“You’ve missed a few sessions, Eve.” Dr. Woodrow glanced up at me, and I noted the slight disapproval.

“Sorry about that. I am a busy woman.” I’m not used to feeling guilty about having to work. However, not only do I have to worry about Dr. Woodrow’s disappointment, but Adam has also been hounding me about missing appointments. Damn it.

“Have you been able to paint?”

Sigh.

“No.” I can’t help the sheepish grimace. “I’m not avoiding this. I want to paint. But I do have galleries to fill and run.”

“Hmm.”

Dr. Woodrow scribbled a few notes in her ever present leather bound notebook, then focused on me again. Her face gentled, and I find myself apprehensive about where we’re about to go. That apprehension is justified when I hear the question.

“Would you like to talk about the day you found you mother?”

I fought back the bile that is my automatic reaction when I think about that day. My head screams NO!, but if I’m ever going to get past whatever it is blocking my creativity I’m going to have to go through all of this shit. Man, Adam and Lainey better be glad I love them so much.

“What about it?”

“What do you remember about that day?”

“Coming home and finding my mother dead,” I answer flatly.

Dr. Woodrow sighed quietly. “Eve. In order for this to work, you’re going to have to let go of the attitude. I realize you use it as a defense mechanism, but it has no place here.” In a display of unusual affection, Dr. Woodrow leaned forward and touched my hand briefly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of in here.”

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and feeling completely raw as I think back to that day.

“What do I remember about that day?” I repeat. “I remember my life coming to an abrupt end. I remember losing the one person in this world that loved me.” Tears brimmed, but just like that day, they don’t fall.

Dr. Woodrow looked at me sympathetically, writing a couple of notes before continuing.

“You knew right away that it wasn’t suicide, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” There were no doubts, even in my fourteen year old mind, that my father killed my mother. No doubts that the “suicide note” was forced. Momma would never have left me with Tony if she had a choice. Never.

“You were the one that brought your father to justice?”

I felt the gun in my hands, the struggle to gain control, the squeeze of the trigger and the warmth of blood flowing through my fingers. His and mine. Yes, I brought him to justice. But I know that’s not what she is talking about.

“I turned him in, yes.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Like I was too late.”

Dr. Woodrow looked up sharply. “You didn’t feel as though you got revenge?”

“My mother was dead. Tony was alive. Even in jail he was able to make my life hell. He killed my soul that day. So, no, I didn’t feel vengeful. I just felt . . . late.”

“Did that change after Tony died?”

“From my hands, you mean?” I ask, the huskiness of my voice making it almost unrecognizable even to me.

“Well, since you brought that up, did you feel remorse for Tony’s death?”

“No.”

There was no surprise in Dr. Woodrow’s eyes, just understanding. With a slight nod of the head, she makes a couple of notes.

“Okay.” Dr. Woodrow glances at my hands, and I grip them tightly together to try and stop the shaking. “I think that’s enough for today. Next session, we’ll talk about what happened after you ran away from the authorities.”

Fantastic, I think sarcastically, something to look forward to. My only hope for getting through today and my next session is knowing that Adam and our baby girl, Bella, are at home waiting for me. That, and the fact that Lainey is picking me up from here. On shaky legs, I stand, smoothing my black skirt free of wrinkles.

“You should have wine for these sessions, Doctor.” I give her a wry grin. “Or perhaps some brandy.”

Dr. Woodrow chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Eve.” Her voice stopped me as my hand reached for the door. “For what it’s worth, I think your lack of remorse for your father’s death is natural. You were defending yourself and someone you love dearly. You did for Lainey what you felt you couldn’t do for your mother. You weren’t too late.”

I felt the faint flush creep up my neck, and a lightness settle over me that I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever.

“Thank you.”

Crash!

The sound woke me up from a deep sleep, and I felt my lips start to tremble. I wanted to call out for my mommy, but something kept my mouth shut. Then, I heard the yelling.

Daddy was loud. I had never heard him sound like that before, and I wondered if it was really him, or if someone else was here. But, mommy called him by name, pleading with him to just calm down.

Smack! Crash!

I didn’t even bother trying to stop the tears. I’m only nine years old, but I know something is terribly wrong. I know daddy is hurting mommy, and I need to help her. But, he’s scary. I hear mommy crying, I can hear the pain in her voice, and my little legs scurried to the door, flinging it open.

“Daddy! Stop!”

He had his hands around mommy’s neck, and I could tell she was having trouble breathing. She looked at me then, her eyes widening with shock. She tried to shake her head. She tried to speak, but couldn’t because of the hold daddy had on her. Daddy looked back at me, his face contorted with anger.

“Get back to your room! Now!”

“Daddy, you’re hurting mommy!” I ran to him and jumped on his arm, putting all of my weight on it. He didn’t budge his hand from mommy, but he used his free hand to push me away. When I tried pulling him away again, he finally released mommy. That was the last thing I remember before seeing his fist come flying to my face.

