The Therapist

Prologue

The weight of my father’s casket was nothing compared to the burden of the mess he’s left behind.

The atmosphere in my living room is thick with grief. It sticks to my skin like a fog of misery. Mourners turn to me with expectation in their eyes, waiting for me to cut through the tension.

I clear my throat, grabbing a moment to gather my thoughts. There’s plenty I want to say, but I have no energy for the truth. I’m raw.

It’s just easier to lie.

‘Thank you all for coming today.’ To my relief, my voice sounds steadier than I feel. ‘This is a very sad occasion. For all of us. My dad was an exuberant character who touched many lives and his death has hit us incredibly hard. But I’d like to think of today as a celebration, too. You all knew Dad as a terrific man, a caring friend, and a loving husband. We should be grateful to have had him in our lives, and we should rejoice in that today. Let’s raise a glass to the big guy.’

Everyone raises their drinks in the air. ‘To Graham,’ they chant. A chorus of ignorance.

I scan the room, taking in the sea of faces, some familiar, others less so. That so many are here to pay their respects is a testament to my father’s ability to manipulate. If they knew the real Graham, my home would be empty.

The mourners settle back into their conversations and approach the buffet table, while I take a minute to breathe. The wine I’ve been sipping suddenly feels like acid in my stomach and I rush to the downstairs toilet to escape the heavy atmosphere and sympathetic glances. The loo is nestled under the stairs and the space is tiny around my large frame. I loosen my tie, undo the top button of my pristinely ironed shirt, and allow myself to breathe deeply. Voices sound inches from the other side of the door and I pull the lock across, feeling my shoulders relax at the certainty that I am truly alone, if only for a moment.

I look in the mirror and do not recognise the man looking back at me. My usually perfect posture is drooping, weighed down by recent trauma. The deep shadows under my blue eyes resemble bruising, and I look so much older than my forty-two years of age. I practise the smile for my guests outside and it looks tired and insincere. I force it harder, showing more of my straight white teeth, but I’m just too tired. The smile slips away.

I can’t do this.

I splash cold water on my face. The shock of the chill on my skin pulls my attention from recent events and I force myself to focus on the here and now. I just need to get through today. Six deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. ‘I can do this,’ I say to my reflection. I don’t believe a word of it, but I feel calmer nevertheless. If only my reflection revealed the same.

As I leave the toilet, I immediately catch sight of my mother across the living room. She looks more frail than I’ve ever seen her, tiny and ghost-like. Her once vibrant eyes are now dimmed with sorrow, and her face is pale and drawn. Her gaunt cheeks practically stop my pulse. She dabs at her damp cheeks with a tissue as she gazes wistfully out the bay window.

As if she senses me watching her, she spins to look at me. Her eyes are like stone. She motions me over and I obey. She reaches out to take my hand and gives it a little squeeze. Her skin feels like creased tissue paper. I resist the urge to pull away.

‘That was a lovely speech,’ she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

I shrug off the compliment. ‘It was only a few words.’

A smile flickers across her face as she surveys the room. ‘Well, it seems to have worked.’

I follow her gaze, noticing how the atmosphere has indeed lightened. Jackets have been removed, now draped over the backs of chairs, and the once sombre faces now wear expressions of fond remembrance as people share stories of my father and catch up with long-forgotten friends.

I pull my hand away. ‘I can’t do this, Mum.’

She breathes in deeply like she wants to say something, but the words fall away before materialising. She just shakes her head at me. ‘‘Well, you have to push everything aside, Zack. You can manage a couple more hours. Do it for me, darling. It’s been a hard day for me, too.’

I cannot imagine what she’s going through. Losing your husband of over forty years must feel like losing a part of yourself. Then to top it off, she has just had her own soul torn in two. But she’s strong as an ox. She’ll be okay. She has to be, because I can’t hold her up right now.

I’m realising that I never really knew my mum. There has always been a colossal distance between us. I always assumed that Dad’s love had wedged itself between us, creating a chasm that we just couldn’t stitch together. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother and I know she loves me. I’m just not sure how I can ever really foster a bond.

