The Last Word

By L. Flick Hatcher

You receive an elegant invitation to a smart little cocktail buffet, held at an elegant downtown club, hosted by your former therapist. Do you go? One important detail: your therapist is dead. What would you do? What ensues is the recollection of a handful of patients of their therapeutic journey with psychotherapist Drew Carter.

After listening in session for thousands of hours over twenty years, Drew takes a clinical hour of his own to acknowledge his patients, their hard work, and the unique and profound nature of the patient/therapist relationship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 1, 1900
• ISBN: 9781098335342

Book preview

Hospital.

Chapter One: Margo

Margo

2012 – In session: Friday, December 7

Where should we start today, Margo?

I’m not sure. I made a list. Is that ok? I mean a list. It helps me.

Sure, of course. Would you like to read it to me, or have me?

Drew, you can read it. I mean, you’ll see, number one, Thanksgiving, and I’m still feeling so guilty—and I know I shouldn’t feel guilty. I know you think guilt is a useless emotion, but Howard says he feels guilty all the time, Celia isn’t really sure guilt is even an emotion.

Remind me, Howard and Celia?

Our best friends. Howard is Karl’s godfather. Celia was my maid of honor. And when I try to make her understand my guilt, she just smiles and looks at me funny and Howard seems lost, and then I get….

It’s ok. Let’s slow down a little, take a breath. Ok?

Sure.

Better?

Better.

Ok. So tell me about Thanksgiving.

I don’t know why Karen’s visit bothered me so much. She’s my daughter for god’s sake. I should be glad! I don’t get to see her much now that she’s in school. It’s wonderful she even wants to be in school, it’s great she went back after almost quitting—she knows how I feel about quitting.

Quitting?

Robert and I, well I mostly, didn’t raise quitters. No. Finish what you start, we’d always say.

And the guilt?

You’re not going to let that slide, are you?

Do you want me to?

No, no. You’re right. I’m working on it. I’m trying to change my self-talk, as we talked about last time.

Good. How’s it going, the guilt about Robert and the kids?

I’m working on it. I keep telling myself, You’re doing the best you can. You didn’t make Robert hate his son, you didn’t make Karl hate his father. You didn’t make the whole family hate each other.

Hate? Strong word.

Ok. Not hate exactly. It’s more of a rift, a silence. Since Karen turned twelve, or maybe it was thirteen.

I remember you told me a little about that.

Not all, not all of it. Two strong-willed kids, a bull-headed father. It’s complicated.

Most families are. You’re not the first family to weather adolescence. It’s hard.

Yeah, well, this was. Hard, I mean. And I didn’t hold it together.

Hold it together?

The family. Our family. Where did I let it all fall apart? One summer we’re all at Sea World, getting wet and eating melting ice cream and taking pictures and all the normal stuff that families—happy families—do. And by fall we’ve turned into this … this disaster. Just a whole, shitty, messy disaster.

If I had been a fly on the wall, what do you think I might have seen and heard?

A lot. A lot of loud, really loud voices. Loud. Slamming doors. People separated. Separated I mean, in separate rooms. Eating separate meals. Separate worlds.

And that felt how?

You’re not getting it.

Ok. Sorry.

Silence.

What am I missing?

It was me! I didn’t make everything work out!

Why was that your job, I mean only your job?

I’m the mom in the family from hell. My job is to keep things together. Harmony matters. I didn’t make everything ok, and Karen barely spoke to her father. And he, Robert, went to Ocean Beach by himself. And, for god’s sake, it was Thanksgiving weekend, and I know Karl’s working, but I’m his mother and he didn’t even offer to come home. Sacramento is what, two hours away? Going to his girlfriend’s. I didn’t even know he had a girlfriend.

Ok. Let’s slow down a little.

Yes, ok. Yes. But, Drew, I should know these things. Like if Karl has a girlfriend. Like if Robert is upset with Karen. Things should be different. We should treat each other, I don’t know, better.

