The Second Coming

Helen's greatest fear is that she is not believable. She knows this is a reasonable fear to possess because she has heard herself talk about it; she has seen how people's faces look when they hear her. Helen sometimes doesn't know if she believes herself, and that's the hardest part.

At 42 years old, Helen is preparing to start therapy again, on this very morning. She has been in therapy for over half her life, on and off, to try and obtain what she thinks most people who are in therapy are trying to obtain: peace. Quiet. A once and for all deadness to the loud doubts that make her question if it is real, or if anything is. That's what she imagines most people go to therapy for, anyways.

Helen takes special care to make herself look believable. She has taken the day off of work so she can show up on time and not be frazzled. She took a shower, did some light skincare, and pinned her hair up. She picked out a tasteful summer dress and put on a teeny bit of makeup (lipstick makes her look like a painted clown, she knows). She reviews the final product in the mirror and is satisfied. She looks like a librarian, like someone who knows things, and can help you find them.

In the kitchen, Helen gathers papers into a manila folder, briefly organizing them in chronological order: high school diploma, obituary, autopsy, marriage certificate, headstone work order, birth certificate (copy), pay stub, mortgage statement.

"David," Helen calls to her husband down the hallway, "David, I'm leaving! Give me a call if you want me to bring something back, okay?"

She hears the sheets ruffle in response.

--

When she arrives at the therapist's office, she sits neatly in the waiting room, ankles crossed, manila folder in her lap. She has been in therapy long enough to recognize when someone actually looks crazy. Unkempt hair, jean cutoffs, the vague smell of alcohol, and, dear god, flip-flops. In her younger years, she was guilty of this herself. She learned that people seemed to pity her more when she showed up looking like she felt (bedraggled, really, was the word for it), but no one actually believed her. Especially in the early days, just after he had died, and her story ended there. They'd scrunch their chins up in a sad little frown, place their hand on her forearm, and look up with eyes full of sympathy. Then they’d hand her a prescription. Sometimes a referral.

Helen has been to many therapists over the years. Most of them used the same tactics, asking questions about her feelings, where those emotions showed up in her body, how her behaviors were affected by what she felt. Some of them tried alternative approaches; “The Wackies,” as David refers to them. One therapist played gentle music while she placed her hands on her heart and her stomach, another had her recall specific memories while she followed a dot bouncing back and forth across a screen, another brought out an empty chair and had Helen speak to it as if her “psychosis” (that’s what he called it at least), had manifested and was sitting in the chair across from her.

The therapist that Helen is about to see came recommended. Cheryl, Helen’s coworker, had a niece who went to high school with this therapist. Cheryl had told Helen over and over again that her niece said this woman was “the most empathetic person she’d ever met, like ever.” Helen eventually decided to give it a try, but sharing the story the first time was always the hardest, waiting for that moment between belief and disbelief, seeing on which side of the line the listener would fall.

“Helen?” A young woman, professional looking, but approachable, stands in the entrance to the waiting room. Helen smiles her most believable smile.

“Hi Helen, I’m Laura. Come on back, let’s get settled.”

--

“So let’s talk about why you wanted to meet today,” Laura says. She wraps her hands around her knee and folds her fingers together.

“Well, as I mentioned on some of the intake paperwork, I’ve been in and out of therapy before,” Helen starts, “but I never really felt that much of the previous therapy work, I guess it’s called, helped give me any clarity. I’m, I’m looking I guess for some clarity, or peace, you know.”

“Okay,” Laura says, “that’s something that we can definitely work on. Can you tell me a little more about what is causing a lack of clarity in your life? Or what’s the source of the…what’s the opposite of peace – turbulence, maybe? What’s causing this turbulence?”

Helen sits and furrowed her brow. She takes a breath in, ready to breach the waters.

“And just for the record,” Laura breaks in, “you are definitely not alone. A lot of people seek out therapy to find exactly what you just said you’re looking for, that sense of peace and clarity.”

“Yes,” Helen nods, “I figured.”

Laura sits expectantly, primed to listen. She does not have a pen and paper, Helen notes. She thinks this is probably good. Helen always hates it when the therapist gets to the point in listening to her when they stop writing and put their pen down. It’s a sure sign she’s lost them.

“Well, the first thing I’ll say is that I have this fear that people won’t believe me, that they’ll think I’m a liar,” Helen leaves a pause, looking to Laura for some understanding. The therapist nods.

“And the second thing, I guess, is that I have kind of an unusual relationship. It’s unusual enough that most people don’t believe me, which is where the first part ties in, does that make sense?”

“Mhmm,” Laura says, “okay. Can you tell me more about your relationship? What makes it unusual?”

