I rubbed a weary hand across my eyes. I was so tired of it … the talking … the loneliness. The anger and hurt. “No, I am not happy. I’ll never be happy again.”
“Is that what you want?”
I lifted my head and looked at Dr. Nixon, a man in his mid-fifties (like that police officer) and married to the same woman for almost thirty-five years. This lucky man had two grown children and three grandkids. He would never understand how I felt. “What I want is quite irrelevant wouldn’t you say, Dr. Nixon?”
“Tell me something, Tess, do you feel this past year coming to therapy has helped you?” Dr. Nixon smiled gently, as if to soften the words he was about to say. “It seems we are in the same place today as we were the day you walked through my door. I feel a failure when it comes to you.”
“You can’t fix my life, Dr. Nixon. I pay to talk to you because I don’t want to burden my friends and family anymore. Besides, they never knew what to say and we all just ended up feeling awkward.” Suddenly restless, I stood and headed for the open sliding glass doors. Dr. Nixon allowed his clients to smoke out on the back patio. I made myself comfortable on one of the cushioned chairs scattered about and lit a cigarette, murmuring a silent apology to Mike as I took a deep satisfying drag. When we married, I quit smoking because Mike hated it. The day he left me for the great hereafter, I started again. I figured if he could leave me here alone, I could damned well smoke a cigarette.
“You are looking angry again.” Dr. Nixon followed me to the patio and sat in a chair across from me. He was very good about tolerating my nasty habit. He was a patient man. But then, he was paid to be patient.
“I’m angry all the goddamned time, Dr. Nixon. I’m pissed at the world and don’t believe I’ll get over it anytime soon.”
“I wonder, Tess, do your friends still maintain contact with you?”
His tone was somewhat droll, his expression mild and undisturbed but I knew he was annoyed with me. My open negativity was probably beginning to take its toll on our year long relationship. I scrunched my face in childish response. We were getting too comfortable with each other. He was more like an uncle to me these days instead of a paid therapist. I drew in another drag and blew out the smoke slowly, watching as the curling tendrils dissipated in the air. “Yes, actually. Everyone is still quite sympathetic.”
“And do you like that? Do you find comfort in their sympathy?”
“I find no comfort in anything.” Agitated once again, I stood and walked to the edge of the patio. Dr. Nixon’s office was high on a hill, built right on the edge of a cliff. My first thought when I started coming here was that he chose a stupid place to build an office, especially considering his profession, but I did enjoy the view. “Do you know I can’t stand barbeques anymore? I gave our grill to a friend. I’ll never touch another steak as long as I live and … I hate sour cream.” My eyes ached from the sting of unshed tears. It was truly a wonder there were any tears left to cry. I blinked the moisture away and swung around to glare at Dr. Nixon. “I shall never own another animal as long as I am forced to live on this God forsaken earth. I don’t even have a house plant.” I waited for him to challenge me on these revelations. He said nothing. Deflated, I sank into a chair and lit another cigarette. “What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life, Dr. Nixon?”
“Why don’t you go away someplace quiet and think about that question?” He leaned over and patted my hand, which was restlessly tapping the arm of my chair. “Take a vacation … a short trip somewhere. You need to get out of your house for a while.”
He didn’t understand that to leave the house meant leaving Mike. Every room contained a memory of him or Tootsie. “Do you know what bothers me still, Dr. Nixon?” I took a long, deep drag of my cigarette and closed my eyes as I savored the burning smoke in my lungs. It wasn’t a great feeling but it was something to focus on besides the hurt. When I couldn’t hold it in any longer, I blew the smoke out and then looked at the cherry tip of my cigarette as if it suddenly contained some sort of intriguing mystery. “I was on my period when Mike died.” I looked at Dr. Nixon and the tears were back, obscuring my view. I tried to blink them away but this time they spilled over and rolled down my face. I wiped at the annoying trickle with impatience. “Because of that … I can’t remember the last time we made love. I should have that memory don’t you think? The very last time I lay wrapped in Mike’s arms and was part of him … I should remember that.” I looked up at a sky peppered with wispy clouds, none of which could seem to form into anything substantial. The last time Mike made love to me, I should have savored it, committed it to memory. But I hadn’t known it would be our last time. Nothing warned me to pay special close attention to that moment. My hand balled into a fist. “It’s so goddamned unfair.”
