Kate shakes her head. “She couldn’t remember it happening, but when they asked her why she refused, she asked if perhaps he held a pin in his hand.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “I think that’s similar to how you’re feeling about your mom, but in reverse.”

I take the pen cap on and off, unable to see her connection and frustrated by her comparison. “I don’t understand.”

Kate’s voice softens. “What I mean is that your mom has been sober for nearly ten years now, lives in Whittier, and has taken an active role in your life. I think that on some level, like the stickpin, you’ve registered this change.”

My chest tightens and I can’t respond or do more than sit here trying to process.

She picks up a device from the table beside her. “May I?” It’s similar to the one in my lap. The one with the sticky note that says it’s from Tate and that I brought along with my paper notebook but haven’t used. Now it lights up and writing appears on the notebook graphic next to a bubble that says “Therapist Kate.”

You had positive thoughts about Alice today. You don’t feel angry with her, you know that she’s sober. You’re still working on trusting her but you’ve come a long way, Claire. And you mentioned having coffee and doughnuts with her this morning. Next time, please bring one of her doughnuts to me. ☺

I am warmed by her note. It feels inclusive, like we’re part of the same team. Like I’m not alone. “Thank you,” I say.

She looks up from the device, tilts her head. “When we started therapy after your seizure, you would say the same thing to me at every visit, and you say it even today.”

“What’s that?”

“That you want to be normal again.”

I nod, swallow hard, because I do want that.

“You’ve worked so hard to remember like a normal person, to appear normal to even your close friends and family.” She pauses, inhales. “Maybe being normal isn’t the point.”

“What do you mean?”

She leans forward and clasps her hands. “Maybe you’re meant to be extraordinary. And if that’s the case, then you’re already there.”

I open and then close my mouth, my mind a blank. What can I say to that? So I write it down because of all the things I record, this seems like the most important to remember.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN