The Choice Not Taken (11 page)

“Dr. Benson thinks I might be...grieving in some strange way.”

He carefully nodded in understanding, and I instinctively leaned toward him. Reaching out his arms, he brought me into his chest and our entwined bodies rested gently against layers of pillows along the headboard.

Tears fell in long heavy drops, gradually creeping inside the crevices of my neck and producing a terrific itch. The very act of saying that particular secret out loud–to Alex and not a therapist–brought more solace than I could have ever predicted. And through now-painful sobs, I fought to speak.

I needed to explain how the reason for these tears wasn’t because of Philip but because of him...his strength, kindness, and love. But the words never came, and instead Alex thoughtfully shushed me in an effort to create calm. It worked, and before I could think anything more, I fell asleep in his arms.

I awoke to find Alex still holding me, perched stiffly in the same sitting position but with eyes closed. Gingerly unwrapping his arm from my body, I helped him snuggle under the quilt and directed his head upon the down pillow. Although he opened his eyes, I knew he wasn’t truly awake so I whispered “go to sleep” and turned off the table lamp.

Focusing on the digital readout of one o’clock in the morning, I stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on my swollen eyelids. Now fully conscious, I hobbled through unlit rooms to get a drink of water from the kitchen tap. Sipping slowly, I stared out the windows over the sink at the homes across the street.

Dark windows reflected peaceful dwellings in which the inhabitants slept long and pleasant nights, unaffected by anything other than the typical stresses of daily life.

I wondered if they gazed at our house and imagined the very same thing-that here, in this graceful two-story with its professionally-tended lawn and landscape, lived an easygoing couple with their two kids and little care in the world.

Or were they, too, secretly spying out a front window–unable to find rest and envying the world outside while dreaming of a simpler life inside?

***

Three weeks passed before Philip called.

I waited, impatiently, because there was no way in hell I’d contact him–no matter what. So, every morning after our coffee visit, I woke with renewed hope today would be the day. And every night when nothing changed, sleep came slowly across my wishful body.

Even if he never called, I held a small chance of seeing him, regardless, since Marnie invited me to another going-away party near the end of the month. I began making preparations to attend when the phone finally rang.

Since an evening meeting gave me great trepidation, I recommended another coffee date where we could meet in broad daylight amid a crowd. At his suggestion, we tried a different place this time, and I offered to drive separately. I didn’t want Philip knowing where I lived or worse, enduring a barrage of questions from my well-meaning parents.

Despite stale dating practices, I still knew enough to arrive a few minutes late. It wasn’t really a problem since I got lost finding the place. This shop was modern and bustling with bistro tables full of fashionable mothers and hip seniors. It wasn’t inviting like the first, yet the aroma of fresh-ground coffee instantly made my mouth water.

From a small leather loveseat, he waved me over and flashed a bright smile while I strolled toward him with my purchase.

“Courtney. It’s so great to see you!” he reached to give me a hug. Subtly avoiding him, I stumbled against a bookshelf, knocking volumes from its black metallic shelves.

“Oh! Gosh! I’m sorry about that,” I apologized. Now fully embarrassed, I returned the fallen items to their rightful place before sitting across from him.

“No worries. I think they’ve forgiven you already,” he offered, tipping his head toward the books. “I’m the one who should apologize. I meant to call you weeks ago. I’m so sorry.”

I searched for signs of a lie–that he really didn’t think to call until now–but couldn’t find one. Rather, he sat with his left foot propped on his right knee, leaning back, and casually sipping coffee. Here he was in front of me, cool and calm as a cucumber while I silently believed my organs might explode out of my stomach due to the butterfly flock held captive inside.

“It’s okay. I’ve been busy, too.” Although I knew it to be false, I prayed he didn’t notice.

After a few tense minutes, his quiet demeanor remained, and I soon found little choice but to follow his lead. During more than two hours of conversation, I became spellbound by a wonderful youthfulness illuminating his face with every impulsive grin. As a result, I tried to inject witty or sarcastic observations in the hope I could see him do it again and again.

That particular expression made my insides do a small flip I hadn’t experienced before. But more importantly, when he did smile in a unique and mischievous way, the longing briefly left his eyes.

This time when we parted, we made specific arrangements to meet. And in my happy, carefree moment, I agreed to an evening dessert date.

At my acceptance, he flashed one final grin and placed his palm on my back to escort me toward the exit. My rigid body created immediate distance between us, thus erasing all previous joy and unleashing a bizarre remorse for hurting his feelings.

Yet I couldn’t help it.

No man ever touched me besides my father...and my attacker. Everyone I came into contact with-doctors, therapists, dentists, hairstylists, optometrists-was female. I insisted on it. Shaking hands was even technically off-limits, and I often feigned a cold so the other person wouldn’t be offended.

Philip either missed my rejection or chose to ignore it altogether, and we said goodbye one final time before heading our separate ways.

challenges

Adrift in foggy fatigue, even concrete images directly in front of me appeared as a bleary haze. Slumped against the island and gazing into a humongous mug emblazoned with “I Love My Mom” in tiny pink script, I gently slid the ceramic from side to side, creating oily patterns in the now cold coffee.

“Mo-om,” Mitch called.

He was mere inches away, yet I paused for a baffled moment. This phenomenon occurred before, when I’d look at something-an object or written word–and it would appear completely and utterly alien. And I’d struggle, feverishly, to recognize its familiarity, because I knew somehow it was known.

I found myself doing precisely that and while it typically wouldn’t bother me, today it did.