“So, my spouse, David, we met in high school. We had a, uh, complicated relationship. Not really traditional, I guess you would say.”

“Can you go a little more in to that? You’re using words like ‘complicated’ and ‘non-traditional,’ what does that mean to you?”

“I mean, long story short, David was obsessed with me, and I didn’t want to date him. But I felt bad about rejecting him outright, you know? So I just kind of placated him, all through high school, and that seemed to work decently, I guess, but it became a situation where he was…controlling. He would, like, scare off any other guys that showed any kind of interest in me, even just as friends, like younger kids, even, or even teachers, and he’d get upset if I didn’t sit next to him in class or at lunch or something, and I guess this just had gone on so long that I kind of felt, like, obligated?”

“Mm,” Laura pursed her lips and made some affirming sounds.

“It feels weird saying this, you know, because I’m not trying to make it like I’m something super special or desirable, right?”

“I believe you,” Laura nods, so Helen continues. She clasps her hands in her lap so as not to gesticulate as much, which she knows erodes her credibility.

“Anyways, by the end of high school, David kind of controlled my life. I, I didn’t know how to get out of a relationship I wasn’t really in, because we were never like, official, right? I had kept it that way on purpose. Maybe that’s something I did wrong, I don’t know. So I started making some changes, thinking about moving away, you know? Except, uh, David died before I moved. He committed suicide a few weeks before I was going to move away.”

Helen feels flushed. Laura looks confused.

“But,” Laura starts, “you said David is your spouse? Your current spouse?”

“Yes, um,”

“Do you mean you married him before you were going to move, or? I don’t understand.”

Helen braces, holding on to the moment before belief and disbelief. Just for a second.

“No, um, David actually came back to life.”

Laura blinks.

“He had been talking about killing himself for years,” Helen says, trying to fill the space, “but I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it, it was just something he did to get me to do what he wanted.”

“Is David…alive now?” Laura asks.

“I think so,” Helen whispers.

“You think so?”

“I brought, um, all these papers? I thought you could look at them with me? These are the things that prove to me, at least sometimes, that he’s alive, and we’re married? You see, this is our yearbook, where we’re both here, on the same page in our class, and then there’s this obituary, right? From when he died? Do you see the date there, it’s um…”

Helen knows she’s rambling. Any time she has to open the manila folder without being prompted, she knows she’s starting to slide.

“But then our wedding certificate, do you see here? It’s dated after the obituary, like two years after, but it’s the same names, and you have to list your parents, right, and these are his parents, and..”

“Helen,” Laura says, “Let’s back up a minute. Let’s take a deep breath together.”

Helen hadn’t realized she’d started crying. She was starting to look disheveled, damn it.

“Can you tell me,” Laura says, “about the first time you saw David after he died?”

Helen shrinks back into her memories.

“Yes,” she says, “it was at the grave site. After the funeral.”

“At his own funeral?”

“Yes.”

“Did…how did that go? Did other people notice him?”

“I think so.”

“You think so? Tell me what you remember about that. And Helen,” Laura pauses, “I believe you.”

Helen takes a breath.

“They were congratulating us,” she whispers, “on getting married.”

“Your wedding was before the funeral, then? Help me out with timeline here,” Laura says.

“No,” Helen says, realizing she is starting to get frantic.

“I don’t remember a wedding, but the paper is here, isn’t it? After the funeral, the date says. Two years after! So then why would people be congratulating me at his funeral? Where he’s dead but still standing right there? Nobody seems, none of these people want to say, everybody acts like nothing happened, like he didn’t die. These papers are here, and I have these rings, and there’s someone in my house that is David, I think, these are his fucking paystubs from last month, but then again, when I think about it, nothing feels real at all? Except that he is dead, I know he died, but he’s alive again, I think. I don’t feel real. Are you real, Laura? Am I really here?”

Helen knows she is a mess now. Runny mascara, quivering chin, snot and tears comingled above her lip. She’s lost it, whatever chance at peace and clarity she came in with, she knows, when Laura scrunches up her chin in a sad little frown, places her hand on Helen’s forearm, and looks up with eyes full of sympathy. Helen sees her reach for a referral pad on the table.

“One more thing,” Helen whispers, knowing there’s nothing left to lose, “David is God.”

--

Later, when Helen comes home, the house is dark. She sits at the kitchen table and listens to the air conditioner hum. She watches the clock on the microwave blink into the next minute. She hears the ice maker grumble up new ice.

Reality, she thinks. These things are real.

“Did you tell them about me?” David whispers from the dark.

“Yes,” Helen whispers back.

“Did they believe you?”

“I don’t know.”