I looked up at Hart, still standing by the door.
“Are you going to come in?” I asked him.
He blinked. “Fuck, May—Seth,” he corrected himself. “You seriously don’t care that those fuckers ate your sister?”
I sighed. This was going to be a thing, apparently.
“I didn’t know her,” I replied. “I’m not happy about it, but it’s the same to me as if a total stranger was eaten by the Community Elders. Disgusting, horrifying, yes, but I’m not particularly emotionally invested in it.”
“It,” he repeated.
I couldn’t help the eye roll. “Her,” I clarified.
“Jesus fuck,” Hart muttered, but he walked into the room, scooped up Sassafras from where she’d nested in Elliot’s duffel, and settled himself in the one semi-comfortable chair in the room, the cat on his lap, content to stay there as his long-fingered hands scritched and stroked.
I sighed again. “Look, Hart, I know you had a lovely, idyllic childhood in one of the most wholesome places on earth, but some of us were raised by a toxic, apparently homicidal cult and didn’t properly develop human attachment, okay?”
He stared at me for several breaths, then let out a sharp laugh. “You’re okay, you know that, Ma—fuck! Seth. Goddamn it.” He scowled, but I knew it wasn’t at me. “Sorry. It’s taking some getting used to.”
I knew he meant not calling meMaysanymore. I was honestly surprised that I’d adapted to it so quickly. I’d already filled out as much paperwork as I could online, including a name change form for work that had earned me several shocked emails from Lacy, Roger, and Ronda. All congratulating me. It was sweet.
“I can throw things at you every time you get it wrong,” I suggested.
Hart flipped me off.
“Anything else I should know?” I asked him. “About… Rachael?”
Hart toed off his shoes with a sigh of his own. “Cause of death was loss of blood,” he said softly. “Best guess is they went for her throat first.”
“Faster that way than if they went for her belly,” I observed, a little weirded out by my own coldness. It was probably some sort of defensive coping mechanism, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. It made me feel—I wasn’t sure. Like I might be turning into my father? I shuddered.
“You okay?” Hart asked, his voice concerned.
“I don’t think so,” I answered him honestly. “This has me all messed up.”
“Understandably,” came his response. “You ever talk to anybody about all this shit?”
I looked over at him, surprised. “Like a psychologist?”
He shrugged. “Councilor. Psychologist. Therapist. What-the-fuck-ever.”
“No,” I admitted. “Not sure there is one in Shawano. Not that could handle my level of messed up, anyway.”
“You might be surprised,” he replied, his voice soft. “People in Shawano have seen some shit. Especially the Menominee.”
“They’re not going to want some white guy to walk in there demanding care, though,” I told him.
“They don’t all go to the tribal clinic, you know,” he countered. “Besides, there’s also remote appointments and shit.”
I grimaced. I know telehealth is a thing—it had to become a thing because of the Arcanavirus pandemic and never went away—but the idea of talking to a computer, even with a person behind it, was repulsive. Too distant. Too inhuman.
“Seth,” he said, and there was a twitch of his lips that told me he was proud of himself for getting it right that time. “I’m no expert, but what you went through here was fucked up.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Pretty sure it doesn’t take an expert to know that,” I remarked wryly.
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s a lot to put on other people—dealing with your shit.” He made a face. “I don’t meanyourshit specifically, just… Shit. My shit. Your actual shit. It’s a lot.” He let out a sigh. “Taavi had to put up with a lot of it before I pulled my head out of my fucking ass,” he said, not looking at me. “And I’m sure El will listen to anything you have to tell him. Hold your hand or pat your head or whatever the fuck he needs to. But we all have our own shit, and sometimes it’s more fucked up than we can handle on our own, and it’s fucking heavy. Heavier than they deserve to have to carry for us.”
“You’re telling me that bynottalking to a therapist or whatever, I’m asking too much of Elliot?” It wasn’t something I wanted to hear, sticking like peanut butter or molasses at the top of my sternum.