“I wish you would stop swearing.”
I turned to look at Dr. Nixon, interested despite myself in such a request. “Why?”
“We’ve discussed this before.” His voice sounded controlled, as if he were exerting extreme effort to keep it that way. “Just because you don’t believe in God anymore, Tess doesn’t mean that I don’t. Besides, you always become more agitated when you start swearing.”
I laughed. It startled me for a moment because it took me by surprise. I had to analyze it, determine what it was I was feeling. Astonishingly, I felt amusement. For a moment I was distracted by this small moment of mirth. I hadn’t thought it possible to laugh again. Yet here I was, a mere two years later, and I was laughing because my therapist didn’t like me using the good Lord’s name in vain. “I believe in God too, Dr. Nixon. But I feel no love and no respect for such a thing.”
“Maybe you should be having this conversation with someone more suitable … like a minister or a priest.”
“I don’t go to church and I couldn’t care less what someone of the cloth (this last said with just a bit of sarcasm) has to say. They devote their lives to a God that has no regard for our feelings. Why should I listen to those people?”
“Tess, this isn’t you. Anger is controlling so much of your life. You’ll never be happy until you deal with it.”
I stood up because my agitation would not allow me to sit any longer and paced about the patio. If only I had an outlet for the emotions clambering within me. “I used to have a lot of faith, Dr. Nixon. I believed in angels, and I believed that God loved us no matter what. I believed that we shaped our own destinies and had influence over our own lives. There are numerous people out there,”– I flung my arms wide–“telling us that we create our own destinies. But Mike had no intention–” I balled my hands into tight fists and jabbed them angrily into the air, shaking them at God as if … as if it actually mattered that I did so. “Mike had no intention of getting himself killed when he left me to pick up a blasted container of sour cream.” I screamed the last few words and felt a tad bit of satisfaction with having done so. Dr. Nixon just stared at me with compassion. I hated that. My voice dropped to a low earnest pitch. “He wanted to stay here with me I tell you and so did Tootsie. She was a happy dog, so full of love.” I had to close my eyes then and push against the ache in my heart. If only the pain would go away, this endless aching emptiness. “I really believed that sweet little Tootsie was protected from harm because I had asked God to protect her.” I opened my eyes, blurred with tears, and tried to focus on Dr. Nixon. A wild urge to laugh at the silliness of my beliefs shook through me, coming out in an odd choking sound. “I actually believed that God would protect her. But she died. They both died.”
“Enough, Tess. You are all worked up and it’s not going to help your headache.”
I wanted to laugh again but it somehow got caught in my throat where it pierced painfully and ended in a cough of air. “You think I give a shit about my stupid headaches? Do you honestly think I give a shit about anything?”
“Tess.” Dr. Nixon wagged a finger at me and motioned to my chair. “Calm down. Sit down.” He pushed the cigarettes toward me. “Have another smoke
if that helps but stop with the yelling and the language.”
I stood stiff, unmoving, glaring at him for a long moment and wishing I could do something to get more emotion out of him than a reproving wag of his finger. Damned man. How could he be so calm all the time? Why was his life so perfect? Why? Why?
“Tess? What are you thinking?”
I grabbed the cigarettes and the lighter and walked over to the short wall that surrounded the patio and defiantly hoisted myself upon it, knowing Dr. Nixon hated when I did that. When his eyes narrowed with warning I waved a hand. “Don’t worry, Dr. Nixon, I’m not going to throw myself over the edge. I may not care much for my life right now but I don’t think ending it is the answer.” I figured Mike would be darned pissed at me if I did such a thing. I did not want our first meeting on the other side to be about his disappointment with me for killing myself. Somehow, I didn’t figure he’d give me heck over the pathetic way I was handling his death. Besides, if I really wanted to be truthful, I was pretty mad at him. Despite what I said to Dr. Nixon about Mike not wanting to die, I wondered about that … I wondered a lot. What if he had? What if Mike’s life ended that day because it was what he wanted? And if that is what he wanted, why? Wasn’t he happy with me? Didn’t he love me enough?
