warmandsad | baby, you can start again

Though it means wresting herself from her papers, Alana finds she prefers not having a receptionist. Answering the door herself is more personable, and it sets the tone she wants for these appointments, one which she hopes her clients find welcoming. It isn't her job to be their friend, but she does want them to know they can trust her.

Though Abby scheduled this appointment, it comes as a relief to Alana to see her there when she goes to open the door. She wouldn't have been at all surprised if Abby had turned out to be the kind of patient who needs to be coaxed, who calls and confirms and cancels, calls and confirms and cancels, like a half-feral cat. It doesn't bother her that some people need that. Therapy is an immense undertaking, and one that can be painful. That's precisely why she's pleased, though. It suggests that Abby wants this, and that's the only way she'll make progress.

"Hello, Abby," she says, smiling. "Please, come right in. How are you today?"

"I'm okay. No diving into any freezing oceans of late," Abby said, and then cringed inwardly. She'd meant it a joke, but she couldn't help but panic that it might be used against her. Still, Alana had seemed to be pretty good about that sort of thing on the day they'd met. Maybe she really would be different. She walked inside in spite of that panic, and however small a step that was (figuratively and literally), it counted for something. "You?"

"I'm well, thank you for asking." Even if she weren't, Alana would probably have answered much the same way. Her personal life and moods aren't what matter here. She can never leave all her emotions out of it, but she's learned to leave as much of herself as possible on the other side of that door, whatever needs to stay out to afford her clients her best. Whether what Abby's said is purely a joke or not, she hopes it's a good thing. She still isn't sure what was behind their first encounter, but these things will come out eventually. Under it all, she suspects Abby wants to talk, whether or not even she knows it yet.

"There's water, if you'd like some," she says, gesturing to a water cooler nearby as she heads to her desk, lifting a clipboard from it. "And there's some paperwork we'll need to go over before we begin. Confidentiality agreement, goals, things of that nature."

"That sounds familiar," Abby said, but there was nothing unkind behind it. It was just true. Ever since the incident she'd searched for the right doctor, gone through the whole confidentiality schtick and even after all that never trusted them enough to fully open up. She'd been a little fucked up way back then, anyway, wasn't so sure of the truth herself so it was hardly her fault. Later on, though, she remembered it all vividly enough to know that when she was telling the stories to therapist after therapist, it was tainted with lies, omissions and half truths. "But okay. My parents are back in, you know, before, so there's that."

She grabbed a cup of water anyway, holding it rather than sipping it.

"You're your own guardian here?" Alana asks. She's aware that some of the children who arrive here are taken in by other arrivals — such is the case with Clementine. But Abby is old enough to have a choice in that.

She leads the way into the room she's set up as the actual office, the light slightly dimmer, a couch on one side and a pair of chairs across from it. It's her custom not to sit before her client does, and not to direct them where to do so. The goal is to make it as comfortable as possible, after all.

"Uh, technically, I guess. I never really thought about that. I have an apartment and food and all that, though." Abby said, following Alana and settling onto the couch, arms crossed. "That fulfils all the things they did back home."

Sbe bit back a joke about having put up 'wanted: parents' posters with little success and tried to remember Alana might be different, that she hadn't earned her snark. Therapy was all about openness, or so she'd been reminded time and time again.

It's a striking statement, one Alana commits to memory to write down in a moment. If that's all it takes to fill that role in Abby's life — even if she only means it as a joke — then that says a lot about how she's been raised.

"That's a lot of responsibility," she says. Holding out the clipboard with the confidentiality information on it, she takes her seat a moment later. "Having to take care of yourself like that." She wants to press on, but at this point, she knows she has to follow the script, so to speak. "I take it you've seen this a couple times before. You know the drill. Everything and anything you say in here will be held in the strictest confidence. Legally and morally, I'm beholden not to repeat a word. With, of course, the exception of anything that indicates that you are a danger to yourself or others. Given that you live alone, the conditions regarding child and elder abuse aren't exactly applicable."

"This'll be easy, then," Abby said in response, glancing over the papers without paying very much attention to the words. It was Darrow, renowned for weird, but nothing about the forms seemed out of the ordinary. She signed and looked back up at Alana expectantly. It would have been harder to run for the door at that point, now that her name was looped in ink.

It's a legal loophole, a safety net, if Alana finds Abby is in danger of harming herself. At this juncture, though, she's not sure it's one she'll need. Despite the risk-taking behavior she witnessed the day they met, she hasn't seen anything to make her class the girl as suicidal.

"Thank you," she says, reaching to take the papers. "Now we get to the fun part." She offers Abby a wry smile, acknowledgment that she knows very little, if any, of this process is fun. "Why don't you start by telling me a little about yourself. Now, I know you're from Montauk. What else should I know?"

"What should you know?" Abby echoed, raising an eyebrow. What she should know and what Abby was ready to tell her were two different things. "Yikes. Uh. Parents still together, you guys usually want to know that, no boyfriend. In Darrow, at least, there's a douchebag back home. Um."

Her throat tightened as she spoke next. "Only child."

Alana took her notes slowly, casually, even as she heard the slight hitch in Abby's voice, a tell-tale sign of incomplete information. Sometimes it's an out and out lie, sometimes it's only something left out. Sometimes it just indicates someone who knows they're lying, but only to themselves.

"Just you and your parents then," she says. "I imagine that gets lonely sometimes."

"I cope," Abby said, not elaborating on the her questionable coping methods of having an imaginary friend at seventeen, of being in a relationship with a boy that could only be considered a cry for attention and made her feel like hell. "It's not bad. I've been on my own a while. Get a lot of reading done, so."

A while. Alana nods her understanding, and she thinks she's seen something important there, the truth glimmering between the half-truths. A while is not a lifetime. It's not a constant, not a presence. It's an absence.

"Me too," she says with a small smile. She wonders sometimes if patients realize how thin a line separates them from their therapists, how many people in her line of work enter it precisely because they know how it feels to experience one mental disorder or another, or because they've lived watching a loved one suffer. The damage and the healer, she's found, are often more closely bound than they would like. "Was it always just the three of you?"

"What?" Abby asked, first, thinking it impossible she'd already dropped enough hints about Amy. She swallowed, caught her breath, and reminded herself of the fact that this was probably standard. Not everything had a hidden meaning. She hoped. "What do you mean?"

It was only an educated guess, but one Alana suspects has struck a nerve. She almost feels bad for it, but teasing out these things is part of doing her job. Besides, it could still prove to be nothing. "You said you've been on your own for a while," she says, gently casual. "It sounded as if that might not have always been the case."

"You're good at your job," Abby said with a breath of a laugh, feeling less violated than she might have if it were anyone else. She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment, not wanting to be cryptic but also not willing to delve into the deepest depths of her soul. Just yet. She surprised herself with how tight her throat was when she spoke again. "A lot has happened, you know? Even before I got here."

Again Alana nods. Whatever happened, it's a delicate subject, clearly a place where she has to tread carefully. Some wounds, no matter how old, constantly feel torn open, and she doesn't want to be the one to expose it and cause more pain. "You had your whole life before this," she says. Her pen rests in her hand, her hand on the page, flat. She can take notes a little later. It won't help now. "We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about or that you're not ready to discuss. I want this to be a safe place for you."

"I know," Abby said, because of course she did. They could talk for hours on end without ever reaching what really mattered, without really delving into what made Abby so fucking fucked up. But there was a part of her, a big part, that just wanted somebody to listen. Jason had, and Cameron, but it hadn't be the same. It couldn't have been. Throat still tight, she added, "I'm just afraid you'll... I mean, back home, a lot of people gave me a rough time for what happened."

People can be awful to each other. It's a fact to which Alana has become inured over the years, but that doesn't mean she likes it. Life is difficult enough, yet people persist in making it harder still for each other. There are so many reasons they do it, but she knows by now that doesn't make it any easier to take.

"My job isn't to judge you," she says. "I'm just here to listen. To help, not to make it more difficult."

But the thing was, Abby had encountered plenty of others in Alana's line of work that had judged her. That had made her recovery more difficult. In fact, the sheer expectation that she could ever recover from her loss struck her as utter bullshit, made her feel like she'd lost before she'd even tried. Inhaling deeply, Abby tried to figure out where the hell to start.

"I was a twin. Am a twin. I don't know if you stop being a sister when... well, you know. But, uh, she died and it was my fault and my parents hate me and I hate me and..." She straightened up in her seat, refusing to lose her composure. "So that's why I am the way I am, I guess. Or maybe it's just an excuse. I don't know."

There are questions that come to mind at once, a flood of them Alana wants to ask. What happened is one of them, of course. But it's not always the most pertinent. She has no way of knowing if Abby's judgment of what her parents think or fail is accurate, but here, separated from them, it may not matter except in that it makes closure more difficult. What really matters is why Abby feels that way. That she feels that way, whether it's fact or projection.

She has to wonder why people would judge Abby for a loss, for grief, but people are strange and often cruel. Even now, Alana's not always sure she understands them very well either.

"Even if it were an excuse," she says gently, "that doesn't make it not real. Losing someone you love impacts everything. But it doesn't mean you stop being a sister or that she's not your sister anymore. She'll always be your sister."

"My dead sister," Abby corrected, throat tight. It had happened so long ago that it seemed that the memories were more strong of their time apart than growing up together. She shook her head, looked at her hands, tried to fight the inevitability of tears. She was so goddamn tired of crying. "Doesn't feel all that different to being an only child, actually. Except there's a whole lot more guilt."

Dead or not, a sister is a sister, Alana thinks. But that's semantics. The death has as much of an impact as the life here, and what it means to Abby has nothing to do with word choice. It's something much more real and awful than such small distinctions. "Why is that?"

"I don't know," Abby said, suddenly overwhelmed by the fact she told Alana at all. That she'd told anyone at all, here, in Darrow, when she was supposed to be starting over. Bringing Amy there was hardly moving on, was it? After a moment she continued again, refusing to look Alana in the eyes. "I don't know. Because she's dead and I'm not and I should be."

It's the kind of thing Alana knows she doesn't need to write down. Or, rather, she does, later, for the sake of strict record-keeping, and it's not like she hasn't heard it over and over again. So many people feel they don't deserve their place in the world. So many people think it would be better if they died, or never existed. She still remembers. It's a hard thing to forget.

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know," Abby said, shrugging, shaking her head and dropping her gaze to her hands. She knew, of course, exactly what she meant. It had been a pact for the both of them. They'd meant to go together. They'd always done everything together: birth, life, why not their deaths? But instead, she'd chickened out. Fucked it up. "I'm just not supposed to be here."

None of them are meant to be in Darrow, Alana thinks. That's not what Abby means at all. If it were just that, it would be reassuring, a display of interest in her life back home, an indication she feels she has something to return to. Instead there's this. "You mean you're not supposed to be alive?"

"I'm supposed to be with her. With Amy," Abby said matter-of-factly, as if that were any different to saying yes. It felt safer, though, even if not at all cryptic. Alana knew that her sister was dead. The math was simple enough. And it wasn't like she was suicidal, or whatever, she just genuinely felt guilt for the fact she hadn't gone when she was supposed to. She'd chickened out. Got scared. Let Amy go it alone.

Were it not for Amy's situation, it wouldn't be a wholly troubling statement. Siblings, twins especially, often feel those ties. But even then, it would give Alana pause, enough to warrant determining if this is a matter of codependency or not. With Amy dead, the stakes change drastically.

"How did Amy die?" she asks slowly, gently. "You don't have to talk about it if you'd rather not yet."

There were two stories Abby could tell. One a whole truth, another a half truth. She hadn't admitted the former to anyone but herself, really, though a lot of people seemed to figure it out without her ever having said so. She knew she should tell Alana the whole truth. About how it had been a pact, not a dare. About how they'd been so sad for such young girls. So sad and yet she couldn't for the life of her remember why. "She drowned. We were..."

Not yet. "It was a stupid dare. We were really stupid."

It eases Alana's mind just a little. If the day she met Abby is anything to judge by, she's still drawn to the water, and it probably has everything to do with her sister. But despite what she's said about how she should be dead, too, Alana doubts she's suicidal. There may be ideations, but nothing she seems likely to act on at this point.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "How old were you?"

"Eight," Abby breathed out, and had to bite her lip to keep from asking what the hell Alana was sorry for. It was just one of those things people liked to say. Abby was guilty of it herself. "So... a while ago."

"You were there with her," Alana says. It seems to be what Abby has implied; she'd like to be sure of it. It's an important detail. Either way, though, it's easy to see how much this weighs on Abby. The years don't mean anything, they don't make it better. If anything, it seems like the passage of time might be making this harder on Abby. It sounds like her family and friends haven't been any help in that regard, and Alana knows how easy it is to bottle up feelings rather than admit to them and be told to keep quiet. The risk gets harder to take, and the pressure inside gets too high; it always blows up sooner or later. It's a bomb that needs defusing.