‘This is killing me,’ I confess, but Mum’s eyes are flitting around the room, distracting me.

‘Where is she now?’ she asks.

‘Who?’ I ask stupidly. I know exactly who she means. It’s a poor attempt at forcing away the question.

‘Your wife.’

I scowl. I hate that word. I hate everything about that woman. ‘She’s gone.’

Mum just nods. ‘That’s probably for the best?’

I take a step backwards, unsure what to say next. Is Mum right? Is it better if my wife and I just sever ties? Shouldn’t I put up more of a fight? How am I supposed to figure out the answer when there blatantly isn’t one?

A tall man wearing a bowler hat comes over and greets Mum with a tight squeeze, so I take my opportunity to escape. I fend off people coming at me with condolences and questions regarding my wife’s whereabouts. I can feel my breath thickening in my lungs and an insane urge to scream it out of me.

‘Everything all right?’ I turn to see my younger brother, Aaron, his blue eyes narrow as he takes me in.

The shadows under his eyes are more prominent than mine, which is saying something. We share the same deep brown hair colour, but Aaron’s is in desperate need of a cut and greys litter his hairline. His grief is far more potent than mine and it’s written all over his face.

He’s picking at a scab on his chin where he’s screwed up shaving, and I notice his nails need cutting. In fact, looking at him more carefully, he looks like he just needs a good wash. I feel for him. He’s been through a lot, too, only instead of the sudden shock I have experienced of late, Aaron has been suffering his entire life.

As much as I want to love my brother, I just don’t know how. The pain runs too deep.

‘I’m fine,’ I say through gritted teeth.

But Aaron’s expression is unreadable. ‘I don’t believe you.’ His tone is sincere, but I shrug him off. ‘Where’s Sarah?’ he asks. Her name grates on me and I fight the urge to shudder. Aaron’s friendship with my wife has always put me on edge and now I wonder how privy he is to my situation.

I clench my jaw. ‘She couldn’t make it.’

‘Really? She was at the service though. And her and Dad were really close.’

‘Yeah, well, sometimes things aren’t just about Dad.’

Aaron looks me up and down with creased eyebrows. He may be the younger brother, but he towers over me and is probably twice as wide, having never lost the bulk gifted to him by his former life as a soldier.

I clench my jaw and change the subject. ‘Surprised you made it.’ Something unpleasant gnaws at my stomach. Pain, guilt, anger? All of the above.

He meets my gaze, his sunken eyes boring into mine. ‘I couldn’t miss it. It felt wrong. And it’d kill Mum not to have us both here. She deserves better than that.’

Memories of the last time I saw Aaron haunt me. A darkness surrounds me and I avert my gaze. ‘I can’t do this,’ I say, to no one in particular.

Aaron looks as done with all this as I am. His shoulders sag, his jaw twitches, and his eyes flicker between me and the door like he wants to run away. We make small talk about nonsense, getting us nowhere. We’re still in pain, we’re still awkward, and we still hate our father.

After what feels like an eternity, Aaron turns and stalks off into the kitchen, his shoulders rigid with barely-contained grief. I force out the breath I’ve been holding and with Herculean effort, plaster yet another smile on my face. I can’t let the cracks start to show. I can’t reveal the pain that rips through me. If I slip for even a second, I might just crack in two. No, my mask has to stay in place, no matter how much it hurts.

I know I have work to do with Aaron. We need to rebuild our relationship from scratch and I pray we can do that. I just don’t know how deep Dad’s lies run. It’s something I have to focus on when my head is clearer. Everything feels muffled right now, like I’m wearing huge headphones to block out the noise of my anguish.

I glance around the room, avoiding eye contact with the crowd. Dad’s cheerful face catches my eye and I walk over to the photo sitting on the bookshelf. I pick it up and look at the man who raised me. He’s looking straight at the camera with a huge smile on his face – a picture of health. One arm is draped over Mum’s shoulders, the other hand placed on my wife’s shoulder whilst I stand on Sarah’s other side, smiling in blissful ignorance. Aaron is nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t invited that day.

‘I hope you rot in hell, Dad,’ I mutter.