The Choice Not Taken (3 page)

She had reluctantly stepped aside so her authentic self could have a chance to live. And love. She once pledged she was gone forever. But now here she was–a spectral trace of that young, broken girl–staring at me in the mirror.

“Mom?” Sylvie sleepily called from the master bedroom. “Where are you?”

I immediately went to my daughter, hugged her good morning, and led her tiny half-asleep, yet surprisingly dressed body to the kitchen table. Once she settled beside Mitch, who was already on his second bowl of cereal, I turned to make a pot of coffee.

The shower–along with everything else–would have to wait.

***

With a quiet house, thoughts buzzed in and around my head while I forged through layouts of sketches for a children’s book. The author was waiting on a first round of rough drafts, and I was under signed contract to submit them by day’s end.

Page after page, I’d continually pause and stare blankly around the makeshift library nestled in our lower-level. While decorating the room, I believed the dark wood and leather furnishings brought harmony to the pale green walls and patterned rug. Yet today, their soothing tones offered little consolation. And the full wall of shelves graced with an eclectic book collection, framed family photos, and tacky vacation souvenirs fostered discontent rather than inspiration.

Struggling, I drew and re-drew while subsequently fighting the drone inside my head. Against the silent backdrop, the decibels seemingly increased. And more than once, I impulsively swiped my hand at the air, as if to shoo an unseen pest away.

I worked through the morning, never fully satisfied with the ideas, shading, or flow of images. But finally, after downing the entire contents of a pot of coffee, I had twenty acceptable drafts.

One longing glance at the desktop computer propped upon the heavy walnut desk, and I silently wished it could be used to send my files. However, this assignment required special software, which meant I needed to use my laptop.

After immense deliberation, I headed upstairs.

My shaking index finger hovered over the power button. Not wanting to even turn on the screen, I somehow feared what it might reveal-as if it telepathically recalled my search last night and would automatically offer it to me again today.

Of course, it didn’t do that. But my scanned files did take forever to download and in the time I sat waiting to enter the appropriate prompts of my software program, the appeal became too great.

Recklessly, I re-entered his name. P-H-I-L-I-P B-U-R-K-E.

Resuming my hunt for answers to an expanding list of questions, I read the eulogy, slowly and word by word. It was sincere and kind and touching, and in its glowing descriptions and heartfelt praise, I realized it was, in fact, for the man I once knew-and loved.

He was indeed gone.

A startling beep signaled my email transmission as complete, thankfully bringing me back to the present before I could stumble dangerously into the past.

With little time, I scurried through the house, preparing for a long weekend with my sister. I only had pajamas and underwear in the overnight bag before I found myself freezing mid-task. As ancient images and ideas grew more persistent, all efforts to concentrate on my current packing failed. I anxiously headed to the farthest room upstairs.

And so the ritual began.

Passing from one room to the next, I checked that everything was in its place and organized. I typically did this whenever we headed out of town, but my usual habit was to perform it only one time, right before we locked up and left.

Today was different.

The compulsion-to be absolutely sure items were put away, things were turned off, and windows were locked–permeated my thoughts and actions. I could think of nothing else.

My shoulders dropped in understanding upon the swiftness with which the obsessive-compulsive disorder returned. And I instantly became driven to combat it with my behavioral techniques.

As I performed the pattern for a second time, I stopped at the door of each room and consciously registered its organized completion in my mind. Each space then became mentally checked off-one by one. Finally, I used visualization to see the house from the outside.

It was imperfect but whole.

The method worked long enough to allow me to finish packing and bring yard sale items out to the garage.
Once I get everything in the truck, I’ll be home free
, I promised myself.

But the very sight of boxes and bags filled with clutter as they lay scattered on the dirty cement floor brought me back. I couldn’t fully concentrate on the next task nor could I ignore the impulse.

Hopping the stairs, I rushed around the house three more times. And with every need to start over–and check again–I realized minutes were rapidly getting away from me. The fear of missing Mitch’s soccer match eventually helped me pull it together. This sole choice-between alleviating my distress or disappointing my son–eventually made me stop.

Knowing I was now officially late, I hastily packed the SUV with yard sale items, my bag, and Mitch’s duffel he left here by mistake. On a distracted whim, I added my laptop.

Peeling out of the circular driveway, I deliberately set my cell phone in the cup holder. I needed a reminder to call my therapist. And I was way over-due for an appointment.

My OCD tendencies were at one of the highest levels I could ever remember since meeting Alex. Even with the stress of my two pregnancies, I’d been able to work through them with behavioral techniques or meditation.

Of course
, I recognized,
those had been events I could anticipate
.

The startling revelation and onslaught of unpredictable emotions in the past day was apparently too much to process. And unless I could talk about some of what was happening to me–to someone-there would surely be more to come.

Relieved I had a plan in place, my primary interest now became holding on until I could meet with Dr. Benson.

***

I arrived at the field just as Alex pulled into the parking lot. With the latest merger complete, he now had the rare freedom of picking up the kids from school and sharing an extended weekend with them.

“Mom,” Mitch cried, “I forgot my cleats!” His anguish turned to glee once I tossed him the bag.

At least part of me is still functioning properly
, I chided.

“Thanks, Mom!” he yelled, already running toward his team for warm-ups.

“Good day?” Alex asked, pulling three collapsible chairs from the opened back of the SUV.

