She was almost dressed for the party when she heard the knock on her apartment door. She would have ignored it, but figured it was her neighbor who had also invited her to a party that evening.
“He must have forgotten something,” she mumbled to herself as she shuffled to the front door, attempting to zip up her dress at the same time.
“Hey, perfect timing! Can you zip me up?” she yelled lightly as she threw the door open.
“Sure, I can do that,” was the response — but not from her neighbor.
“Dennis, nothing is going to happen to you,” she said lightly but unconvincingly as she attempted to pull her hands free from his. “Really . . . I don’t think we need to have this conversation right now, do we?” She pursed her lips in a tight, disingenuous grin as she nodded slightly toward her son.
“Yes, I do,” he said sternly, both his grip upon her hands and expression resolved and firm. “I think this is the perfect time to have this conversation so that if, God forbid, something were to happen to me — or you — there would be no question about what action should be taken.”
It seemed as though they had been sitting in the car for hours. The weight of the topic, her son’s expectations, and her responsibilities bore down on her, making her feel as though she could not breathe and tempting her to simply open the car door and run as far and fast as she could in any direction so long as her feet carried her away from everyone and everything familiar to her.
Finally, she took a deep breath and turned to face her son’s insistent gaze.
She didn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted, drained. As she looked out over the dark lake, illuminated only by the moonlight, she realized that she now understood the expression “tired to the bone” because she was convinced that her body had never felt this devoid of energy.
It was, in a surprising way, exhilarating. She knew that Dr. Nolan would label the events of this day a “breakthrough.” She could imagine the doctor smiling broadly with delight when she reported that she had spent the afternoon by herself, crying. Dr. Nolan had repeatedly encouraged her to “let go” and “process” her emotions, abandoning her normal reserve in favor of “feeling,” in the most visceral sense. Many times, listening to Dr. Nolan’s advice, she had resisted the urge to roll her eyes impatiently and attempt to change the topic of conversation. Now, however, she understood just why the doctor had been insistent that this simple exercise would be beneficial.
As relieved as she felt, however, she still had to make a decision and, of course, write the letter. Dr. Nolan’s pleasure would be short-lived . . . she would press for an update on her writing progress.
“Coffee,” she thought to herself as she shivered in the cold, dark vehicle. “And I really should get out of here. I don’t know how safe this place is these days.” After all, the nights that she had spent walking along the lakeside with him were many years ago.
She resisted the urge to drive to her favorite coffee shop, afraid that not only would the staff be concerned when they saw her red, swollen eyes, but because she did not want to encounter anyone else who would recognize her.
Rather, she drove out of the parking lot to a part of town where she was not likely to see anyone who knew her — and another place she had not visited in many years: The same quiet little coffee shop that had been their destination on so many nights as they drove out of that parking lot together. They had spent hours and hours there, talking and laughing, sharing their dreams for the future.
“Might as well give myself the benefit of the whole experience,” she thought to herself sardonically, as she again forged the route she had scrupulously avoided traveling for so many years.
The ringing telephone startled her. She had been so deep in thought, remembering that night all those years ago when she first began writing about her life, that it took her a few moments to become acclimated. When she looked down at the blank notepad, she again felt the full weight of Dr. Nolan’s assignment.
“Take a message,” she muttered as she heard her own voice emanating from the answering machine in the next room. “I’m busy.”
She got up from the kitchen table and walked over to the sink where she poured her now-cold coffee down the drain.
“Maybe taking a walk will help,” she thought, striding toward the closet for her coat and an umbrella in case the weather report calling for late afternoon rain proved accurate.
As she got into her car and backed it out of the garage, with the notepad tucked into her bag, she knew where she was headed, but resisted consciously contemplating her destination until she arrived there. Turning up the radio, she drove dispassionately, yet purposefully. She knew this was a trip she had been destined to make, but had put off making, for many years.
I carry him with me everywhere, every day.
He has been with me all these years . . . ever-present, never present.
In my thoughts. In my dreams. In my daydreams. In my hopes, my goals, my triumphs, my failures, my achievements, my near-misses.
In my eyes, in the air that I breathe.
I carry his name on the tip of my tongue, but never dare speak it.
I carry him, the essence of him, the belief in him, the memories of him, the thoughts of him, the smell of him, the longing for him . . . I carry the burden of having let him go, having lost him.
I carry the hope of bumping into him unexpectedly, practicing what I will say, how I will smile. I carry myself with anticipation, walking nonchalantly yet resolutely and confidently . . . just in case.
I carry a heart full to overflowing with love . . . of him, for him, concealed for him, waiting for him . . .