What would that look like?

Present day. 2027

Miss? Miss, we’ll be landing soon. I’ll need you to bring your seatback forward.

As she adjusted her seat, Margo instinctively smoothed her hair and straightened the cuffs of her blouse under her blazer. She wondered how long she’d been dozing. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to San Francisco where the local time is 4:30 p.m. We’d like to thank all of our Los Angeles passengers for flying with us.

Four-thirty. Margo calculated: thirty minutes to Uber into the city, a drink with forever friends Howard and Celia, shower and change. The invitation, actually paper, actually mailed not emailed, said the Wish You Were Here gathering started at seven-thirty. Open bar. Cocktail buffet. Dressy attire. Plenty of time.

As her Uber sped north to Noe Valley, Margo chuckled out loud: Wish you were here. Drew’s humor. Intellectually wry, partly verging on bawdy, always appropriate. Yet, really funny.

Margo’s mind jumped from fragment to fragment of recently stirring questions such as the matter of Drew. How would people refer to him over drinks and spring rolls? Drew? Mr. Carter? How do you refer to the dead?

From their first session he had gently corrected her when she addressed him as Dr. Carter. Please, call me Drew. And I’m not an MD. I have a master’s degree in counseling and I’m a licensed psychotherapist in the state of California. Drew works just fine.

It seemed to Margo that their first session had been a lifetime ago, when in fact, she had calculated earlier on the plane: Karl was a junior and Karen had just turned thirteen. Robert had been promoted at Google the year before. Her mom moved into assisted living the year after. On an impulse she had her hair cut mercilessly short that August. So, her first sessions with Drew had started in, what? September? Yes. 2011. So, it wasn’t exactly a lifetime ago.

Sixteen years. Trump in, Trump out. Her first book. Robert’s chemo, then blessed remission. Their move to LA. Karen’s marriage to Tom, baby with Tom. The black period after Robert died. Karl’s coming out, stint in Brussels, marriage to Rolf. Their babies: Magda and Miriam. For god’s sake, I’m barely sixty and I’m a grandmother.

The potholes on Market Street jolted Margo. Some things don’t change.

Celia came running down the stairs of their Victorian on Alvarado Street to greet her best friend of forty years. Celia and Howard had enjoyed the charm of Noe Valley through three babies, two economic downturns, and the Silicon Valley boom, bust and boom again. They had narrowly avoided foreclosure in 2009 and would have lost the house had Margo and Robert not offered to help. They were friends. That’s what friends do.

Celia settled into the window seat. Howard fiddled with a stubborn cork standing between them and a glass of a good pinot. Margo sat where she always did, in the armchair with a peek-a-boo view to the bay.

Celia couldn’t wait any longer. So. ‘Wish You Were Here’. I mean, what exactly is a ‘Wish You Were Here’, gathering all about? Celia’s warmth was tinged with a little girl’s sense of wonder and glee. It wiped away the six months since they last saw each other at Margo’s book signing in LA.

Before I forget. Margo reached into her duffel and handed Celia a copy of her latest book, Not My Fault. Hot off the presses, literally. Not even in bookstores. I wanted you to see this. Pointing, Here.

Celia adjusted her glasses and read aloud, ‘To my rock, Celia. And my other rock, Howard. I’d never have made it here without you’. Oh, my god. Howard, see?

Howard smiled his Howard smile and mouthed, Thank you to Margo.

It’s true, you two. Ok. So, no tears. Where’s that wine you promised? Margo smiled her contented smile, the one that had all but disappeared during the year of hell when Robert was sick.

Cork conquered, Howard tilted the bottle in Margo’s direction, eyebrows raised.

Yes, please.

Celia, not one to waste her precious time with Margo on small talk, continued. "So, if I’ve got this right, your former therapist, Drew, right? Drew, died six weeks ago. You got a formal invitation in the mail to attend a gathering of former patients