***

“Damn it.”

I’m back in Dr. Woodrow’s office, safe and sound. Momma is dead, but so is Tony. The latter was my doing, and I still feel no remorse. Should I?

“Are you okay, Eve?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“That was a pretty powerful memory. Is that the first time you recall knowing your father was abusive to your mother?”

“Yes,” I respond quietly.

“And, the first time he hit you?”

“That hard, yes.”

“He had hit you before that?”

“He’s always been abusive – in one way or another.” I know I’m being evasive, but I’m not ready for that conversation, yet. Dr. Woodrow just nods, and writes notes in her leather bound notebook.

“And, is that the last time you tried helping your mother?”

I couldn’t help the stab of guilt that shot through me. A lump formed in my throat, and I struggled to swallow it down.

“Eve, you were so young, and he hurt you so badly. It is only natural for you to have been afraid to stand up to him again.”

“I should have risked it for my mother.”

“Do you think she wanted that?”

I hesitate, hearing momma’s voice in my head. ‘Don’t ever do that again, baby girl. I can handle him. Please don’t make him hurt you like that again. Stay away from him as much as you can.’

“Eve?”

“No. She didn’t want that.”

“Can you begin to tell yourself that you did what you had to do to keep from being hurt? Can you forgive yourself for doing what you know your mother wanted you to do?”

I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“I can try.”

“Eve,” Dr. Woodrow set her leather-bound writing pad aside, and slipped off her glasses. “If you expect these sessions to work, you have to be honest with me. With yourself.”

“What would you like me to say, Doctor?”

I don’t fidget. For many years, I have trained myself to remain calm and strong. In my line of work, it’s extremely helpful. After everything I’ve been through, it’s extremely essential. Yet, here with Dr. Woodrow, my therapist (Christ, having a therapist is hard enough for me to believe), I can’t stop twisting my wedding ring around my finger.

“It isn’t my job to tell you what to say, Eve. It’s my job to listen to what you need to let go.”

She sat back in her chair, her elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled her fingers. A show of confidence. That’s something I know. She’s also waiting, patiently, for me to open up to her. It took me years to open up to someone. So far, I’ve only trusted two people with my sordid past. And, I’ve slept with both of them. Sitting here in front of someone who wants me to divulge every secret, without any other pretense, somehow makes me feel more exposed.

“You asked me to help you forgive your mother,” Dr. Woodrow said over my silence. “Are you sure that’s what you feel?”

“Obviously you’re not,” I answered dryly. She said nothing, just kept waiting. Damn. She’s good. “I don’t know what I feel to be honest with you. I wanted her to be honest with me, but she wasn’t.”

“She’s your mother, Eve. You’re a mother now. What would you do with Bella in this situation.”

“Adam would never hurt me,” I seethed.

“I know that,” she said softly at my outburst. I should really control that in front of a therapist. “I’m not saying Adam would hurt you. I merely want you to think about how you would have reacted if the tables were turned.”

Sigh. Of course, I would have done the same thing mama did. She thought she was protecting me, and she did the best she could in her situation. Blaming her is blaming the victim, and I know better than most not to do that. The truth is, I’m not blaming her. I’m not even mad at her. It is not my mother that I need to forgive.

“Eve? Many emotions just crossed over your face. Do you want to tell me what you were just thinking?”

“It’s a bit overwhelming for me that you can read me so well after a short amount of time.”

“It’s my . . . you know, that’s not true. I was going to go with the line of it being my job. And, while it is, and I’m damn good at my job, it’s more than that with you.” Her eyes flickered with amusement when she obviously sensed my uneasiness. “You remind me of my niece. I feel particularly protective of you. It may be unprofessional to some, but I think it will give me a better insight to you.”

“You barely know me.” My voice was a mere whisper. I haven’t had a mother figure since I was fourteen. I don’t know how to react to the feeling I had when Dr. Woodrow said I remind her of her niece.

“I believe you of all people know that feelings can occur quite instantly and without warning.”

I nod, still feeling slightly off balance by the admission. I felt the same thing with both Adam and Lainey. It was – still is – intense, scary and immensely satisfying. I felt another brick fall out of my wall of protection. When the hell did I start trusting people I hardly know?

“Now, are you ready to tell me what the emotions were all about?”

“I realized it wasn’t my mother that I need to forgive,” I answered honestly. I hesitate to elaborate when I see her questioning look. I can’t help it. It has been a defense mechanism for me for so long, it’s second nature to me. “I should have been able to help her.”

“Eve – ”

“I know,” I interject quickly. “I was a kid, what could I have done? But, there had to have been something. Something that would have kept her alive. Kept her with me.”

To my utter horror, I felt tears flood my eyes.

“Do you think that’s why you would do anything to keep those you love safe? Even go as far as stepping in front of a gun – twice?” Her tone was even, though I still heard a hint of disapproval.

“My life means nothing without the people I love,” I stated simply.

