17. the labyrinth

17

THE LABYRINTH

DAY 12

I don't know whether Dr. Chastain expects me to show up to therapy today, but I do. I'm running on hate for the world and an hour's worth of shitty sleep, but I have to see him. Need to see him.

I shuffle into his office and fall into my chair. "Morning, Doc."

Concerned blue eyes scan my face. "If you want to take today off?—"

"Nope, I'm good," I say quickly.

I'm not good and probably look worse. Wrinkled pajama pants, a threadbare T-shirt and bedhead to the max. I can only imagine the dark circles under my eyes since I didn't bother with a mirror.

When Chastain doesn't immediately speak, I ask, "What's on the agenda today? More revelations? Hmm, let me guess—this whole place is really a smokescreen for a government-funded social experiment to determine…" I fr own. "Ah, forget it, I can't think of anything. My head hurts."

Chastain shifts, adjusting his glasses. "Would you like to go for a walk?"

I tilt my head, considering. "Interesting tactic, Doc. I like it. Change of scenery to combat my present, negative associations with this office."

He's silent. Watching me. Expression as gentle as I've seen it, without any expectations for my behavior. Today, I can do or say anything I want and he'll let me. Well… almost anything. If I told him all the things I want to do to him, how I burn with the need for him to make me forget, he'd probably have me sedated.

I drag myself to my feet. "Okay, let's go. But I need to change."

Chastain stands as well, his gaze lowering to my feet. "I didn't take you for a fuzzy-slipper kind of woman."

I snort. "Every woman is a fuzzy-slipper kind of woman."

Infinitesimal curve of lips. "Duly noted. After you, Amelia."

We walk side by side to my cabin, not speaking. Chastain waits outside as I trade pajama pants for cut-off shorts and slippers for sneakers. After tugging a baseball hat onto my head and grabbing sunglasses, I join him on the stoop.

"Do you want to change, too?" I ask skeptically, eyeing his dark slacks, Italian loafers, and pristine white dress shirt.

He glances at me. "I'll be fine." He nods toward the labyrinth. "Have you tried it yet? "

I wrinkle my nose. "Walking in circles, going nowhere? Yeah, I'm pretty well versed in that practice."

He smiles softly. "I'll take that as a no. Come on."

At the entrance to the labyrinth, he shocks the hell out of me by taking my hand. His grip is warm and dry; mine, I'm sure, is the opposite. In fact, I'm suddenly cold and clammy everywhere.

"I don't think?—"

"Labyrinths have been constructed and used since ancient times," he says, tugging me forward. Since not following means releasing his hand, I let him guide me through the entrance. A brief squeeze of my fingers conveys his approval.

As our footsteps find a matching rhythm, he continues, "They're often confused with mazes, but a labyrinth is different. There is only one path—the one leading in is the same one that leads out. The inherent purpose of a labyrinth is to mirror and enhance a journey inward to the deepest parts of ourselves. Once there, we reflect, then travel outward with greater understanding of who we are."

"Sounds like New Age bullshit," I quip, but I'm nevertheless seduced by his deep, calm voice and the steady press of his palm on mine.

The labyrinth itself isn't much to look at, basically a bunch of dirt molded into low borders around the curving path. In the center, there's a single stone bench shaded by a massive Joshua tree. In spite of myself, the farther we walk the calmer I feel. Our progress inward slowly becomes less about the destination .

"You feel it," he says softly. "Your breathing is deeper and your shoulders have relaxed."

I angle a surprised glance at his profile, the small smile on his lips. Because I'm an ornery bitch, I say, "You know that exercise lowers blood pressure and produces endorphins, right?"

His smile only grows. "Walking a labyrinth is symbolic. Yes, your body is responding to fresh air and exercise, but your mind is responding as well. It's the mind that travels inward more so than the body." Blue eyes flash to my face. "If you can, describe to me what you're feeling right now."

Unable to summon a pithy response, I look down at the path under our feet. Small pebbles crunch under our shoes, and a delicate breeze combats the pressing heat of the sun. We're alone out here. Alone in the world but together. His hand no longer feels separate from mine but like an extension of my body.

"I feel…" I swallow hard. "Insulated. Like there's a fog protecting me from how broken my heart is. It's still there, this pounding ache in my chest, but I'm not overwhelmed by it."

"Good."

"All that can be explained by how little sleep I got last night," I grumble.

"Maybe, but does it matter? Why not simply embrace the feeling? You're safe here, Amelia. There's no judgement, no need for pretenses. Moving inward, toward the pain, might seem counterintuitive, but when we do we find that even the deepest grief holds a kernel of light. There is always the possibility of healing. Always. "

We finally reach the center. Chastain leads me to the bench and we sit in the shade, unspeaking for long minutes. At length, he asks, "How do you feel now?"

"Like I could sit here for the rest of my life," I say honestly.

He smiles, his gaze fixed in the distance. Our still joined hands rest on my bare knee. He hasn't tried to release me and even if he did, I'm not sure I'd let him. His presence is the only force keeping me afloat.

"Will you tell me a secret?" I ask, the words escaping of their own volition.

Silence reigns for so long I almost take back the request.

"I often think about what my brother would be like today if he were alive. If he'd gotten the help he needed. Sometimes, I have dreams about him so vivid that when I wake up, for a few minutes I think he's still here."

The words filter through me like new snowfall, soft and delicate. "Another," I whisper.

"Most days, I have no idea what to say to you. None of my usual techniques have worked, which has been incredibly difficult for me to adjust to. I've never treated someone so completely impermeable and at the same time so transparent. And I'm deeply afraid it was too soon for you to remember. That I've caused you irreparable harm."

I lick my lips and taste the first wave of silent, salty tears. "If it were a girl, I was going to name her Julia, after my mother. A boy would have been Jackson. I never told Jameson because I… I had this feeling. This fear. I can't explain it. Maybe it's something all women feel when they have life inside them—this vague dread that something bad is right around the corner. I don't know. But now, I wonder if that feeling was because I knew deep down I didn't deserve something so amazing in my life. That it was going to be taken away."

The tears come harder. Silent heaves convulsing my torso. Chastain shifts, his fingers leaving mine, but before I can feel the loss, his arms come around me. I tuck my head beneath his chin and melt into him. The only safe place in my world.

"I'm sorry, Amelia," he murmurs. "I'm so very, very sorry. But you're wrong. What happened was a terrible accident. You deserved that child, just as you deserve every happiness life has to offer. Someday, you'll have it. I promise."

"I don't believe you," I rasp.

"You will."