Monday morning. The sun sliced through the small window in my office. Its slanted rays providing a delicious bit of warmth. I rolled up my sleeves, ready to get back to work. My mind wandered to Alex’s eyes and the memory of his arms around me, even if it was just to pick me up off the ground. Twice.
Hobbling on crutches to see my first patient was not a good idea. My armpits were sore from the unaccustomed pressure of Matt’s old crutches. I was about to call for the patient when the phone rang.
“Hi, Grace, it’s me. Alex. Alex Sawyer. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” I tried not to laugh. “My ankle is still throbbing, but I’m getting around okay. How about you?”
“I was calling to see if you … if we … if you’re still up for coffee next weekend?”
Was this a date? “Sure. Saturday? The Canadian Honker? Ten o’clock?”
* * *
Five days later, I paced nervously in the small entry of the coffee shop. Hot air whistled through the ancient radiators. Canada geese covered the wallpaper. Even the coat hooks were goose heads carved from wood.
A bell jangled each time the glass-paned door opened and a blast of frigid air blew in. There was still a dull ache in my ankle but I had left the crutches home, determined not to hobble. I checked my watch more often than necessary and my skin prickled with the embarrassment of my adolescent behavior. My reflection in the plate glass window of the entry showed a woman with rows of freckles on the wintry pallor of her face despite the foundation I had smoothed over my skin. It occurred to me I might leave and make up an excuse for not being able to come. As I read the posted specials for the third time, I heard his voice. So cliché that old expression, music to my ears, but there really was no other way to describe it.
It was evident he had walked there. His cheeks and nose were red and he was bundled in a North Face parka, knitted hat, boots, and, what seemed to me, an air of anticipation. I wiped my sweating palms on my pants and extended a hand.
He took off his hat and said, “I’m glad you could make it.” Static electricity caused his hair to stand on end and reassured me that maybe he wasn’t perfect after all.
“Me too. It looks like snow, doesn’t it?” Why had I thought this would be a good idea?
We found a table near the fire. The dining room was cozy and warm, decorated with a Minnesota cabin motif. A smooth stone fireplace, maroon-and-forest green-patterned furniture, and a scattering of “Up North” moose décor added to the backwoods feel. No one seemed to be in a rush to do anything but enjoy the morning. Alex removed his coat and we sat down to face one another over the green-checked tablecloth. Our knees touched and we quickly apologized. I fought the impulse to bite my lip. “How’s work going?” I asked.
“Good. How are things at the prison?”
“Good.” I cast a glance around the room and busied myself with stirring my coffee. Each awkward question fell like clanging silverware to the floor.
“Sorry, Grace whenever I think of that place I think of Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I really can’t picture you there,” he said.
He was funny. “It’s not as bad as all that. We try to weed out the malingerers. The closest we have to Nurse Ratched is probably Bud Anderson, a corrections officer. Everyone else is pretty harmless. Really professional and caring, actually. But I suppose transference issues must develop there as anywhere. I don’t know why it surprised me when I began working there.”
“Whoa! Malingering? Transference issues? Sorry, Grace, I don’t speak your language!”
“Oops! Sorry … Malingerers are, you know, those people who fake symptoms to stay in treatment or in the hospital. They’re getting some kind of gain by pretending to be sick. And transference is, uh, when you’re in a therapist/client relationship and during the course of therapy … Alex, am I boring you?”
“No! Not at all. What’s the matter with this guy Anderson?” Alex leaned forward.
“I don’t know. There’s just something about him. He’s a loose cannon. I may be imagining things but I could swear he’s leering at me in a way that makes me really uncomfortable.” I was boring him and on our first date too, and now I was telling him about Anderson. I had really lost the art of conversation.
Alex cut into his blueberry muffin. “I’d think it’d take a lot to make your skin crawl. I imagine you’ve seen and heard everything there. Why don’t you report him?”
