When Christine arrived, I felt like she had come to pick me up out of the snow like the first time we met. A little over an hour ago I was in oblivion and now I was being seen by my favorite person as I crawled through the emotional nadir of my lifetime.
Word by honest word, it all began to tumble out from me to her. Selfishly, uncontrollably, I dominated the conversation with my story. I told Christine everything, how I almost hit the woman on the bicycle on Madeira Beach, how I realized that I was an alcoholic. I told her of beginning my journey through AA, my new running regiment in the mornings. I told her about Toby and the live oak—almost all of it coming as genuine tears streamed down my face. Finally, after over thirty minutes of abject sadness, I told her about my new psychologist and how I chose him out of the phone book. When I told her his name, she giggled outright.
“Really,” she said. “What are the odds of that name popping up?”
“A million to one,” I said, smiling for the first time since my morning run.
I shared with her the reasons why I had chosen a psychologist and she easily understood my terrifying devil dreams, but was baffled by my preoccupation with the Two-Knock Ghost. I explained how I had completely broke down and destroyed everything I’d worked so hard to build up the past three weeks when I heard about Toby’s death.
Throughout every minute of my story telling she held both of my hands in between hers. The tenderness that I felt coming from her was overwhelming and though I had begun the stories feeling like pond scum, I felt remarkable joy being in the presence of and being affectionately hand held by my wife.
Then she said something that uplifted me more than I could have ever anticipated would happen this night of incredible sorrows.
“Robert, you haven’t destroyed everything you’ve worked for these past three weeks. You’ve stumbled, that’s all. Many people who struggle with alcohol stumble in recovery. It isn’t the end of the world for you honey. It’s part of the process unfortunately. But after everything that you’ve told me, I can easily and completely understand why you faltered. You’re a sensitive man and you felt unbearable grief and guilt. Those two emotions are often untenable in the confines of the human heart when felt to the depth you felt them. And, Robert, you need to know how proud I am of what you have accomplished recently. There is no reason why you can’t pick up tomorrow where you began today.”
The support she had given me was the greatest gift a man in my position could have hoped for. It was time for me to try to return the favor.
“Christine, I did something for you about a week ago that I haven’t done in a long time. In fact, it was the primary reason why I wanted to see you tomorrow night.”
She looked deep into my eyes without removing her hands from mine. It was the kind of look that reaffirmed not only were we connected, but that we would be true friends and mates till time ran out on this plane.
“What is it, Turf?”
She saw the old me in that last gaze between us. She saw something of both the beginnings and the high points of our thirty-five years of love. She was convinced that something special was coming.
“I wrote you a song, Christine.”
Her eyes began to water.
“I’m sorry that it’s been so long since the last one,” I said humbly. “But I promise it will never be that long again.”
“Don’t apologize, Turf, just play it for me please.”
I had given Christine a myriad of types of gifts throughout the decades—clothes, china, perfumes, jewelry, art. But nothing pleased her more than when I wrote her a song. She would transition from whatever mood she was in to a warm, almost feline creature who was about to receive a surprise from the great beyond. Tonight would be no different. I could already feel the actual warmth of her caring through her hands, but when I told her I had written a song for her, a burst of glee shot spontaneously from her eyes. Across from me was the twenty-year-old absolute romantic and idealist, and the fifty-five-year-old romantic and idealist whose eyes had not glistened like this in nearly three long years. Her temperature had actually spiked when I told her about the song. I could feel it through her hands as soon as I told her. As I looked into her expectant and joyful eyes, I made up my mind that my number one priority for the rest of my lifetime would be winning the deepening love of this woman.
I walked away from her tender hands to the piano bench, sat down and began to play. Though I focused on the keys and the passion required to interpret the music correctly, I couldn’t help but to raise my head from the piano keys and look upon my wife. Her eyes were glistening like the facets of sapphires in close proximity to diamonds. The moisture in them created more facets and I almost became lost in them while forgetting the music. Though her beauty was driving my distraction, my focus shifted back to my playing, as I summoned a reserve of passion for the song’s conclusion. After two minutes and forty-three seconds of actual playing time, my song for Christine was concluded. For a moment we were silent.
“Did you name it?” she asked.
“That’s your job, Christine.”
Over the past thirty-three years, for some unknown reason, I had never named the songs I wrote for her. I guess it probably started with that first one when I was so excited to play it for her, but I hadn’t titled it yet. I played it for her and she asked her usual, something like, “What’dya name it?” And when I told her I hadn’t, she popped out with, “Can I name it?” I said, “Sure.” And a couple of days later she came to me like a happy little kid and said, “Blue River.” And I said, “I like it!” That’s how her naming songs began.
“Will you do me a favor, Turf, and play it again?”
There was that old nickname.
Wordlessly, I turned back toward the piano and played her song again, bringing more passion through my fingertips for the second rendition. This time when I finished, my tiny wife surprised me again. She got up from the couch, walked to the dining room table, grabbed a chair, carried it over my laminate floor and placed it directly behind me and the piano bench.