“Yeah,” I hesitated. “It was good.”

He glanced at me with disbelief before hoisting the load and securing it over his right shoulder by the attached straps.

“Want to vent?” he offered.

We’d always talked openly about our problems, and in his characteristic way he was overly patient and supportive of my efforts to overcome the OCD. And though I’d generally disclose my distress with him, I didn’t today.

“I’ve scheduled an appointment,” I cryptically assured with a slight nod in the direction of Sylvie. Clutching my side, she intently listened with eager eight-year-old ears.

“Okay. Good. But you can fill me in later if you want,” he reminded as we marched the gravelly path toward spectator seating.

Earlier sunshine and warm temps were now replaced with a gloomy chill. Donning fleece sweatshirts and tucking lap blankets around our legs, the three of us tried to keep warm while the opposing team missed its first attempt at a goal.

Though I loved to watch Mitch play, I quickly tired of socializing with the parents seated along the sideline. Between intermittent cheers for their kids on the field and hollers to others playing in the grass, the men discussed the start-up of baseball season while the women chatted about recipes and summer school programs.

In no mood to be charming today, the laughter and banter amidst our friends grated upon tender nerves rather than uplift my spirits as it would any other time. Making great effort to be sincere and speak when prompted, I just couldn’t remain focused on who was talking or even what they were saying.

This, to me, became a glaring sign something was terribly wrong.

Leaning close so only he could hear, I whispered to Alex I’d rather leave after the match and skip the pizza party. I used the excuse of preferring to drive to my sister’s while it was still daylight. He nodded in agreement, and I impatiently waited for the game to end so I could be alone.

Mitch scored one goal, but his team lost. The boys seemed unfazed, however. With its arcade games and prizes, it was apparent the local pizzeria held more allure than victory did at the moment.

Hugging the kids tight against my pounding chest, they each wrestled free once I prompted them to obey their father. Having a few days alone with Dad was a rare treat, and I was disappointed to know they’d follow my instructions.

I secretly wished Alex could get the full experience of just one frustrating day as a stay-at-home mother. Instead, it would be one long play-date in which the kids were best of friends, nothing got broken, and Daddy reigned as the coolest parent ever.

“Have a safe drive, call when you get there, and give everyone a big hug from us,” Alex spoke into my ear.

I struggled to let him go.

“I will. I plan to be home Saturday night,” I choked before kissing him goodbye.

The three of them stood by Alex’s car, cheerfully waving while I backed from the stall. Looking in the rear-view mirror for one final glimpse of my beautiful family, I noticed my eyes.

Filled with watery tears, I worried just how long they’d actually been there.

hollow

My sister Jen’s house was exactly one hour and fifteen-minutes away from mine. Seventy-five minutes without work, home, or family to occupy me meant I couldn’t elude him.

Philip.

The first time we crossed paths was unremarkable and would have likely gone unremembered if it hadn’t taken the turn it did.

I was only twenty-three but an
old
twenty-three. Aged beyond my years by events out of my control, I felt I’d already lived four lifetimes. And yet, without the presence of such intense memories, I would have almost believed it to be the life of another person. Not mine.

Spring Break of my final college semester, and I could still recall how Mom and Dad insisted on paying my way to visit my older sister in Florida. Jen moved there right after Christmas to begin a teaching job, and my parents feared she was homesick for family and the Midwest.

I tried to assure them that while she may miss us on occasion, she most certainly didn’t long for the sub-zero temperatures of a traditional Wisconsin winter. They didn’t listen, however, and went to visit her one week in February. And with the precision of a high-ranking military strategist, my mother scheduled me to visit in late March and for Jen to fly back again once her initial school semester wrapped in early June.

Sitting in one of two terminals in our run-down local airport, I waited for the flight to depart my gray, slushy hometown of 75,000 and land in Jen’s dry, sunny city of more than a half-million. I crouched in the stiff plastic corner seat, away from presumably gawking stares of strange men and out of view from lonely others who might seek social interaction on any level.

From beneath short lashes, I watched the man walk into the waiting area, search for a chair, and finally settle in the far opposite corner. Slowly exhaling between clasped teeth, I continued to ignore him and everyone else around me, pretending instead to have great interest in my paperback, and adjusting my stereo headphones to further prove I was unapproachable and otherwise preoccupied.

Whenever the loud-speaker squawked arrival or departure announcements, I’d reflexively lift my head to better hear its garbled message. And each time my eyes left the tattered pages of my novel, something about that man pulled my gaze in his direction.

By his dark suit and crisp tie, I guessed him to be a businessman. My overactive mind envisioned him leaving a loving family every week and traveling long hours by air to visit ungrateful customers and peddle measly products.

Perched in a hard seat like mine, his posture appeared enviably comfortable, confident. He never once moved from the spot, and I unconsciously spied on him from behind my book.

Fascinated by seemingly athletic grace, I watched as he fluidly crossed strong legs, entwined long fingers. And when he finally turned his head toward the wall of windows to crane his neck and peer over the parked aircraft below, I mirrored his graceful movement in the hope of viewing the exact same scene.

Although barely visible from a distance, I could detect a web of lines around his dark eyes. Obviously more mature than me, I had no idea of his true age. When he moved one last time to fold a business journal and tuck it into his briefcase, his head lifted back to center.