Out to Lunch Read Online Free

possibly say.
    “Do you think this is something you get over, this kind of loss?” Nancy asks.
    “Well, of course, I mean, you always miss people when they are gone, but you have your memories and you move on.”
    “I spoke with Carla, who referred you to me, a little bit about your friend, it was Aimee? She filled me in on what your friend went through, and how much time you were with her. And from what I can gather, Jenna, this isn’t just losing a best friend. The closest thing I can compare it to is the loss of a spouse. Not that you and Aimee were in any way romantic, but in terms of history and connection and emotional intimacy and dependence, not to mention that you were intertwined in your business as well, the magnitude of this loss is no less than if you had been widowed. So to a certain extent, that is I think the best way for us to proceed, to treat this loss for you as that significant. That life changing.”
    Suddenly my dress seems too bright and cheery. Like this woman thinks I should be shrouded in black, rending my clothing, shaving my head. But that’s a little extreme. I had three years to face Aimee’s health issues, and almost six months to prepare for the inevitable end. Of course it sucks, but I knew it was coming. My best friend is dead. So are a lot of people. And since throwing oneself on the funeral pyre isn’t really done anymore, you pick yourself up and go on. Besides, I don’t have time to be all broken about this. I have a business to run, and another that requires I at least check in now and again. I have employees and people counting on me. I can’t let myself be all wallow-y and woe is me-y.
    Nancy seems to take my silence for concern about my meds. “I’m not averse to prescribing some things to help get you through this time, but only in small amounts and only connected to talk therapy. I’ll give you enough medication to get you through to our next session, but no more, not until we determine how the drugs work or don’t work for you, and making sure they are a tool and not a crutch. For starters, I want to see if just getting you more restful sleep might not eliminate the other events before we try any antianxiety medication. Because to a certain extent, at this part of the process, you need to feel your feelings. Numb is not going to help long term. And since, as you said, you do not have pressing business or family obligations, let’s get your sleep regulated first and then work on the other stuff.”
    Great. If I were a mom or had a real job, I’d get the good drugs. But being semiretired and childless means I get to “feel my feelings.” Fuck my feelings. My feelings suck. I’d like to be able to sleep for more than three contiguous hours, and not worry that I might pass out or crap my pants in the middle of the grocery store for no reason. But I don’t say that. I say “Okay.”
    “Okay, good. And what about Aimee’s husband? It must be important for you two to lean on each other right now; how are you handling this together?”
    Wayne. Half-Brain Wayne I always secretly think of him. Wayne of the epic Star Wars collection, the massive library of comic books, the laundry list of failed get-rich schemes. Wayne who has had an endless series of two-year corporate employments that read like Middle Management 101, all of which end in either amicable layoffs or quitting to pursue his next “surefire” opportunity. Wayne says “surefire” a lot. Wayne also says “you betcha” and “that’s the truth, Ruth.” Wayne. Wayne said he wished it were him and not Aimee at least once a week for the last three years. I never contradicted him.
    “Wayne and I . . . how can I even explain this? Wayne is the only thing about Aimee I never understood.” That seems fair. And I should stop there. But I don’t. “Wayne always felt like the only time Aimee ever betrayed me. It was bad enough when she started dating the guy, but when she called from their trip to Mexico