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“Do you see these hands?” Jo said, holding them up. “These were
made for caressing handsome men and meant to be adorned with
pretty nails and diamond rings. They’re not made for paint rollers
and paint splatter and that kind of manual labor.”
Katie giggled. “Do you want me to come over and help?”
“Absolutely not. I’m an expert in procrastination, but the last
thing I want you to think is that I’m incompetent, too. Because I’m
actually pretty good at what I do.”
A flock of starlings broke from the trees, moving in an almost
musical rhythm. The motion of the rockers was making the porch
creak slightly.
“What do you do?” Katie asked.
“I’m a counselor of sorts.”
“For the high school?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a grief counselor.”
“Oh,” Katie said. She paused. “I’m not sure what that is.”
Jo shrugged. “I visit with people and try to help them. Usually, it’s
because someone close to them has died.” She paused, and when
she went on, her voice was softer. “People react in a lot of
different ways and it’s up to me to figure out how to help them
accept what happened—and I hate that word, by the way, since
I’ve yet to meet anyone who wants to accept it—but that’s pretty
much what I’m supposed to do. Because in the end, and no matter
how hard it is, acceptance helps people move on with the rest of
their lives. But sometimes…”
She trailed off. In the silence, she scratched at a piece of flaking
paint on the rocker. “Sometimes, when I’m with someone, other
issues come up. That’s what I’ve been dealing with lately. Because
sometimes people need help in other ways, too.”