“Would you play some of the other songs you wrote for me till you get tired?”
“I haven’t practiced them in a long time,” I said shyly.
“You’ll be okay. They don’t have to be perfect.”
When I turned back around to play, Christine scooted her chair so that it butted right up to and touched the piano bench. Then she put her head on my back and wrapped her arms around my recently less paunchy belly. For a man who was feeling as miserable as I was earlier in the day, I was feeling warm and fuzzy in this moment, which I never wanted to end. But it did, forty-five minutes and eight or nine songs later when I felt Christine almost slide off my back and onto the floor as she drifted into sleep.
Slowly and carefully I pushed my back against her body, making certain my wife was sitting safely against the back of her chair. Then I turned around, stretched a bit, reached down, picked up my 102-pound bride, carried her into my bedroom and placed her gently on my bed. Christine probably was never aware of the experience, but I was, as my heart soared when I felt her warm breath near my nose and lips. I wanted to kiss her, but I did not because this was not a moment for our lips to meet. It was a moment for me to carry her to the bedroom like a father carries a sleeping child from the car to the bed after a visit to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. As I carried my wife, I remembered the last time I had done so. It was 1971 and we were on vacation in South Haven, Michigan. We had both had a day of adventuring in several towns including Saugatoulk and Holland. By the time we got back to our cabin—the Chalet Afterglow—located on a high bluff near the lake, Christine would not wake up to my urgings. So I carried her inside.
Thirty-three years ago already. Where had our lives gone so quickly? I looked upon the sleeping woman lying on top of my sheets. After I brushed my teeth, I spoke silently within myself to the devil. “You’re wrong about us,�
� I said confidently. “Christine’s and my relationship will never go up in flames because you won’t destroy me, no matter how hard you try. You see, I realize I’m a damaged man now. But I know I can repair myself. Nice try with burning the live oak in my dream. That bothered me immensely, but I know that the next time I go to see it. It will still be there, thriving. You don’t have the power to destroy even a tree in real life, much less a man or a relationship like ours. That’s why you torment people in their dreams, because that’s all you’ve got. And tonight when I go to sleep, I’ve got the sweetest, kindest, most caring woman God ever created, lying beside me. What have you got? Nothing but demons surround you. I’ve never heard of Mrs. Devil.”
I chuckled as I concluded this complex day with what I thought was some pretty good mocking of Satan.
CHAPTER 17
WHEN I AWOKE the next morning at 6:45 without the aid of my alarm clock, which I had forgotten to set, Christine was already gone. Not knowing her current schedule, I could only assume that she had to be at work early and was aided in waking by her ever vigilant body clock. On the bed where she had slept for the first time was a note on eight and a half inch by eleven inch lined paper that said, “Dear Husband: Thank you for sharing so much so honestly last night. I am proud of you for all that you have accomplished in the past few weeks and I’m certain that your setback yesterday will not deter you from any of your goals. For too many reasons to mention right now, the new song you played for me last night is my favorite ever. I’m calling it ‘The Haunting.’ Call me later this evening and we can talk about it. I love you, Robert. C.”
There she was again. The old Christine who was 100 percent supportive of me, appreciative of my depth, honesty, and creativity, upon which she placed high value. She could not have known this, but her note to me had also mocked the devil.
Even though Christine’s loving nature had energized me, I still felt the drag of yesterday’s sorrows. Though I had remained in my running clothes from yesterday morning, it was not easy to pull my hung-over body out of the condo for a morning jog. But I did it, realizing that this was the first day again, of the rest of my life and I was determined to live it based on my improved standards.
During my jog my head ached behind my eyes and up toward my temple, but I overcame it with thoughts of Mary Bauer and our early afternoon meeting. Yesterday, when I called Amanda and told her I wouldn’t be coming into work, I had currently been thinking that there would be no way I would be able to face Mary with the mountain of crap I had rotting my brain. I was already planning to call the office before Amanda got there Friday and tell her that I’d be coming back Monday. When I called Amanda yesterday I was envisioning a complete downward spiral. I knew I would be shattered because I was returning to drinking. On top of that I would have to face Christine and break our date. That would have crushed me. I’d feel badly that I let a few clients who depended on me down. It would simply be one larger negative on top of another and I would be beneath all of them with my trusty rum and Coke trying to drown my sorrows.
Christine’s tenderness and compassion changed not only my working plans for the day, but the level of determination I would have as I faced my future. One night of being in the presence of Christine’s love and encouragement had reminded me of my primary reason for striving to be a better and sober man.
After calling at exactly 8:00 and telling Amanda I would be in soon, I felt a renewed vigor to meet the day. I drank two eight ounce glasses of apple juice with several ice cubes in each glass and made a tasty cheese and toast sandwich.
“Are you feeling better, Dr. McKenzie?” Amanda asked me as I bounded into the waiting room with unusual enthusiasm.
