The Final Stage

Session 3

It was raining again. Thin gray mist clung to the window beside the couch where Marianne sat. The office smelled faintly of sandalwood, a mix of essential oils, and old paper. It was spacious yet cozy, with bookshelves on two walls. Dr. Keene sat across from her on a chair, ankles crossed, notepad resting on one knee.

“How are we today, Marianne?”

She blinked slowly, her voice low and flat. “Still breathing.”

“Breathing is good. That’s all it takes some days.”

Marianne nodded. Her coat was still damp from the walk over. She hadn’t driven in weeks. Not since Emily’s funeral. The car still smelled like her—bubblegum lip balm and that baby lotion she used for eczema. Marianne couldn’t bear it, not just yet. But she was holding something of Emily’s, clutching it so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Dr. Keene tapped his pen, gently. “You brought the journal again.”

She held it up without looking at it. “Emily’s. She would lose interest and pick up prettier ones. So this one is mostly blank. I didn’t write in mine either.”

“That’s okay. Silence can be part of healing, too.”

His voice was soothing, like water over smooth stones. It made everything feel bearable—even the moments that shouldn’t be. He exuded professional charm and a sense of calmness. A hallmark of an effective therapist. They didn’t read Emily’s journals together, but every session Marianne brought something of hers as a comfort item, like a child would bring a Teddy bear.

Marianne dreamed of Emily often—sometimes in riddles, sometimes in silence. Last night, she saw her again.

They were in a field she didn’t recognize—tall grass swaying around them like waves. The air was warm, but the sky was gray. Emily stood a few feet away, barefoot, her hair in loose braids the way she wore it when she was little.

She turned to look at her mother, lips moving—but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide, urgent. A butterfly rested in her small hand. She crushed it, slowly, her face twisting in something like frustration—or warning.

Marianne tried to move closer, but her feet felt buried in the ground. Emily raised one hand, slowly, like she was pointing. Not at Marianne—but past her. Behind.

Then the wind picked up, and Emily began walking away again, disappearing into the grass.

Marianne woke up with her heart pounding.

She told Dr. Keene about the dream.

He leaned in slightly with a gentle look on his face. “How did it make you feel?”

“I didn’t cry when I woke up,” she whispered. “That’s progress, right?”

His lips curled into that small, quiet smile. “That’s closer to acceptance.”

Session 5

He told her about the five stages again. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

She asked if they always came in order.

He said no. They could twist and loop like barbed wire.

“I think I’m stuck between anger and bargaining,” she admitted.

“Who are you bargaining with?” he asked.

She looked down. “God. Maybe myself.”

He paused. “Anyone else?”

There was a beat too long before she answered. “No.” The look in her eyes was blank.

At home, she handled Emily’s drawings with gloved hands, as if the color might rub off. One picture had two stick figures, one labeled “Me,” the other, “Him.” The second figure had no face. Just a jagged red mark across the neck.

She placed that drawing in a sealed envelope and slid it under a stack of old yearbooks.

Later that night, she played a voicemail again. Emily’s voice—quieter than usual—spoke through the phone:

“You said I could let go. That it was okay to be tired. That peace was possible.”

Marianne closed her eyes. Her thumb hovered over the delete button, then moved away.

Session 8

“You’re making remarkable progress,” Dr. Keene said, scribbling something down.

“I’m not angry as much anymore,” Marianne replied.

“That’s a sign you’re moving toward acceptance.”

She tilted her head. “What if I still want someone to blame?”

“That’s normal,” he said. “But the truth is… sometimes there’s no villain. Just pain. Just broken people hurting other broken people.”

She nodded, lips slightly parted. “That’s comforting. In a way. I know this may not be how grief works, but I feel like I’m getting closer and closer to the final stage.”

Dr. Keene smiled kindly before gently ending the session, but not before praising her efforts and work.

How kind of Dr. Keene to always stay so comforting. So safe. She thought.

Session 13

She brought tea in a small thermos. The rain hadn’t let up.

“I wanted to say thank you,” she said, pouring it into his favorite ceramic mugs. “Chamomile. Helps with clarity. Calming.”

He smiled, surprised. “That’s very thoughtful, I appreciate you.”

They sipped. The silence between them felt fuller somehow.

“I keep thinking about butterflies,” she said.

He arched a brow. “Tell me.”

“There was this butterfly garden we took Emily to when she was five. She was terrified to let one land on her. Said she didn’t want to break the wings.”

Dr. Keene smiled softly. “She sounds gentle.”

“She was,” Marianne said. Then, after a pause: “Or maybe she just knew how fragile things really are. She was such a tender soul. I never could quite empathize with that side of her.”

Marianne went on about her dreams, her memories, and the butterflies. She kept on going until Dr. Keene’s eyes glazed over.

He shifted in his chair. His hands trembled slightly. His breathing shallowed.

Marianne watched him carefully, her mug still filled with tea almost to the brim. Untouched.

“I’m not feeling too well,” he murmured.

She stood slowly, placing her mug on the table.

“I read everything,” she said calmly. “Her journal. The text messages you deleted from her phone. The voicemail you didn’t know she saved.”

He blinked, eyes glossy. “No…”

“I know about your sister,” she continued. “And what my husband did to her. I know how you used my daughter to hurt him.”

He gasped, trying to push himself up, but his body was already shutting down.

“You coached her into dying,” she said. “You made her feel like it was her choice.”

His mouth opened, no words coming.

“And then you sat across from me for thirteen weeks. Helping me heal.”

She knelt beside him, her voice a hush. “You said acceptance was the last stage.”

She moved toward him, slow and deliberate, like someone finishing a task she'd practiced a hundred times. She pressed two thin fingers to his neck. The pulse was slowing, slowing… gone.

“Now,” she whispered, “I accept her death.”

The rain had stopped.

Marianne walked home in silence. She didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. She took a long time, enjoying every moment of breathing the fresh autumn air.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her husband: You okay?

She stared at it for a moment before replying:

Yeah. I think I finally accept Emily’s suicide.