Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Birdie
As I folded the letter while tears streamed down my cheeks, I realized that maybe Birdie wasn’t the only person who needed help anymore.
It had been a long time since I’d visited my shrink, Dr. Eloisa Emery. Her office overlooked Times Square, which I always found ironic, since the view from her window was just about the most chaotic thing I could imagine. Definitely not a relaxing atmosphere for a therapy appointment. During my sessions, I’d stare out at the massive, ever-changing digital billboard as I attempted to gather my thoughts.
I’d been suspecting I needed my head checked for some time, and today I was taking that literally, sharing the story of Birdie and hoping that Dr. Emery could help me move past everything.
I’d just finished telling her about our letters and ended on the most recent one I’d received.
“The tone of this one seemed more panicked,” I said. “She was truly worried that she’d done something to keep her mother’s spirit away. There was no usual P.S. at the end, either, so the overall tone was a bit short. It made me realize that I had really made things worse in setting her up to find that horse, even if it was the butterfly that ultimately led her there.”
She pulled off her glasses and set them on her leg. “So you’re feeling lots of guilt.”
“Yes, of course. Now there’s an expectation for more from her mother when there isn’t anything more. I started a mess. Her mother’s dead, and any implication that Birdie could still communicate with her is misleading.”
Dr. Emery put her glasses back on and scribbled a few things down in her notebook before looking up at me again. “Sadie, I think it’s going to be important for you to learn to accept the fact that you can’t change anything you’ve done thus far. You know now that playing with fate the way you have, as charming as it was, is really not the wisest idea. So I do think you need to really rip the Band-Aid off here.”
My hands felt sweaty as I rubbed them along my legs. “What do you mean by that exactly?”
“You seem incapable of not engaging whenever she contacts you. I think on some level, you’re so invested because she reminds you of yourself, so it’s almost like you’ve been given this opportunity to do for someone else what wasn’t done for you. And that was hard to resist. You’re also connecting with your inner child a bit. But now you know that engaging is harmful. And the more you engage, the harder it’s going to be to stop. So perhaps, if she contacts you again, you should not open the letter at all.”
Shaking my head repeatedly while staring out the window, I said, “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have to at least know she’s okay . . . even if I don’t engage.”
“She doesn’t know you exist. She doesn’t know you have developed feelings for her. Therefore, your feelings, no matter how strong, do not impact her. If you’re not communicating back with her and if you’ve vowed to no longer interfere by pretending to be Santa Claus, then you mustn’t involve yourself in any way in her life. That includes reading her letters.” She tilted her head. “Can you do that? Can you cut all ties for your own good and, ultimately, the good of this little girl?”
I gazed out at the billboard and watched it change approximately three times before I finally said, “I’ll try.”
CHAPTER 7
SADIE
It had been almost a month since my last letter from Birdie. I’d followed Dr. Emery’s advice and not written back to my little friend, even going as far as putting Devin on mail patrol—asking her to weed out my daily delivery of any new letters that Birdie might send. Though I’d broken down on more than one occasion, demanding to know if any had come, and Devin swore that she hadn’t had to intervene. Lately, I’d even stopped dwelling on whether my letters had done more harm than help. But today wasn’t one of those days, though for good reason.
I had an appointment on Eighty-First Street with a professional matchmaker—not for me personally but research for the magazine. Next month, I planned to write an article on the pros and cons of using a service, and today was my first interview. Kitty Bloom ran the agency I’d visited and gave me tons of great information for the piece. She’d also given me a free thirty-day membership—which went for a staggering $10,000. Although if I wanted to give it a whirl, I’d have to submit a ton of personal information—from medical clearances and a psychological profile to financial statements and a detailed questionnaire that asked about everything from my hobbies to my fetishes and sexual appetite. I accepted the gift but wasn’t sure I wanted someone poking their nose into my business.