“I am, thank you very much.”
“Hot chocolate this morning?”
“Yes please.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
Normalcy recovered.
Mary was my first patient after lunch. I had not done my usual note writing the night before so I had nothing planned to say to Mary. It was one of the most important sessions with a client that I had ever looked forward to, and I was unprepared. For an instant, that scared me. But only until it came to me almost immediately, that speaking to her logically and from the heart would be sufficient.
When Mary came into my office, I felt markedly sorry for her. She had been through an ordeal that had forcibly dashed her emotions into a lingering hell. She was a petite woman of courage and conviction who, through no choice of her own, was being tested by life in a complex way. I knew that she was constantly asking herself, “How do I overcome what happened to me and be the best wife and teacher I can be, when I fear each day that he may find me and do worse to me?” Today I would alter one aspect of her hypothetical question.
For some reason I will never understand, it was a soft entry into our conversation that day. We were both very quiet, almost somber.
“How are you today, Mary?” I asked, to begin.
“Physically, pretty well, Dr. McKenzie, but mentally about the same, less than adequate.”
“I have something to tell you that might brighten your spirits a bit.”
“What’s that, Doctor?”
“Have you been watching the news the past thirty hours or so?”
“Yes, a little, the usual.”
“The bad guy that was killed in St. Pete, Reubin Tatum, was the man who assaulted you in the convenience store. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”
“He’s gone? You’re sure it was him?”
“I’m positive. I have a friend in the Police Department.” It was a white lie. I had a friend in the PD.
“I saw when the detectives who knew Mills and Barclay were so mad that they grabbed the case files and rounded up the other two gang members.”
I hadn’t really heard that. “That means that any of your fears of ever being hurt by any of these guys again can be put to rest.”
“What if they get out in a few years?” She was still frightened.
“I read in the St. Pete Times a few weeks ago that the St. Pete Police believe without a doubt that the gang was responsible for the shooting death of the Indian store clerk at the Shell Gas Station at 18 and 34 South. In Florida, when you participate in a felony which results in a death, it’s the same as if you pulled the trigger. The sentence is always life without the possibility of parole.”
She shook her head lightly twice in a yes movement as she squinted her eyes and looked outside the window to the water. She was still squinting and in deep thought when she forced herself to speak with her softest voice of any of our sessions together.
“Do you really think this is the end of it, Dr. McKenzie?”
“Without a doubt,” I said strongly but fused with tenderness.
She was looking at the water as if gaining strength from its sight. When she turned back to make eye contact with me, a single tear slid down the left side of her face.
“Thank you for telling me that doctor.” Her volume remained on soft.
“How do you feel knowing those guys can never hurt you again?”
“It makes me feel.” She paused and looked out toward the water again. She was in deep thought. Then she finished her sentence with a single word, different. And that was it. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say that she felt safe again. I was disappointed. I had expected something from her. I expected smiles, at least one. I expected joy. I expected sighs and words expressing relief. But I didn’t get any of it. Again in my life experiences, I was reminded that one can never fully know how someone will react to what you tell them, especially when you expect to ease someone’s embedded pain with a few words, no matter how powerful you think those words will be.
I realized immediately that I had much more work to do with Mary. I was certain that someday she would be happy again; it just might not be on this particular Friday afternoon. I got over my disappointment in
a flash and went right back to work.
“Is there anything else that you would like to talk with me about today?” I asked.
Now she perked up a bit.
“My husband and I have been talking about going on a cruise for the past few days.” She smiled guardedly.
“You have!” I said delightedly. “Where to?”
“The Bahamas.”
“How long?”
“Seven days, not long.”
“How did it come about?” I asked, pleased to be talking about such a potentially happy adventure.
“He asked me.”
“Wow, how nice.”
“It was nice. He totally surprised me.”
She had turned her volume up and I could tell that any moment she would ask me what I thought about it.
“What do you feel about a trip like that?” I asked, keeping positivity in my voice.
“Up until today I didn’t feel good about it. I felt like I would be running away, almost as if I was being forced by those robbers to leave my home, just to have some peace of mind. But then in seven short days I would have to return to my home, but those guys would still be here. I never told you in this way before, Dr. McKenzie, but I love St. Petersburg. It’s a beautiful little city and those guys robbed it from me. Home is supposed to be where you feel safe. They stole my home from me.”
“But things have changed today, right?”
“They have, and that’s why I feel so different on so many planes. When you first told me about Reubin Tatum and his thug buddies, I almost could not compute the reality of it. Fear had wrapped itself around so many aspects of my life so tightly, that when you told me the story, the fear didn’t unwrap instantly. It still hasn’t. But I’m beginning to feel better because of the logic of it. Those guys are gone and its illogical to fear that they could ever hurt me again. But what I am feeling is that fear inside me has taken on a life of its own. Its separate from the robbers and it wants to keep me bound up within it. Do you understand what I’m saying, Dr. McKenzie?”
The Two-Knock Ghost Page 21