The Heart Exchange

The lingering scent of antiseptic clung to my clothes, a phantom reminder of the hospital, even though it had been months since I'd left. Today, however, the stale air of Caroline’s office offered a different kind of confinement. I shifted in the too-soft chair, the memory of last night’s dream still vivid, almost tactile.

“He was in my dream, again, last night,” I informed, my voice flat, indifferent to the sympathetic smile my therapist—Caroline—offered. “We were having a conversation about old cartoons we used to watch as kids.”

I briefly swept my gaze around the office, noticing for the umpteenth time her many awards and certificates. She was a young woman in her early thirties, the walking definition of optimistic. She’d taught me many self-help techniques in the eight months I’d been seeing her, and I appreciated her dedication. Especially since the presence of a female role model in my life was few and far between.

I didn’t have a mother. Not anymore, and according to Dad, I handled her death in a healthy manner. Of course, I didn’t remember any of this. I had no memory of her death. In fact, I had no memories from the past two years thanks to a skiing accident ten months ago.

“How did the conversation make you feel?” asked Caroline, no longer taking notes.

She’d long surpassed the urge to evaluate my recovery in front of me. She always said she felt awkward scribbling down notes in front of a client, and I had to admit, I preferred her way of working.

“Good. Happy. It was…nice. It made me feel free.”