Abby nodded, a little saddened by the fact they'd gotten there so fast. It was only a matter of time before the judgement began. The questions as to why she didn't run for help. As to why she stood there, still, while her sister disappeared under the waves, doing nothing. And she'd only told her half of the story so far. Alana didn't even know about the real motive behind that day on the beach. That would make it worse. "Yeah. We did everything together, so."

There are so many things people say at times like this: I'm sorry and that must have been so difficult for you. Even for Alana, they still spring to mind, even slip out at times. None of them, though, do justice to something like this. They're scarcely worth the breath it takes to utter them. "What happened after that?"

"After?" Abby asked, shifting in her seat. She could have meant any number of things by that, and she wasn't sure if any of them were any less painful. With time, of course, the edges of them softened, turning the beach into a ritual she had control of had hugely helped. But there were still times when she revisited the coldness of that day, the stiffness of her limbs, that it felt like she'd been cut fresh all over again. Why hadn't she screamed for help? "I guess I was waiting for her to swim back in."

Abby let out a laugh, although not one bit of it was funny. She'd told the same story a hundred times, what felt more like a thousand, well versed in the art of half truths. There were tears, though, and that hadn't happened in a while. "Stupid, right? And then, you know, she didn't. And my mom came and then the police and it... was really long night."

"It's not stupid," Alana says gently. It was hope. It's normal for people to cling to it, a kinder form of denial, and she's seen it in cases across the board. For an eight-year-old, it would be almost more surprising if she'd simply assumed something was terribly wrong under those circumstances.

She reaches over to her side, lifting the box of tissues from her table, handing it across the space between them for Abby.

"Stupid enough that it might have cost her life," Abby said, although her voice was small, tight, not at all defensive. She reached across and took a few tissues from the box, but balled them up in her fists instead of wiping her eyes. If she hadn't been so frozen by fear, if she hadn't been so deluded in thinking her drowning sister might be able to swim back, she might not be an only child. She might not be sat across from a therapist, ommitting truths out of fear that she'd hate her, too.

She took in a long, shaky breath, hoping she hadn't scared Alana off already. This was her job, of course, but Abby was used to people who she trusted going away. Used to even the professionals telling her it had been too long, it was time to move on and accept the loss and guilt that continued to eat away at her. "It wasn't like I was isolated. I could have run for help. I could have screamed. I could have tried."

She straightened up, trying to pull herself together, and picked at the corners of one of the tissues in her hands. "It was a long time ago," she repeated. "I don't know that there's anything you — we — can change."

"There isn't," Alana says gently. "What happened to Amy isn't something we can change." Abby knows that bone deep. Alana can practically hear, almost feel, the pain of it radiating off of her. She carries herself well through it, but there are tell tale signs, especially when she's this vulnerable. Alana's just not altogether certain Abby has accepted the truth of it. Wishing doesn't change anything, but it doesn't stop anyone from wishing again.

"And we can't change what you did or didn't do," she continues. "I'm sure it's small comfort, but it's normal, Abby. When something awful happens, it's normal for people to shut down. To not know what to do. We're not always equipped to handle it. You were eight. You shouldn't have needed to be prepared for that."

Abby knew that. Rationally, she knew that. But grief wasn't the most rational emotion and, when accompanied with guilt, all logic seemed to fall out the window. She was only eight, frozen by the cold of the wind on her sea-soaked skin, frozen by the fear of consequences she was too young to fully comprehend. If it were anyone else, she'd never hold it against them. If it were anyone else, she'd understand.

But it wasn't. It was her. And it was Amy. And Alana was right, there was no changing that. "Yeah," she said, because she didn't disagree. "But I'm not sure I can change. Or, you know, should."

The guilt seemed like small penance for getting to live her life when her sister didn't.

Whether or not Abby can change remains to be seen, Alana knows. Recovery is an on-going process, not something she thinks is ever complete; some people, though, get further along the track more quickly than others. Abby's been living with this hurt for so long, there are parts of it Alana suspects are difficult to extricate from the rest of her.

Should is a different question.

"Why is that?"

