Kitty had never kept a diary, even when she was a girl. Now that her son, Roy, was almost twelve, had a job and was in school most of the day, she had more time to herself. She was unmarried, for a change, and by choice or circumstance, she was not certain which, did not have a steady boyfriend. Her eczema was in a particularly virulent stage so she did not feel like socializing. Not only that, but her body ached constantly, something she had not experienced previously. Kitty was thirty-four years old and did not understand why she should be suffering this way. Other than prescribing ointments to treat the sores on her skin, the doctors Kitty consulted told her they were unable to identify more serious physical maladies, their consensus being that her problems were psychosomatic. Symptoms of an emotional disorder, a dermatologist said.
Kitty decided to keep a daily record of her condition, to write down in detail how she felt. Her ailments, Kitty was convinced, were in no ways imaginary. The pain was real and she needed to tell someone about it, even if the only person who believed her was herself. She bought a leatherbound diary and a good pen at a stationery store, walked to Indian Boundary Park and sat down on an unoccupied bench. It was a pleasant late spring day, one-thirty in the afternoon. Kitty opened the diary to the first page and wrote, “Why am I in so much pain?”
“Pardon me, ma’am. Are you all right?”
Kitty opened her eyes and saw a woman about her own age, perhaps a few years younger, standing in front of her. Holding the woman’s right hand was a little boy who looked to be three or four years old.
“My goodness,” said Kitty, sitting up straight, “I must have fallen asleep.”
“Are these yours?” asked the woman, holding out to her both the diary and the pen with her free hand. “They were on the ground. You must have dropped them.”
“Oh, thank you,” Kitty said, and took them.
Kitty stood up but she was unsteady. The woman took hold of Kitty’s right elbow and held it until Kitty could stand without wobbling.
“I’m so sorry to trouble you. I’d better go home and lie down. What a beautiful little boy. I have one myself. His name is Roy, he’s older now.”
“Do you live around here? We’d be happy to walk there with you.”
“No, no, I’m all right now, I can navigate. My house is only a block away.”
“My name is Marsha, and this is Steven.”
“I’m Katherine. Kitty.”
“I hope we meet again, Kitty, when you’re feeling better.”
“I do, too. Thanks again. And thank you, too, Steven.”
Marsha and her son walked away. Steven turned to look back and waved. Kitty waved and smiled at him. She put the diary and pen into her purse, straightened her dress and pushed hair away from her eyes. Kitty took a few steps, then stopped and stood perfectly still. She felt a soft breeze. There was no pain.
Many years later, after his mother’s death, Roy found Kitty’s diary in one of her dresser drawers. He read the sentence on the first page, then leafed through the book. She had never written anything else.
