the hobby shop. Muffy stood up from a bench near the mental health center, phone in hand, and she hurried over, waving to get his attention.

"You didn't have to wait on me," he said once she had met up with him.

She had done her part, and that was all he had asked of her. As far as he was concerned, Bailey could have left his bike locked outside the hobby shop, and she was free to go about her day.

"I know," she said. "I wanted to treat you to dinner—anything you want from the Sugar Bowl. How does a Bubsy with extra cheese sound? Oh, and a malt?"

It sounded good, but Alan tried to protest.

"You don't have to—"

"And a big pile of salty, greasy fries."

"Make it sweet potato fries, and you've got yourself a deal."

Muffy made a face.

"Okay, sure. Whatever you want."

The two crossed the street, heading back toward the limo.

"Alan," she said, "I want you to know that I didn't read it. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to. Oh my god, I wanted to so much, but I didn't."

"You could have, you know," he said.

"I figured, or else you probably wouldn't have given it to me. I mean, I didn't know for sure, but I kind of guessed that was the case… But still, when I thought about going through with it, it made me feel icky, like it wasn't my business. So..."

He nodded to let her know he understood what she meant.

"Besides," she said, "I was hoping that, since you feel so free to converse, you'd maybe tell me yourself someday."

"Maybe I will," he said. "Honestly, I admire your restraint, your ability to resist asking me a hundred questions."

"I do have a hundred questions."

"You just want to know if we kissed."

"Not just that," she said in mock defense. "And I'm positive you two kissed. The question is: Did you only goldfish it, or did you ever…parlez-vous français?"

His cheeks grew hot when he put together what she meant. He huffed a short, nervous laugh.

"Okay, now that's none of your business," he said, not meeting her eyes.

There was a smile in Muffy's voice.

"Aww… Good for you," she said, nudging him with her elbow.

The Sugar Bowl had been caught in the odd limbo between post-lunch lull and late afternoon rush when they had stepped in, but business was steadily picking up. Alan and Muffy had managed to take a booth against the back wall before other patrons began filing in. Alan was thankful for the increase in ambient noise around them, and he was thankful Muffy had chosen to stick around after his session. It made her more accessible, and it would be easier to ask her an important question, though he was still nervous about it. Across the table loaded with food and milkshakes, Muffy sat ignoring the grilled chicken sandwich she had ordered upon changing her mind last minute. She was busy texting a long message to someone, while Alan lazily dragged a sweet potato fry through the dollop of ketchup on his plate, watching her. He had wolfed down most of his Bubsy Burger. Nerves over his impending visit with Dr. Paula had gotten the better of him today, and this was the first substantial meal he had been able to eat. It tasted exceptionally delicious, but now he was preoccupied with how he should broach the subject.

"Sorry," she said, placing her phone back into her handbag. "That was Chip. He's so sweet, checking in on me to make sure I'm okay. He said that, even though we couldn't be together on our usual day, he was still thinking about me. He also asked me to wish him luck—he's trying to make a vegan cassoulet for Catherine. She's coming over to his place for dinner, so I doubt he'll be thinking about me for very much longer." She sighed. "I'm happy for him, but I'm sad there's a part of our life that's just gone forever."

"Give it time," Alan said. "Maybe all of you will find balance."

"Don't you sound optimistic."

"I'm trying to be…" Alan lowered his voice. "I need to ask you something, Muffy, but I don't really know how."

"Just ask?" she said.

"I talked to…my friend Paula today about how I think I made a mistake in not attending Lydia's funeral. At the time I didn't see the point, enduring the service, confronting the fact that she was gone, and getting upset all over again in front of everyone. Now I wonder if perhaps that was the point, confronting it, finalizing it. I spoke to her hours before it happened, so to wake up the next day and discover that she was gone… It was like she had vanished, absconded from Elwood City, not like she had died. I didn't go to her funeral, I never visited her grave, I refused to talk about it, and I think it only contributed to that feeling. Of course, I knew she was dead, factually. That's not what I'm saying at all, but…it still felt as if she were out there somewhere, and I just couldn't see or hear her. Is it any wonder I forgot myself and became so desperate to speak with her again?"

Muffy must have known his question was a rhetorical one, for she did not try to answer. She sat in the booth, arms folded atop the table, listening intently and regarding him with a sympathetic frown.

"So, I was thinking…instead of chasing a ghost, I should take the initiative to finalize it. I need to visit her grave, but I'm afraid."

"You want me to go with you," Muffy said, knowing precisely what he was about to say next.

"It's a strange request, I know."

"When?"

"And you shouldn't feel obligated—"

"Alan. When? How about Saturday?" she offered when he took too long to answer.

"That's…Halloween. The anniversary."

"Which makes it kind of appropriate, doesn't it? I mean, you never experienced the funeral, so…"

In a way, it made sense. This might be the closest he would ever get to mourning in that particular way. Perhaps it was better to strike while the proverbial iron was hot, before he managed to talk himself out of it and attempt to hide once more. And Muffy was willing to go…

"But doesn't the Deadlight movie open Friday? You've been looking forward to it for ages. You vowed to watch it five times opening weekend. You said it so often, even I was able to commit it to memory, and you know how infrequently I've been around."

"Six times," Muffy said. "And I never thought I'd say this, but Deadlight can wait. But it's up to you."

Alan thought about it for a long moment, then nodded. "The sooner, the better."

Muffy reached across the table and solemnly offered her fist to him.

"Saturday it is, then."

To be continued…