"I don't know," Abby said, shaking her head, the only answer coming to mind being that she didn't deserve to change. The guilt for letting her sister swim out there, for swimming back without her, ebbs and flows but sometimes it's so much, too much, that she thinks it can't be anything but justice for being the one who got to live (though whether her life was lived was debatable.) "I just don't know whether I should. I mean, I... I told you, we did everything together. So."

Abby stared at her hands again, clenching the tissues in her fists. "Isn't our time up?" She asked, aware that they were making no real progress. Aware that, as always, she just continued to be a burden. Aware that she wasn't going to get any better – and it wasn't anything Alana had done, either. Maybe she just was that way. Maybe she didn't deserve to, or just plain couldn't, heal. She'd tried enough to know.

It's something to come back to, Alana decides, casually scribbling down a note on the matter. There's only so much that can be done in a session, in a year of sessions, and she suspects Abby isn't someone who'll respond well to being pushed too much. A little nudge here and there, maybe, but it might be better to coax her forward instead, a recalcitrant cat, half-feral.

"Not quite yet," she says, glancing at her clock. "We have a couple more minutes. So your parents sent you to see psychiatrists before? Pretty useless ones, I think you've said."

"Yeah, for a while. First, in the hospital. You know, after. They wanted to make sure I didn't have a death wish, or whatever," Abby says, and swallows, because that's what it had been, exactly. Two inexplicably sad little girls that thought sacrificing themselves to the sea was the only answer. One that succeeded, the other that gave into cowardice and lived. "And then just so I had someone to talk to, I guess."

Instead of Christopher. Instead of herself. She hated it, though, hated being made to feel that every week, every month, she was disappointing them with her lack of progress. After a while, smiling and nodding seemed like the easiest way out. But she wants more than this from Alana, she wants to believe that Darrow is different from where she's come.

"It can be hard to find the right person for that," Alana says. Abby was so young, too; it would have been difficult for her to voice trouble connecting with a therapist, probably, or to be taken seriously if she did speak up. This has to be different. "Even the best therapists don't click with everyone." By the sounds of it, these ones may not have been very good anyway. She's loyal to her profession, but that can mean acknowledging that there are people in her field who have no business in it, reckless or unprofessional or unfeeling.

"If there's ever anything you want to handle different or want to address, you can always be open with me. I want to make sure our sessions satisfy what you want from them. This is about you." She speaks evenly, gently, hoping Abby will believe her, if not now, then soon. "What would you say your goals are here?"

"My goals?" Abby asks, chest tightening. She understands the need for them, of course, understands that this can't just be something that goes on forever with no change, but it reminds her so much of the places she's been before. Of the people that she's disappointed by not fulfilling goals. "I... hadn't really thought about it."

That's not a fair response to Alana, though, not when she was one of the kind strangers that found her out on the anniversary of Amy's death by the sea. Whatever possesses her to care, Abby tells herself it's different, and it makes her want to do better this time. "To... be less sad, I guess. To stop going and jumping in the ocean every year like I do."

Alana's not sure that behavior is a bad or unhealthy thing in and of itself. People mark their grief in all kinds of ways. But that same grief is hampering Abby, and if she thinks stopping is what's best for her, it's something they can work towards.

"Alright," she says. "We can work on those things. And whatever else affects you, whatever you want to talk about." She wants to be honest and frank with her clients, and she suspects that, though some caution may be required at times, Abby is someone who will respond to that. For now, she decides to keep her thoughts about the healthiness and the sadness of these things to herself. More time with Abby will give her more insight, a better way of discussing it. "Alright, well, we have to bring this session to an end. Do you have any questions for me, anything you want me to know, before you go?"

Abby shakes her head and starts to push herself out of her seat before she pauses and chews her bottom lip, a little anxious. She feels lighter for having told Alana all that she has, yet someone heavier knowing there's somebody else out there carrying around her secrets. Some of them, at least. There's some she's just not quite ready to share, though she hopes, somehow, that changes. "Just, you know, thank you. I know it's your job and everything, but it means a lot."

Setting her paperwork aside, Alana stands, offering Abby a smile. "Well, I'm glad," she says. "You're welcome." If she's helped even a little, then she's happy for it. There are days, sessions, when she's sure she hasn't helped much at all, when there really isn't anything she can do. She's learned to be thankful for the tiniest of steps forward, even for the steps back. "Keep your chin up. I'll see you next week."

baby, you can start again

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