Here sat my beautiful son; my flesh and blood-the child I so desperately wanted, tenderly breast fed, lovingly cradled, fearfully nursed, patiently disciplined. And for one brief–and devastating-second I couldn’t remember him.

Tears appeared as the enormity of my problem became clear. Turning from his solid gaze, I rapidly squeezed my eyelids to prevent the misery from stealing anymore precious time with the kids.

“Yes, Mitch,” I quietly whispered.

“That’s the third time I called your name,” he complained. But in the glorious selfishness of ten-year-old development, he ignored it and bounced right back to his own wants. “I need you to sign my permission slip for our field trip at the Capitol.”

“Okay where is it?” Normally, something like that wouldn’t escape my careful scrutiny.

“It’s in my backpack.”

“Well go get it! The bus will be here soon!” I screeched with renewed energy and purpose to get them on their way.

After watching the bus leave, I made a hasty run through the rooms. Ironically, the anxiety kicked into overdrive at the very idea of meeting with my therapist to discuss...of all things...my anxiety. A low chuckle escaped but, as before with Mitch, it seemed out of place.

Maybe I can get a sleeping prescription
, I plotted. Helping one thing is better than helping nothing.

***

Today an aroma of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls taunted me from its secret place. My stomach gurgled, and I suddenly realized I forgot to eat breakfast.

Once routinely settled into our assigned seats, I mutely waited while gathering wayward thoughts. Ever-aware of the clock, I hated wasting valuable time, and yet I couldn’t find where to begin.

Dr. Benson did it for me.

“Courtney. Yesterday we talked a bit about your dreams and possible guilt. Do you want to continue with those or is there something else you wish to address?” she offered in a relaxed tone.

I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever lost it altogether and, as a result, needed someone with years of abnormal psychology classes and a faded paper certificate on the wall to straighten her out.

Like I have for half my life
, I lamented.

My shoulders sunk not only over my past reality but also upon the comprehension that here I sat...still requiring more help. Will I ever be right? Or will I spend my next ten, twenty, thirty, forty, or possibly fifty remaining years just trying to overcome and survive ten violent minutes?

Now helplessly heaving, slow sobs ebbed and flowed throughout my body. And with every rushing wave, my torso leaned over my lap until the fit finally subsided.

“I’m sorry. I’m just so tired,” I sighed before finally raising my head.

“Were you sleeping well before you found out about Philip?” she asked, making another note on her binder.

“Yes,” I curtly replied, so thoroughly annoyed at her incipient doodling that the wet traces of tears sizzled upon my burning skin.

Dr. Benson studied me and debated her next move.

“I know you don’t like medication, Courtney, but I can provide a prescription if the insomnia continues,” she proposed, and my wrath towards her miraculously disappeared.

“I can’t stop re-hashing the time I spent meeting him, getting to know him...” my voice trailed off with the worry this might never find an end.

“Perfectly healthy,” she said. “Not sleeping isn’t, however, and that can have an adverse effect on mood as you go through the grieving process.”

“How long is it going to take?” I wailed.

“As long as it needs to. What are you afraid of?”

Considering her question, I quickly realized the list was too long-so I attempted an edit. “I’m afraid I won’t ever sleep again. I’m afraid this pain will only get worse before it gets better. I’m afraid what that could do to Mitch and Sylvie. And I’m afraid of what it might do to me and Alex...” I rambled.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Dr. Benson played devil’s advocate.

“I’ll never get back to who I was before...all of this,” I wildly flapped my hands in the air. “And I could lose my family as a result.”

She grabbed a tissue from the side table and handed it to me. “Perhaps,” she reluctantly agreed. “But you could, quite possibly, emerge as a better woman, wife, and mother. Because while these challenges appear daunting, Courtney, they also pose a great opportunity to become stronger.”

“Lucky me,” I spat wryly.

“In some ways, yes. Lucky you. Because there are many people who never face adversity until later in life. And when they do, they have no experience to draw from. No idea what to do. They often feel such intense devastation, they can
never
overcome it. Then they live the rest of their lives in debilitating anger rather than recurring joy.” She paused, but I offered no response. “Your hard times, Courtney, while they may seem unfair...are actually blessings in disguise.”

Internally seething with mad confusion, I became ready to pounce as she sat there in her neatly upholstered chair with slim leather notepad resting upon khaki-clad knees. She respectfully raised her hand.

“I’m not saying you deserved these terrible things or should think of them as good, in any way,” she further clarified. “Rather, take them–
once they do happen
–and understand how they prepare you for the next challenge. Because there will be more challenges, Courtney. Some smaller than others, yet difficult all the same. Educate yourself and embrace the knowledge you gain...”

“I just don’t know how many more
challenges
I can handle,” I sarcastically interrupted. “I’ve had my quota thank you very much.”

“Let’s talk about Philip or Alex,” she changed the subject. “Anything else you want to share?”

“Well, I told Alex about Philip’s death last night, and it went okay. He was supportive, but I still felt terrible.”

“His knowing will help the process,” she assured. “Did you get any
relief
from telling him?”

“A little. But he still doesn’t know Philip was married at the time so that remains a problem.”

“Will you ever tell him?”

I shrugged my shoulders with obvious exaggeration and feigned interest in the insanely long titles of binders and books lining her shelves.

“What do you fear?” she quietly prodded.

“Maybe he’ll look at me in disgust,” I reluctantly answered. “Judge me...or stop loving me.”