The Choice Not Taken (9 page)

“He’s super kind, Courtney. One of the nicest guys there,” she gushed.

“He seems nice, Marnie,” I sincerely agreed.

“Ooh!” she tugged my wrist. “They’re here.”

Following her gaze toward the door, I watched Carl come in with about a half dozen guys all in their mid-twenties. Walking directly to us, he sat on the other side of Marnie and offered a shy greeting to me.

I recognized some people from before but with little to add in the discussion, I instead sat quietly, observing their fun. Despite my bravado, it didn’t take long for me to feel uneasy with the casual flirting going on, and I gently tapped Marnie’s shoulder to tell her I was heading home.

“Manhattan, please,” someone ordered behind my back. Swiveling my chair around so slowly the bronze casters squeaked in protest, I found him sitting next to me.

“Well, hello there,” Philip grinned with pleasant surprise. “Um. Don’t tell me. Courtney?”

I could only nod.

He was impossibly close, but the low light made his features difficult to distinguish. Even so, I urgently branded his face into memory. By his rugged skin and fine lines, it became obvious he was in fact older.

Only later would I discover he was a full nineteen years ahead of me-a forty-two to my twenty-three.

For the next few hours, we chatted off and on–over nothing and everything. And by the time I prepared to leave, we’d formed an unexpected friendship. Yet for me, it appeared laced with fierce tension. There was an inexplicable draw to this man, in every way, shape, and form.

Driving home afterward, the sensation became downright violent, leading me to stop the car once in order to physically catch my breath. And as I merged back onto the highway, I realized with an unexplainable sadness there was little choice in the matter...it was almost as if I already loved him.

contact

The third time I had to trudge up the stairs, go into their rooms, and tell the kids to get up and ready for school, I officially lost it.

“GET! UP! NOW!” I screamed like a raving lunatic. “If I don’t see you sitting at the kitchen table in five minutes, I’ll be taking two video games and two items of clothing,” I threatened. “And you will NOT get them back!”

I stomped, childishly, down the stairs, partly in anger every Monday was like this but more out of irritation for my low tolerance level. Alex generally helped keep the peace, but today he left early for work to catch up from his long weekend home.

This morning, I possessed little capacity to reign in the rude helplessness building these past days. I was more than ready for an opportunity to talk with someone, and yet the unease over what my time with Dr. Benson might reveal was practically debilitating.

Moping toward the kitchen, I found my scare tactics worked. Mitch and Sylvie dutifully settled at the table, and I apologetically hurried, serving them breakfast and inquiring about their day. They appeared unfazed by my spontaneous outburst, which only elevated my mommy-guilt.

I listened with over-interest while Mitch excitedly explained a rocket science project at school, and Sylvie chimed in she was in charge of the Reading Nook, a cozy corner in her classroom complete with shelves of books and audio cassettes. The assigned person created a schedule for fellow students to visit during the school week and read a book of their choosing. This was obviously a big thrill, and she took the task quite seriously.

“So you get to be a librarian, big deal,” Mitch chided. “
I
get to be a rocket scientist! Way cooler,” he concluded and slurped remnants of milk from his cereal bowl.

“Mo-om. Being a librarian is more important, isn’t it?” Sylvie looked to me with wide eyes.

“Well, they’re both important. Building rockets helps us explore our world and beyond, but...” I paused and kissed the top of her head, “they could never build rockets if they hadn’t learned how from a book!”

After double checks for backpacks, jackets, and lunches, I merrily sent them on their way, leaving for my scheduled appointment once they boarded the bus.

The very fact I got in so easily on a coveted morning slot and at such late notice probably should have signaled how bad Dr. Benson believed my situation to be. But instead, I relished the chance to get it done and over with, hoping it would grant me the ability to better detach myself from these haunting thoughts and obsessive actions.

I want to feel normal again
, I coaxed the air.
Even if I’m not
.

Located in an older section of town, Dr. Benson wisely established her practice in a massive Victorian home. Approaching the classic structure with its whimsical blue paint and pink trim, my nerves dissipated instantly, and I entered the protective foyer with an unplanned–and genuine-smile.

Following a pleasantly short wait, Dr. Benson peeked into the sitting area and welcomed me back to her office. I already knew what to expect–low soothing music and an aroma of home-baked goods-although I had yet to figure, amidst my fidgety visits, exactly where either of them originated.

“Good to see you again, Courtney. Been quite a few months,” she noted before offering me a seat on the nutmeg-colored couch. I sunk into it and propped one leg under the other, shifting in discomfort.

“I know. Things have been good,” I answered honestly. “At least until now.” Automatically gazing at my fingernails, all daring and excitement to be here again dwindled once we were face-to-face.

“That’s a long stretch of time. You should be pleased,” she patiently praised.

“I am. I mean, I was,” I stuttered. “But the OCD has been really bad this past week.”

She gave an understanding nod. “Have your techniques been working?”

“A little. But not as much as usual.”

“So they typically work?” she confirmed, and I nodded. “Is something different this time? Alex? Kids? Work?”

Balling my hands, the pressure of my fingernails created painful crescent-moon divots deep against the tender skin.

“I found out Philip died,” I hoarsely confided. Dr. Benson was the only person to know everything about my past, and she slowly tilted her head, gazing over me with sympathy.

“I see. I’m sorry, Courtney.” After a respectful pause, she continued. “And this news has made you anxious?”