I dropped my spoon on the floor and bent over to pick it up. “For what? Leering at the new psychiatrist? Come on, it’s a beautiful Saturday morning. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
The coffee shop was full that wintry Saturday morning. A line of people wound into the entry. Mayo Clinic visitors stopped in for mid-morning coffee and pie. A couple of lavender-haired elderly women sat at a corner table, and I wondered if they retreated to the loneliness of their solitary lives afterwards.
The tension soon drifted away, and we began to relax in the smell of wet wool and freshly baked muffins. There was just something so Norman Rockwell-wholesome about the place. Maybe it was the homey gingham-covered tables and the smells of good food cooking. From the corner, a whiff of Bengay almost overpowered the smells of bacon sizzling and coffee brewing. It smelled like Sunday mornings at home. Matt had been a weekend warrior sort-of-athlete and the smell of Bengay always reminded me of a muscle pull or strain.
An hour later, with two empty mugs in front of us and no desire for another refill, it was time to go. I pulled on my coat and Alex asked, “Do you feel well enough to take a short walk at Silver Lake?” making no move to put his jacket on.
I didn’t want the morning to end with me boring Alex with my psychiatric jargon. I had worn my rubber-soled boots. Hopefully I could stay upright. Between the cold air and the touch of his hand on my back, I felt as electric as Alex’s flyaway hair. Silly as it sounded, each touch caused a moth-like fluttering in my chest. We walked along tamped down paths, a smooth blanket of cold air enveloping us and snow swirling around our legs like leaves in autumn. We were surprisingly comfortable in our silence.
Alex must have noticed my ankle was starting to ache because he stopped and said, “Why don’t we stop so you can rest your ankle?” supporting me with his arm. “Here’s a bench. It looks like you’re still limping.”
His arm around my shoulder felt as odd as slipping on a new pair of shoes. Not uncomfortable, but strange. We turned to read the inscription engraved into the bench. Donated to the memory of “Tootsie” Abrahamson. I wondered what kind of woman was named “Tootsie.” “I knew someone with a dog named Tootsie once, and I don’t have fond associations with the name! She was a mean, snippy little dog,” Alex said, and I laughed.
We watched tow-headed children in bright parkas make snow angels and the chronic knot in my shoulder melted. The park looked like a sugary frost. Their exuberance reminded me of Caleigh and Dane at that age. For a few moments, I enjoyed an exhilarating sense of freedom from the cares and responsibilities which normally spun around my days. The sun was piercingly bright and an unaccustomed joyfulness jostled for a place inside me.
Morning wore on to noon, and as I shifted in the cold, Alex turned, tilted my chin and kissed me. His lips barely grazed mine but the tenderness brought a stab of pain. I was breathing hard, barely able to let him go before I pulled away.
“Can I see you again sometime?” he asked, his voice reverberating with emotion.
I was dumbfounded at what had just happened. “What?” I asked, startled by the question. “Alex, I’d better go. The kids are home, and I promised my son I’d watch a movie with him. I really don’t like to leave the kids home alone,” I babbled. Poised somewhere between still feeling married and being free, I found it hard to take the leap. A shadow passed over his face and I wondered what it meant.
Later that afternoon, I sat on the sofa in the drafty living room and stared vacantly at the TV. I tried to feign interest in the video I had promised to watch with Dane.
“Mom! You’re not watching!” I had missed the last fifteen minutes of the movie. “Can we watch the movie about Daddy?” he asked, plaintively.
“Not again, Dane! We’ve seen it like a hundred times. What’s up with you, Mom?” Caleigh glanced up from texting. “You look weird. Where were you all morning anyway?”
The DVD I had made of our lives with Matt shortly after Matt’s death was Dane’s favorite. Caleigh was right—we had watched it countless times. Now the mention of it burned my cheeks with shame as I replayed the kiss in my mind and waves of longing coursed through my body. “I met a friend for coffee. Who wants popcorn?”
The buttered popcorn sat between us on the sofa. Dane dug in with both hands while Caleigh delicately picked out one kernel at a time.