“I hate that phrase.”

“I know you do. Regardless, I’m proud of you, Cora London.”

“It was only a box.”

Grams gives me a small smile at the next red light. “Well, still.”

She off-beat hums the rest of the drive. I don’t say anything else, though.

Dr. Randall’s office is in a strip mall, sandwiched between a Chinese restaurant and a hair salon. Lots of times after my appointments, Grams, Dad, and I go to the Chinese place and order a huge plate of noodles and a tray of egg rolls. Depending on how sorry he’s feeling for me, Dad sometimes even lets me get a soda. He never used to let me get sodas, but that’s one of the few perks of having a dead sister—I’m now allowed to drink Coke.

“Hello, Cora,” Dr. Randall greets me in the hallway of his office and motions for me to come into the room. I give Grams a small wave and follow after Dr. Randall.

I sit on the comfy leather couch across from his large armchair. Dr. Randall is Black with dark skin and graying hair. He wears oval-shaped glasses and likes to make a “mmm” sound with his lips whenever I say something that he finds interesting. Which seems to be about just everything I say. That’s one nice thing about my visits with Dr. Randall—he makes me feel like every thought I have is important.

“So how are you feeling this week, Cora?”

“I don’t know.”

He makes that “mmm” sound. “I looked at the calendar today. The anniversary is coming up.”

My stomach clenches. I don’t want to think about the anniversary. “It’s only September.”

Dr. Randall nods in agreement. “But soon it will be October. And then it will be November 11.”

That’s another thing I like about Dr. Randall—he just comes out and says things. Lots of adults in my town can barely say that date aloud, but Dr. Randall is different. He says the hard things in the exact same way he says the easy things, which makes me think that someday I’m going to be able to do that, too.

Today is not that day, though. I squirm on the couch, crossing and then uncrossing my ankles. My eyes focus on Dr. Randall’s framed diploma from Howard University. Next they settle on a carved wooden statue that’s on his desk. I’ve asked him about it before. It was a gift from his wife. There’s a framed Basquiat print on the wall and a thick art book on the center table. Dr. Randall’s wife is an artist. I’m looking for anything that we can talk about except the thing that we’re talking about, but there isn’t anything in this room that I haven’t asked him about a zillion times before.

“It understandably is going to bring up a lot of different emotions for you. Would you like to talk about that?”

I look over at the essential oil diffuser. It’s gurgling up bursts of lavender and eucalyptus. Dr. Randall doesn’t rush me to answer. He never does.