Susan Of Narnia

Chapter Eight: The Dinner

Carl laughed anyway, but his laughter stopped short when he saw Susan's serious expression. "Susan ... Dear ... I understand that you have experienced great tragedy. I can't even begin to comprehend all you feel right now. I've been trying to, but ... my aunt suggested that we find someone for you to talk to, to help you sort your grief."

"What do you mean?" Susan asked, a chill creeping over her arms.

"My aunt has a friend who talks to people and helps them find themselves again after trauma."

"You mean a psychiatrist?" Susan's fingers trembled, so she balled both of her hands together. "You think I'm insane?"

"No." Carl threw his hands in the air and fell back into his chair, slumping inward. "It's just ... you've lost a lot. It's been hard on you ... A therapist can help you cope with what's real and make sure nothing else gets pulled into what you see as real."

"You do think I'm crazy." Susan turned her head away. Talking about Narnia was insanity. But ... she thought Carl would understand. Not betray her.

Carl only sounded frustrated. "I said no such thing, Susan. Stop putting words in my mouth and please just consider this."

"And what next? What if I decide to still believe that Narnia is real? Will you have me sent to an asylum?"

Carl spluttered, rising from his chair. He paced the room, but he didn't deny Susan's accusation.

Fear pricked her heart. Carl—she thought he'd always be there for her. But this?

Susan pulled her knees to her chin and tried to not cry. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep all of her emotions locked away. "Why can't you try and understand me?" Susan asked.

"I'm trying." Carl stopped pacing, and she suspected through her closed eyes that he stared at her. "I'm trying to understand you, Susan. But I'm also worried about you."

"I don't want to talk to a therapist." Susan opened her eyes, and saw that he was in fact staring at her.

"Fine." Carl shrugged.

But for some reason, Susan didn't believe him.

"But what of getting out?" he asked.

"Can we do something small? Have dinner at your uncle's?"

Carl's face lit up. "Tomorrow?"

Susan gulped away her urge to say no and tried to smile. "That would be perfect."

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Mrs Bryant dressed her table exuberantly for Susan's first time out. There was too much food for four people—a large roast amidst an arrangement of vegetables, piles of seeded biscuits, and a brown soup. There was wine and water to drink, but Susan couldn't bring herself to taste the wine yet.

The Bryants politely conversed, their tones even and mild, almost monotone, so that Susan might have been tempted to fall asleep if she hadn't felt uncomfortable and out of place, ready to go home.

Carl held Susan's hands and squeezed—she knew that he wanted her to join the conversation. So she tried. But to think of things to say was too hard when all of her thoughts were darkened. It took all of her effort just to eat. Her thin fingers shook as she held her spoon, and every bite tasted bland.

As Carl squeezed Susan's hand once more, she forced herself to look to Mrs Bryant and say, "The soup is quite lovely, Mrs Bryant."

Carl patted Susan's hand. Thankfully he didn't take his away, but left it draped over her hand, sending warmth through the rest of her.