“Can you not see they feel the same about you?”

“That’s not what I think about. I wasn’t able to save my mother. I’ll be damned if I don’t save those closest to me when it’s because of me they were in danger in the first place.”

She shook her head slightly, picking up her writing pad again and jotting down notes. When she looked at me again, she smiled kindly.

“Before we get deeper into that, we need to spend more time on this guilt you feel towards your mother, Eve. If you can’t forgive yourself for something that isn’t your fault in the first place, I’m afraid you won’t be able to get rid of this block you have.”

The threat of not being able to paint or create art again caused me to shudder. Art is an important outlet for me. Without it, I’m frightened by what it will do to me. I used art to get me through the most devastating times in my life. I need it. Hell, I need it as much as I need Adam and Bella. As much as I need Lainey.

Without art, I’m not me. If Adam or Lainey can’t see Eve, how long will I be able to keep them? How will I be able to raise my daughter with confidence and potential?

“How? How do I forgive fourteen year old me for not being able to save my mother?”

“We go back. You’ll have to relive it all in order to give yourself a different outcome.”

“It will never be different, Doctor,” I tell her grimly. “She will still be dead. I will still have been brutalized. Innocent people will still be killed or threatened because of me. Reliving it just means going through that pain all over.”

“It is not the outcome outside I am talking about, Eve. It is what happened inside. Starting with the first time you knew something was wrong in your household.”

As much as I want to walk away, to never relive this through words since I relive it in my dreams enough, I agree. I don’t have any other choice.

“How are you today, Eve?”

I studied the woman in front of me. Poised. That’s probably the first word that came to my mind when I first saw her. She had to be in her mid-fifties, well-groomed with warm chestnut hair that sparkled with a touch of gray. When I did my background check, I found that Dr. Willamena Woodrow has been a psychiatrist for more than twenty-five years, with a degree from the prestigious Johns Hopkins University. She had a soothing voice, but it still aggravated me. It’s not her fault, really. I just don’t want to be here.

“I’m fine.”

She smiled, a nice, understanding smile. “You realize we have an hour together? It may be helpful if you were more elaborate with your answers.”

I felt the corners of my mouth twitch for the first time since walking in this office. That actually made me like her a little more.

“I’m actually not sure what to say.”

“Why don’t you start with why you’re here.”

I laughed. “Because my husband and best friend thought I needed to talk to someone.”

“You don’t think you do?”

I watched her twirl her pen in her fingers, but noticed she still hasn’t written anything down. Of course, I haven’t said much.

“I’ve done well enough on my own so far,” I answered.

“Hmm.” This time she did write something, and then picked up a stack of papers to her right. “I’ve read your story, Eve. Anyone would have a difficult time in your situation. It isn’t uncommon to seek someone to talk to.”

“I’m not used to seeking anyone out.”

“Maybe it’s time you do.”

Whether it was time or not, I didn’t feel I had much choice. Adam and Lainey bombarded me with this request, practically giving me no choice but to agree.

Dr. Woodrow watched me silently, patiently, but when I still said nothing, she sighed. “Have you started painting again?”

The question made me wince, and wish that I hadn’t disclosed that bit of information to her in the preliminary interview.

“No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

I couldn’t bite back the sigh. How the hell should I know why I couldn’t paint. My relationship with Adam is strong again. My friendship with Lainey is wonderful. Even Adam and Lainey’s relationship was mending. So why can’t I paint?

“I don’t know.” My voice sounded smaller than I would have liked, but not being able to paint is killing me.

“Then, let me help you find that out,” she said softly.

“I’ve survived a lot in my life. I just don’t understand why I can’t get past this.”

“You may have survived, but are you certain that you’ve gotten over your past, Eve?”

I thought about her question. Okay, yes, I’ve had moments when the past catches up with me, but mostly I’m fine. I think.

“No.” My answered surprised me. I opened my mouth to say yes, so why isn’t that what came out?

“Then we should start there. In fact, why don’t we start with your childhood.”

I honestly tried to stifle the snicker at how clichéd that sounded to me.

Dr. Woodrow’s expression held the tiniest bit of disapproval at my laughter. I didn’t think psychiatrists were allowed to show emotion, however, that she did, made me trust her a little more.

“Where should I start?”

“What’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”

I closed my eyes and thought back to things I wanted to forget. The first image that popped into my head was of my mother, bloodied and crying, huddled in the closet with me. She would rock me, whispering that everything would be okay, and I would believe her. Until it happened again and again. Eventually I stopped believing her, even resenting her more and more each time we huddled in that closet.

“Help me forgive my mother.” My voice was barely a whisper, and the words that were said brought tears to my eyes. I had no idea I still harbored feelings of blame for my mother. My love for her had always overshadowed everything else.

Well, hell. I guess there is something to this shrink business after all. I’m glad I’m rich. With as many things as I have gone through, it’s going to take many, many hours to get through them all.