“More than anxious. I mean, I’m all antsy from some weird stress. And it’s like...it’s like I can’t recognize myself anymore or connect with
me
to effectively use the breathing or mind techniques and make the stress go away.”

“You’re grieving, Courtney,” Dr. Benson emphasized. “It’s quite normal to experience those feelings when we lose someone, even if they aren’t a primary person in our life anymore.”

Considering her words, I shook my head in uncertainty. “But I’m also
remembering
him. And the attack. It’s like everything is so clear. I can’t get the thoughts out of my head!” I shouted in anguish.

“All of which is also natural,” she reassured me. “When we find out someone is gone, our mind tends to bring back memories-often with extreme degree-in an effort to manage the grief and pain we feel in our hearts.”

“These are unrelenting! And the only way I can make them stop is to distract myself with organization. I’m even dreaming about him now, during the few hours I actually sleep at night.”

“What type of dreams?” she asked.

“Well, over the years I’ve often dreamed of him-sometimes we’d flirt seductively, other times it might be passionate sex. But last night, I was terribly angry, positively livid with him. I was furious he ever wanted me, and even madder I ever wanted him. And then he kept showing up at places and every time I saw him, I’d panic he’d reveal our secret.” Dr. Benson jotted something on her paper, and I instantly wanted to know its content. “When I woke up this morning, I was in such a foul mood, I took it out on Mitch and Sylvie.”

“Perhaps his passing renewed the guilt you once experienced for ever being in love with him?” she suggested softly.

“I suppose so. It’s like just when I’d get comfortable in life and things were great, there would be this terrifying fear he’d call one day-out of the blue–and profess his all-consuming love. Claim he couldn’t live without me kind of stuff. Insist, repeatedly, the heartache was more than he could bear,” I rambled while staring at my hands and pressing the fingers together, then apart.

“But he never did?” Dr. Benson confirmed.

“No. He never did.”

“Deep down...did you wish he’d say those things? Would knowing he really loved you–so deeply–help erase the guilt?”

“No,” I answered too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t ever want to be found out for being that type of person.”

“Now that he’s gone, there’s little chance of that happening, isn’t there?”

“I guess so.”

“And so, along with your grief...do you perhaps feel a slight sense of relief he’s gone?” she probed further.

“Yes,” I roughly whispered.

“Then maybe you can let go of some guilt now, too,” she kindly advised.

Studying the watercolor over Dr. Benson’s head, I watched a maturing sun outside squeeze through half-opened wood blinds and cast slivers of obscure light upon the aged canvas.

“Courtney.” Dr. Benson’s voice brought me back. “Some people come into our lives at a specific time and only for a little while...and they have a purpose-often unrecognized but powerful all the same...” her words trailed off.

Nodding absently, I glanced at my watch.

Time was up.

“I could free up another slot in the morning, if you’d like to come back tomorrow and talk.”

Although it was totally unrealistic and from past experience I knew better, I still held a glimmer of hope this one session would magically clear everything up and return me to an ordinary existence. But the proposal to meet within twenty-four hours rather than a week from now made me wonder if I was even more far gone than originally believed.

“Sure. That would be good,” I told her.

***

Once home, I summoned enough will to draft two outlines of sketch ideas with only a minimal amount of intrusive desire to quit altogether and organize perfectly tidy rooms.

Fully alert, I instead committed to going through the house one time after dinner when everyone was ready for bed. This technique often worked since it gave me the belief I’d be doing it soon, alleviating any compulsive need to perform the process immediately. Sometimes–if the day went exceptionally well–the delay helped me forget to carry out the ritual entirely.

With less than an hour before the kids arrived, I plopped in a living room chair, beat from both a lack of decent rest and my emotional appointment. Determined to consider Dr. Benson’s words and better prepare for tomorrow, I sought to reflect on my time with Philip rather than avoid it.

Breathing regularly with arms wrapped protectively around my torso, I moved onto meditation. Hoping I might become better aware of the thoughts, I struggled to pay mindful attention to any worries or fears passing through my head.

I didn’t push anything away. I simply noticed them.

Only this time, the more I wanted to leave them alone, the greater my anxiety rose. Staying in position, my wrists ached from the rigid hold on my elbows, and my upper body involuntarily rocked as if soothing a baby.

But still I didn’t stop. I knew if I failed to acknowledge these images, I’d never effectively detach myself from them.

And before too long, Philip came back to me, as I knew he would.

***

After we talked that night in the bar, we didn’t make contact for another month. But I did think of him.

His face, his voice–even his smell-invaded my thoughts at the weirdest times. Yet, oddly, when I
tried
to remember him, I couldn’t.

Whenever Marnie and I chatted on the phone or in person, I found myself hoping she’d mention his name. She never did. However, she and Carl were hot and heavy now, officially a couple. And assuming it a safe subject since I’d met him meant it was pretty much all she talked about. I eagerly obliged in an effort to remain in the loop about Philip.

One day I nonchalantly asked-out of pure aggravation and extreme curiosity–whether she ever saw him at the office.

“Sure. He’s there a few days a week. He pretty much comes and goes as he pleases. I mean he is the owner after all,” she joked.

“He’s the owner?” was my astonished reply.

“Yep. He owns it and six other outlets. I think that’s why he’s gone a lot. He visits branches on different days of the week. Of course, ours is the biggest so he comes in more,” she explained.

The conversation ended, and I didn’t pry further in case she became suspicious. But when I met her and Carl for a drink the next time, I secretly prayed he’d be there.

He wasn’t.