Books, magazines, newspapers, journals, calendars, and CD’s were stacked on tables and housed in shelves, treasures to excite any taste. Music played in the background, blending with the buzz of many conversations. I was grateful that the majority of shoppers preferred to browse in malls and large discount stores, leaving this space tranquil and crowd free.
No one would bother me here.
I ordered a large white mocha with whipped cream. When I reached into my purse for my wallet, my hand brushed against the magazine I’d taken from Dr. Mendez’s office—a reminder of what I still needed to do.
But where would I go armed with only a journal and a pen? It would be Easter soon. There would be vacationers on spring break, crowds of them. I thought fleetingly of calling a travel agency but discarded the idea. I didn’t need brochures of sightseeing tours and didn’t want misleading pictures.
After settling at a round table for two, I took the magazine from my purse. My heartbeat kicked up a notch, as though I were holding a tattered treasure map marked with Xs for buried treasures, lost mines, and buried secrets. I ran my fingers over its glossy cover before paging to the table of contents. Under “Features,” I found “The Complete Guide to Carmel Valley.”
I flipped to the article, “Carmel Valley, Pastures of Heaven” and, under “What to Do,” read about The Ventana Wilderness Ranch “with its trails meandering through oak-covered meadows and along fresh mountain streams.” I checked the names, descriptions, and phone numbers of available lodging and then patted the magazine and kissed its cover, my destination decided.
Hungry after yesterday’s fast, I returned to the coffee bar for a turkey sandwich, then sat back down and brought out my journal and pen—this time without prompting from the Voice.
I wrote: She haunts me, demanding, relentless . . .
“Marjorie?”
Distracted by my journal, I hadn’t heard Cliff’s approach. But I recognized his voice immediately. As did my heart, which lurched against the wall of my chest like a caged rabbit.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “I called your house yesterday and again this morning, and all I got was the damn answering machine. And what the hell’s the use of having a cell phone if you never turn it on?”
If I told him why I was averse to engaging my cell phone, namely to avoid calls from him and my mother (he was my ex, darn it!), it would hardly improve his mood. I motioned to the vacant chair at my table, wanting to scream for him to leave me alone. But I didn’t, knowing he wouldn’t—and likely never would—understand the changes going on inside of me.
Cliff slid his long legs under the table, nearly crowding out mine. “When I called your office, they said you’d taken three weeks off. What’s going on?”
“Why aren’t you at work, Cliff?”
“I took the afternoon off.”
“You never take time off.”
“It wasn’t necessary before.”
Pain inched into my chest as I thought of all the opportunities we had wasted, moments we could have shared. Work before pleasure had been our unspoken motto during our voyage to success.
Cliff jutted his chin and pouted his lower lip as though faking the royal Hapsburg jaw. “What are you doing here?”
He might as well have dosed me with pepper spray, considering how his question inflamed my insides and obstructed my airways and lungs. I put down my pen and fisted my hands on my lap, praying that this would be over soon.
“I’ve decided to give you the space you need,” he said with the benign tolerance of a judge granting me a tremendous favor.
“As you’re doing now?”
His gaze darted to mine in a quick contact and release. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s too late, Cliff.”
“Did I wait too long to commit to a wedding date?”
“Cliff!” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “How can you even think of commitment and marriage?”
People turned to stare. No wonder. I sounded like a bitch, blowing off my engagement to an outwardly perfect man. I lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. “Think about it. There was something terribly wrong with our relationship.”
Cliff stared at me as if I’d turned into a monster. Maybe, to him, I had.
“I’m going away for a while,” I said, not that I owed him an itinerary of my plans; but old habits die hard. “I have some personal discoveries to make.”
When his face turned from hard lines to droopy curves, I felt a familiar sadness but pressed on. “And you can’t change my mind.” Not this time. Not anymore.
His half smile registered disapproval so clearly that I knew, in spite of his promise, he would never have given me the space I needed. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “Why can’t you discover what you’re looking for right here where it’s safe and we can keep an eye on you?”
“We?”
“Your mother and I. Have you told her?”
I have an internal fuse switch easily thrown when provoked, and nothing does the trick like the questions “What are you doing here?” and “Have you told your mother?” My current reaction—likely linked to an instinct for self-preservation—was a full body shake. Why was he still talking to my mother? Did he—did she—actually think I would take him back?
“I’m not asking for permission, Cliff.”
