Her house was immaculate because the night before, she’d dusted, swept the floors, beat the rugs outside. Was it her hormones? Perimenopause? She felt like nesting and had decided to bring Bridge home like he was one of her rescue cats.
Usually her two cats were skittish around new people, but they were curious about Bridge and sauntered around the living room with their tails up and hooked.
“The marmalade one is Jim, and the black one is Pam,” she said.
“Like from The Office.”
“Exactly.”
In their short amount of time together they’d already gotten in the habit of ping-ponging their questions and answers. She’d ask him a question, and he’d ignore it completely, only to answer three questions later, both of them remembering where they left off. He was easy to like. He’d put his backpack at his feet and taken his jacket off. Tallie took it from him, hung it on the hook in the laundry room so it could drip.
“I could help cook. I’ll eat,” he said, sitting on the couch.
“Great! Okay. That’s what we’ll do.” She went to her bedroom and returned with some dry clothes. “You can put these on,” she said, handing them to him. “And I’ll go to the bedroom and change, too. Then we’ll make dinner.”
Tallie closed and locked her bedroom door and put her ear against it, listening for him. Listening for what? Anything. She slid onto the floor and got the papers from her pockets. Opened the first one. He had standard man’s handwriting—small printing, almost cursive. She looked at the bottom to see if it was signed. No. But at the top, a name.
Christine.
My dear bright Christine, my love and life. My world went dark when you left. You are my whole heart. I am broken and empty without you. What else is left for me to do? I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I’m so sorry for everything. Please don’t be mad at me. I love you.
I love you
so
much
God.
Dammit.
Christine.
Tallie put her ear to the door to listen again. Nothing. She refolded the first letter, opened the other piece of paper. No name at the bottom. But at the top.
Brenna, my sunshine. It’s dark now.
Please don’t be mad at me.
I love you
so
much
I
The letter was unfinished. She pulled out her phone and googled Christine and Clementine, Kentucky, knowing it’d be impossible to find anything useful without any other information. She entered Brenna and Clementine, Kentucky, and nothing still. She tried both names together. A fruitless search. She took a peek at the Clementine Most Wanted list to scan for anyone resembling him. Nope. She widened her search to Louisville’s Most Wanted, Kentucky’s Most Wanted, America’s Most Wanted. Flicked through, squinting to recognize someone. Thankfully, she didn’t.
Tallie didn’t have a strong internet presence, just a rarely updated, mostly private Facebook page and nothing online linking her to her therapy practice. On the practice website, she was listed as Ms. T. L. Clark, as it always had been, before and after her divorce. She hadn’t taken Joel’s last name, content with her own. If Bridge tried to look her up, he wouldn’t find anything.
If he were her actual client, she would’ve been required to report his suicide attempt to someone else. If he were her actual client, she would be taking therapy notes. If their time together so far had been a scheduled appointment:
Client Name: No Last Name, “Bridge”
Age: 31
Bridge makes eye contact easily. Naturally quiet? He smiled once, maybe twice. Anxiety? Suicidal ideation. Depressive. The suicide attempt may have been his first, may have been impulsive. Bridge is funny and charming. He appears to be healthy, level-headed （despite the attempt）， and thoughtful. His body language is relaxed, appetite normal.
Medication: antihistamines.
Bonus: the cats like him.
Barriers to Treatment: won’t give his name. Doesn’t seem to think his suicide attempt was a big deal. Also…hasn’t consented to treatment.
Family/Friends （？）： Christine and/or Brenna?
Client’s Goals: ??
Tallie put both letters in her top drawer, underneath the black lace she hadn’t thought about wearing since Joel left. She took off her old clothes, put on new ones—a long-sleeved shirt with her alma mater’s growling mascot on the front, a pair of black leggings. She went to her bathroom, peed, smoothed her hair down, slipped clear lip gloss across her mouth, and checked the mirror. When she walked into the living room, Bridge was sitting in the same spot in the dry change of clothes she’d given him, like they’d magically appeared on his body. The cats purred in his lap.