Therapist Kate sips her tea and studies her notes, giving me a chance to read over mine one more time.

“It’s been hard,” I say. My notes are filled with dark thoughts, and it’s difficult to read through them, to experience the emotion all over again. I blink hard but it doesn’t stop my eyes from burning. It’s been over four months since Dad died, and while I can accept it as part of my reality, the loss is fresh, grief a close friend. I suspect this feeling is not much different for people without brain injuries.

“What did you bring with you today?” She points to the file sticking out of my bag.

I have to check my notes. “Oh, um, I’m not really sure. I guess I was going to give beginner guitar lessons. A little girl was interested.” I show her the writing on the flyer. Dont forget! I want to be your guitar student. Maree.

“Are you planning to start the lessons, then?” I notice a hopeful lift in Kate’s voice, which I ignore.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think you might enjoy doing something different from your normal routine?”

I give her a look. “I have no idea.”

Kate seems to regroup. “What do you want, Claire?”

I glance down at my notebook. There are three indisputable facts that I keep at the top of every page. They are listed in order:

1. Dad died of a heart attack on September 21.
2. Mom lives in Whittier and she’s different.
3. Tate Dunn lives in Whittier and is the new harbormaster. You told him about the baby. You are friends.

Each one of them is a blow to my body. “I want things to go back to the way they were.”

“Before your seizure?”

The unfairness of everything simmers into a boil, heats up my skin. “Before Dad died, before Mom started drinking, before Tate left me. Before, when I had a future.” Kate doesn’t say anything; she’s quiet, letting me process. I doodle in the margins of my notebook. “Do you think this does anything for me?”

Her eyebrows raise. “Therapy?”

I nod.

She sits back, seems to consider. “Honestly? This is as far from therapy as it gets.” She smiles and so do I. “But your father was a persuasive person, and he felt that this was exactly what you needed.” Her face softens. “Vance was a good man and a good friend to my husband when he needed one the most.”

Kate’s husband served three tours in Iraq and suffers from PTSD that deeply alters the man he was. They lived in Whittier when I was in high school, and Dad reached out, hoping to help the man, whose depression had become a monster he couldn’t control anymore. I always thought Dad was trying to make up for not helping Mom in the way he was always trying to help others.