I closed my eyes and wished I could just fall into blessed sleep. Sleep for a hundred years like Sleeping Beauty. There was something really comforting about that thought. How lucky for her that she slept through her problems until they were over. She woke to love and happily ever after. Someday I would fall asleep and wake up on the other side. And I would demand Mike explain to me what the hell he was thinking to leave me like this!
I looked at Dr. Nixon and studied his expression closely as I admitted something I’d been keeping from him for quite some time. “I drive around at closing time along Willow Street just about every weekend.” His expression was as impassive as ever. Heaving a tired sigh, I rubbed at my eyes. Willow Street, which to my mind should be called Widow’s Street, contained a string of bars and liquor stores. It was a sleazy road full of drunks, hookers and drug dealers. The bars closed around two and I drove along that street in an open dare to the drunken assholes driving their cars carelessly home. I dared them to hit me. But, the useless pricks somehow managed to carefully pass me by. Must be they only run into innocent people. Good people like Mike.
“Why do you do that? The guy who killed your husband was also killed.”
“He should have lived. He got off easy.”
“You think death is getting off easy?”
“He should have been maimed or something. He should be living in misery.” Like me.
“Go on vacation, Tess. Go find yourself again.”
I slid off the wall and mashed the stub of my cigarette into the ashtray. “I’ll think about it, Dr. Nixon.” Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed to get away for a while. But Mike and Tootsie … they would be coming with me. Of that I was certain.
CHAPTER THREE
“I know the perfect place for you to go, Tess.” Marly made this announcement as she let herself in through the kitchen door. I was sitting at the dining table, which was located near the windows facing the back yard (one of which was open to the crisp spring air), smoking a cigarette and watching the birds flit about the feeders. Watching the birds gave me something to do while I smoked. It was a small comfort but an appreciated one.
“Where’s that?” But I wasn’t all that interested. Marly lived two houses down and had become almost a constant companion over the past couple of years. Her husband was a fireman, required to stay at the station a lot–he pulled a four-on, three-off shift–so Marly filled her time visiting me. She and her husband didn’t have any kids so her freedom to move about was quite liberal. That was to change in a couple months’ time. I got to know Marly back when I took Tootsie for walks. The route I took always had us passing her house. I often stopped to comment on her flowers if she happened to be outside because Marly had the best flower garden on the block. It wasn’t long before Marly was walking with us and when that awful day happened, Marly practically moved in with me. I often wonder how her husband puts up with it, the way she is constantly at my place instead of her own. But Mitchell was a good man, very understanding. I could only hope that his job didn’t do him in. It would be awful if Marly had to deal with such a tragic loss. I wouldn’t be able to go through that with her. I just couldn’t do it for someone else … not after Mike.
“There’s a small resort in Maine which is right on the coast and is believed to be haunted.” Marly held a magazine in her hand. When she set it on the table, it said Downeast across the front. “It’s a very tragic tale. Want to hear it?”
I took a sip of my coffee and gestured with my cup. “There’s more if you’d like some.”
“Can’t handle coffee right now. Do you have any juice?” Marly didn’t wait for my answer but went straight to the refrigerator. She found a jug of orange juice, poured a glass, then leaned against the counter and studied me for a long moment.
I shifted uncomfortably and reached for another cigarette. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m just waiting for you to show a little bit of interest in something I want to share.”
I gave a long suffering sigh. “Okay, Marly, tell me the tragic tale. I’m sure I’ll be duly impressed.”
Marly pushed her long blond hair back from her face. I watched, fascinated as its silky length immediately fell forward again. A lighter shade than mine her hair moved about her like a silken waterfall. My hair, on the other hand, was thicker and full of annoying waves. In summer it lightened up in streaks of varying shades but in the winter it was darker, similar to the color of old straw. Though mine was long like Marly’s, I kept it tied back in a ponytail, too disinterested to do anything more than that.
