dreams about Tim pacing and yelling, which showed up every couple of weeks, even now. Sometimes he was in his white coat. Once, Dean had been there. She thought about lying on her bedroom floor in the dark, and about how much she missed lying on the carpet in the apartment. “Yes,” she said, “I sleep fine.”
“How are your energy levels? Do you feel like they’re normal for you?”
“Yeah,” she said. She sat up a little straighter.
“Have you had any kind of counseling or anything like that?”
“No. I’ve had a lot of help from friends and family. That’s been all I’ve really needed.” She started to roll the edge of her sweater in her fingers. “I don’t really want to spend all my time thinking about my husband and my marriage and everything. It’s just complicated. So I’m trying to get out of my head a little. That’s why I’d like to help my friend feel better.”
“What do you mean when you say your marriage was complicated? Can you talk about that a little?”
Evvie squinted at the doctor’s diploma on the wall. “No, not really. It was regular marriage stuff.”
“Regular marriage stuff, got it,” the doctor said. “How long have you known him? Your friend with the yips?”
“He’s my tenant, actually. He rents part of my house. He moved in a couple of months ago.”
“Got it.” Dr. Talco looked at her notes. “So, let me say this.” She fiddled with the end of her pen. “Sometimes, there are people who come into my office, and they say, ‘I’m in a crisis, I need therapy.’ But it turns out they want a friend more than anything. And I explain to them that therapy is different from friendship. For one thing, friends are free. You know, ideally. So I’m not a friend.”
“Okay. Are you saying you think I want to be your friend? Because I don’t think that’s what I’m asking. I mean…no offense.”
Dr. Talco smiled. “Nope. What I’m saying is that therapists aren’t friends, and friends aren’t therapists. And that means you can’t be a therapist for your pitcher.” Dr. Talco paused to see if Eveleth would get it and seemed to conclude she wouldn’t. “If he has problems and he needs support, then you can be his friend, which it sounds like you’re doing. But if he needs a doctor, he’s going to have to get one for himself. You aren’t going to be able to give him that kind of help, as his friend, if that’s the case, no matter how much I tell you about anxiety.”
“I don’t think that’s what I was trying to do.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Believe me, you’re not the first person who’s had this same idea. People come in and want me to fix a boyfriend or a girlfriend, or a parent, or a kid. And I give them the same bottom line I’m giving you.”
“Which is what?”
“That therapy is like a toothbrush. You can’t really put it to use for anybody except yourself.”
“So wait,” Evvie said. “You’re rejecting my application for therapy?”
She could tell Dr. Jane Talco came very, very close to laughing. But she didn’t. “I am not rejecting your application. In fact, I think there’s probably a lot we can do, and it might help you more than you think. But I’d want to talk about you. Losing your husband, especially at your age, is something that I think most people need a lot of help to handle. Complicated marriage or not. It’s not a bad thing.”
The bad thing, of course, was not the fact that she might well benefit from having her head shrunk so hard that it turned inside out. But what had curled Evvie into a ball on her bed, what had kept her sobbing into the shoulders of Andy’s shirts for almost two weeks after he brought her home from the hospital, was more like a bone-deep exhaustion than the grief the doctor seemed to want to unearth. And the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted was to talk about it.
She stood up. “Thank you for the advice. I promise I’ll keep your card.”
The doctor stood up, too, and extended a hand like she was going to put it on Evvie’s arm, but she didn’t. “Hey. Can you hang around? At least finish up the appointment? I want to help if I can.”
“I don’t think so, but thank you for listening.” Evvie picked up her bag, put on her coat, and let the door