I took a deep breath to calm myself. When that didn’t work, I waged a not-so-therapeutic rant. “Life is dangerous. Getting into my car and driving down the street is dangerous. I could get mugged going to the grocery store.”
Staying here with you is dangerous, dangerous to my sanity.
His eyes turned into hard beads and his lips thinned, but it would take more than facial threats to stop me now. “Don’t try to convince me that my plans are crazy, because that’s your opinion and I don’t agree.”
I had never talked to Cliff with such confidence and determination, and I noticed his surprise, but before he had a chance to recover, I added, “And don’t ask where I’m going either, because I won’t tell you. Or Mom. Somehow I get the feeling she’d send you after me.”
“At least your mother has some sense,” he said. “I wish you were more like her.”
And there was part of the problem. He wanted a duplicate of my mother, a woman who considered a life of self-denial and joylessness the pathway to heaven. Looking at his model-perfect face with a regret that felt like drowning, I said. “You’re a good man with a tremendous need to protect, and I’m sure there are women who crave that kind of protection. But not me.”
“I’ll change,” he said with a bit of a slur.
“You can’t.”
“For you, I would.”
The walls of his obsessive protectiveness closed in on me, making it hard to breathe. “For me, you’d try, and maybe it would work, for a week or a month, but then we’d wear each other down. We’d end up fighting for the rest of our lives.”
I paused to rally strength before leaning forward and gazing directly into Cliff’s eyes. “It’s over.”
He looked at me as a parent looks at a naughty child, with a combination of disappointment and an awful need to control.
Instead of cringing under his stare, as I used to, I smiled at him with all the warmth I could muster. “You deserve to be happy, Cliff.”
His eyes took on a silvery sheen as though melted by my unexpected kindness. A jolt coursed through me at the fuzzy realization that I’d been part of the problem, always retreating and turning a cold shoulder when he’d frowned at me rather than expressing my true feelings and standing up for myself. I’d gone into hiding, closing him out, and now, I didn’t have the energy to start over again. I didn’t love him enough for that.
“When you look at me, I sense censure and disappointment,” I said, “like you’re afraid that if you don’t watch me every minute, I’ll be gone.”
“I love you, damn it,” he said between clenched teeth.
Okay, maybe the silvery sheen of his eyes more closely resembled the color of duct tape, which brought to mind the jingle, “If it’s not stuck and it’s supposed to be, duct tape it.”
“Is that why you’re always criticizing me?” I said.
“I can’t believe this,” was his reply.
We sat in silence until I became aware of the soft music and murmur of conversations. I slid my magazine, journal, and pen into my purse.
“You’ll be sorry,” Cliff warned.
I stood and walked away.
🗲🗲🗲
“Mom, I went to a psychologist.”
“Marjorie?”
“I thought I was having a breakdown.”
“A breakdown! What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“Remember when I told you I was having headaches and my hands were shaking?”
“You probably just need a little rest. I’ll come over and fix some tea.”
“No, Mom, but thanks.” No amount of Celestial Seasonings would help me now. “The doctor suggested I go away for a while.”
She pulled in an oh-my-God breath. “Where?”
“Not far.”
“Alone?”
“The point is for me to be alone, Mom.”
“It isn’t safe for a young woman to travel alone. You could get raped. Someone could cut off your arms and your legs and—”
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Monday.”
“How can a doctor send you off by yourself? Did you check into his credentials? How do you know he’s not a quack?”
It was always like this with my mother and Cliff, my protectors—my jailers. Both insisted that I call each day to report my comings and goings—step-by-step, minute-by-minute. Well, I was free of Cliff, but Mother was in my life to stay. So, I’d have to hold firm—stick to the plan—or there would be no chance of growth. “Can you keep an eye on my house while I’m gone?” I asked, giving her something solid to hold onto at least.
“Of course. Will you call me every day?”
Her question served as a reminder to change my cell number lickety-split.
“I’ll call when I can.”
“I love you, Marjorie,” she said in the sad voice that usually succeeded in forcing my surrender under a white flag of guilt. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
But you aren’t going to change my mind. Not this time.
Tight with tension and a touch of fear, I gathered my writing tools, settled at my desk, and allowed my thoughts to drift back to Joshua.
Who are you? Why did you call me Sunwalker?
My pen took off like the planchette on a Ouija board.
Little Otter.
Homeless offering.
What the hell did that mean? Could it have something to do with Joshua?
I dropped my pen as if it had burned me.
I had to forget about that child!