Marly walked back to the table, giving me a beaming smile as she did so. “I knew you’d be interested.” She sank her burgeoning form into the chair next to mine and ruefully rubbed her belly. “This babe is getting heavier and heavier.”
I turned away from her and looked out the window but not because I had no interest in her pregnancy. Marly understood. She always did. She reached across the table and patted my hand. Marly knew how much I regretted not having Mike’s baby. But it didn’t make me resent hers. No. Just sad for what I myself would never have.
“You okay?” Marly squeezed my hand trying as best she could to offer comfort.
I took a long drag of my cigarette and then gave it a look of disgust. I really wasn’t enjoying the whole smoking thing anymore. “Yup. Tell me about this place where I should go.” I stubbed out my cigarette because, though Marly didn’t complain, I didn’t want to smoke around her, especially with her being pregnant.
Marly opened the magazine to a marked page and tapped a picture of a huge castle-like house. “The resort’s name is Sea Willow Haven.”
Willow. The same name as the street that contained the bar where a gutless drunk loaded up on alcohol shortly before killing my husband and my dog.
“It used to be a huge private mansion owned by an eccentric millionaire from Massachusetts. He sold it when his daughter flung herself from the roof.” Marly paused to gauge my reaction to this bit of information. I just waited for her to continue so she gave a small dramatic sigh and went on with her story. “The daughter was in love with a local boy … a poor local boy … and her rich daddy did not approve. She was going to run away with him but the night it was to happen, he was killed when his boat smashed into the rocks next to her home. The poor girl was so heartbroken she killed herself only a few days later.” Marly made a face at the senselessness of such an act. “The house changed owners a couple of times. The last owners had turned it into a bed and breakfast but they had to sell the place when they couldn’t get anyone to stay there after spooky things started scaring away paying guests. Now it’s a resort." Again Marly paused. Again she tapped the picture. “That’s the house. Rather go
thic and dramatic wouldn’t you say?”
I looked at the photo and the first thing that came to mind was that it resembled a miniature medieval castle. The large rambling three-story stone structure with its gabled roofing loomed tall against a seascape backdrop. No doubt the conical rooftops of the two turrets located at each end of the house facing the ocean helped with the castle-like appearance. The turrets opened to small roof walks and were edged with decorative parapets. The steep slope of the roof covering the largest portion of the house divided the two walks. Tall arched windows were prevalent throughout though more so on the ground floor and three dormer windows jutted from the second floor facing the front. Several small balconies supported by elaborate corbels were placed randomly on the second floor. It did indeed look like a miniature castle. The somewhat grim exterior of the gray stone was softened by wrought-iron flower boxes filled with red germaniums and randomly placed in some of the windows. Beautifully cultivated gardens surrounded the house’s perimeter. Of course, the scenic ocean in the background lent the most to its dramatic flair. Sea spray showered into a sporadic cascade as waves crashed against the rocky coastline behind the house. Large Willow trees lent a somewhat enchanting fairytale air to the house’s overall appearance. It was probably how the resort got its name. “What kind of resort is it?”
“Apparently there’s quite a bit of land around the house and the owners cultivated it into a nice little retreat. You can go sailing or play tennis and there is an indoor heated pool, a sauna, and a full-service spa. Although you can rent a room right in the house, they also offer cottages. One of them used to be an old carriage house and a couple of the other cottages used to be visitors quarters. The resort is more a retreat for those looking for some peace and quiet rather than a family resort for the fun at heart.” She sounded like a talking ad which meant she’d probably practiced her persuasive argument before coming over. Marly gently squeezed my hand. “It’s just right for you. Complete with ghosts.” Warming to her subject, Marly continued with renewed enthusiasm. “Apparently, people have heard the sounds of a woman crying and some have heard calls from a man down on the shoreline. Things are said to move about and people have felt cold drafts. The owners think it is the sad spirits of the millionaire’s daughter and her poor lover still searching for each other … forever lost.” Marly touched a hand to her chest, which, much to her delight was swelling quite nicely along with her belly. “Isn’t it romantic in a sad sort of way?”
Be Still, My Love Page 2