“All right, well, we’ll stay on top of it. Grief isn’t as simple as the five stages.” Dr. Rosenthal pulls out her box of Cheez-Its and offers me a handful. I decline as always. It’s our pattern, codependent patient/doctor thing. It feels familiar, and weird. I know she’s trying to deepen our connection. But I think we’ve got a good thing going here.

She pops a few overly orange crackers in her mouth and talks while chewing. “Grief is stressful, so it’s common to alternate between acknowledging the emotional pain of your loss, and setting it aside. Grief comes in waves, like the ocean.”

The cold, dark ocean. I look at my freshly painted nails. The color is called deep ocean dreams. Yes. Makes sense for grief and death to come in waves. It may take up to four minutes to die from drowning, but drowning people can only struggle on the surface for sixty seconds before submersion occurs: a truly horrible way to die. Poor Mary. I blink and look up at Dr. Rosenthal.

“Jane, do you have any unusual fixations these days?” She stares at me, her dark eyes trying to pierce through me, see inside my mind, see the truth.

“No, not really.” I wonder if she knows more than three thousand people die in the US because they choked on their food?

Death by Cheez-Its? Possible but unlikely.

It’s time for her to think I’m getting better. After today’s memorial service, of course. Next week, she should tell anyone who asks that I am suffering from complicated grief but I am improving. So, no, I won’t share my tragedy obsession, or my fear of the ocean. Or the nightmares. Or the bubbling rage I feel toward my husband at this moment.

She’s still waiting for me to speak, to elaborate. Her eyebrows smash together on her forehead, she twirls her pen in her right hand.

“No fixations, not really, unless you count getting Betsy through high school graduation. I mean, that’s typical mom stuff, right? It takes all of my attention. I’m volunteering in her school, shopping for the perfect graduation dress. We’ve been looking at colleges online, swapping stories about all of her friends’ futures. It’s wonderful. I’m just a typical mom in most respects. Preparing family dinners, making sure Betsy does her homework. Baking cookies. Wow, I must be getting better if I’m complaining about typical housework.” I smile. I am so normal it hurts.

I’m the perfect vision of a happy homemaker. I always set the perfect table, remember?

“Well, that all sounds good. How is Betsy?” Dr. Rosenthal notes. “She could benefit from counseling. I know she feels extremely guilty about her sister’s death.”