Tragedy Girl by Christine Hurley Deriso Page B

says, a pencil resting against her chin.
    I push my sweater tighter against my chest, chilled by the artificial air in her office. “I dream I catch a glance of my parents, then rush toward them, but then they’re gone. I know they can’t be far—I just saw them —but every street I take, or every door I go through, just gets me more off track. They get farther away instead of closer.”
    Dr. Sennett nods inscrutably, her brown hair resting on her shoulders.
    “The weird thing,” I continue, “is that I feel like I’m actually communicating with my mom while this is happening. She’s telling me it’s too soon to see them, that seeing them now, while my grief is still so raw, will only leave me upset and frustrated.”
    Dr. Sennett smiles mildly. “Sounds like a wise mom.”
    “But she’s wrong,” I say firmly. “I need to see them.”
    Dr. Sennett leans up, resting her forearms on her legs. “Anne, I don’t delve too deeply into the supernatural, but just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there. The love and guidance they gave you while they were living? That’s still here. They’re still guiding you, if in no other way than through the seeds they planted while they were raising you. Can you be content knowing they’re still a part of you without having to actually see them? At least for now?”
    I blink briskly, surprising myself by having tears in my eyes. “I’m just so lonely … ”
    The clock on Dr. Sennett’s wall ticks off the seconds. She plucks a tissue from a nearby box and hands it to me. I dab at my eyes.
    “Can you make a little room in your heart for your aunt and uncle to pick up where your parents left off?” she asks quietly. “Can you do that, knowing that’s what your parents would want?”
    I smile ruefully. “My Aunt Meg is nothing like my mom.”
    Dr. Sennett nods, then asks, “Does she have to be?”
    Yeah, she kinda does. No offense, Aunt Meg, but my mom was amazing—funny and whip-smart and ironic and quirky. She couldn’t do perky if her life depended on it.
    “In a way, maybe it’s better that she’s not like your mom,” Dr. Sennett continues. “No ambiguity or divided loyalty there, right? Plus, the ways that she’s different might add things to your life that you’ll end up valuing, even if you can’t appreciate them right now.”
    I dab my eyes some more. “But you don’t understand,” I say. “Aunt Meg and I don’t have a real relationship; we’re just cordial to each other. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate so much what she and Uncle Mark have done for me—in fact, I feel like every moment of my life has to be a testament to my appreciation. It’s exhausting. There’s nothing authentic about a relationship where you’re constantly prostrate with gratitude.”
    Dr. Sennett fingers a lock of her hair. “What would you tell her if you weren’t prostrate with gratitude? What would you share with her if your relationship was authentic?”
    I think about the question, idly fingering my tissue. “I actually did tell her about these dreams the other day,” I acknowledge. “She’s a good listener. She’s really sweet.”
    Dr. Sennett nods. “What else might you want to talk to her about? What else do you think your aunt could help you with?”
    I think for a moment, then blurt impulsively, “I’d tell her I’m obsessed with a guy I met at school … that he’s crazy good-looking and seems really nice … but that I’m not really sure if any of this is real or right, but then again, I tend to overthink every little thing, so … ”
    Dr. Sennett smiles. “Sounds like you have a lot to share,” she says. “Maybe your Aunt Meg is the right person to share it with. Maybe your mom is pulling some strings for you.”
    I squeeze my eyes shut self-consciously. “This is so not me,” I assure her. “I’ve never been boy-crazy or silly or superficial … ”
    “So this feels silly and superficial to you?”
    I shrug.