I stood at the top of the steps leading to my bedroom and fingered the journal I’d bought. Over the past two weeks I’d met with Dr. Alexander another four times. He had assigned this “homework,” as he called it—journaling—at the first of those four meetings. Dr. Alexander was big on gradual sensory flooding—something I’d never heard of before. It was, essentially, baby steps toward “robust mental health.”
Baby step number one was for me to purchase a journal. “Nothing fancy, just bound paper with lines.” The book I held wasn’t just any journal, though. I wouldn’t be jotting down my girlish daydreams beginning with Dear Diary in swirly script. I wouldn’t be dotting my i’s with little hearts and finishing my sentences with tiny daisies instead of periods. I browsed the racks of journals at the bookstore, wondering what sort of cover would be appropriate for a journal that was to detail the ebb and flow of my fear. Especially my fear to reenter my bedroom. It had been over two months since Kevin died, and I was still sleeping in the living room.
Dr. Alexander instructed me to stand at the top of the stairs, journal in hand, and look at my bedroom door. I was to write the date and time of this exercise in my journal, and document how many steps I was able to climb. Beside that number I was instructed to rate my fear on a scale of zero to ten. Zero meaning I was bounding into the room, whistling “Mack the Knife,” not a care in the world, and ten meaning I was crawling away on all fours, weeping and hyperventilating into a paper bag. I was to bring my journal to our sessions so we could discuss my progress.
So far I’d gotten as far as buying the journal. That was my progress.
I had decided on a compact notebook with a two-tone hardcover in brown and black. The pages were unlined and completely void of my thoughts, experiences, or processes. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand Dr. Alexander’s intentions. It would be an important step to sleep in my own bed again. But something inside of me, some niggling ghost, vaporous and intangible, told me that where I was sleeping wasn’t the biggest deal in my world. Important, sure, but not my top priority.
Dr. Alexander said I wasn’t sleeping in my own bed (I wasn’t even setting foot on the second level of my home, except for the occasional and desperate shower) because of some “innate fear.” He wanted me to pinpoint the cause of my fear and then overcome it, in order to begin to reclaim a normal life. What I couldn’t explain to him was that it wasn’t fear that kept me from climbing the stairs. I didn’t have heart-pounding panic attacks each time I walked by the stairs or used the shower. I just couldn’t go into my bedroom. My feet wouldn’t take me there. I just stood as if someone had nailed my feet to the floor.
I fingered the journal’s sturdy cover, looking at the partially opened bedroom door. I opened it to the first page.
“You’re a reader, not a writer,” Kevin said.
My body went rigid. My joints straightened, and my head began to ache.
“This isn’t real.” But my voice was a murmur, an undertone below the roaring in my ears.
I was afraid now. Okay, give the fear a number, just as Dr. Alexander had explained. Ten? One hundred?
His voice undulated, swirling in through my ears and rising like fog in my mind. “Go upstairs. You know you’re mine.”
I closed my eyes in a hysteria of fear and need. I could almost feel him; his presence pulsed just beyond the walls of my home, just beyond my fingertips.
“Stop. Please, stop.” I chanted reality in my head, praying it would push the voice aside. This isn’t happening. You’re not real.
His voice, like a caress, blew across my face. “Kate. My wife.”
Warm tears flowed. He was as real as he’d ever been in life. Real enough to send me to the psych ward, to make Dr. Alexander’s mouth pucker with concern, to make my body ache. I gazed into the bedroom. “There’s nothing for me in there anymore.”
“Mine.” He said the word tenderly, my lover returned from a long sojourn. Instantly my mind filled with memories of Kevin and me together. His warmth, his touch, the abandon he brought me.
I clutched the wall, fearful I’d fall backward down the stairs. I sank to the floor. A sob wrenched free, pulling my breath out with it as fresh grief rushed in to fill the void. Fear and grief tossed me between them. Fear for my sanity, yes, but mostly fear that his voice would turn menacing again. But grief, too, longing for my husband. For his solid touch, his fresh scent, his dependable presence. I pressed my palms against my temples. “I don’t want to remember anymore.”
I could hear his disapproval, like the shaking of a head. “You’ve already forgotten too much.”
Kevin’s voice is a stern whisper. He’s calling from work and I can tell he doesn’t want to be overheard. “You forgot?” he says, for the fourth time.
I open the fridge, close it, open a cupboard door, peer in, close it. “I’m sorry. I had to go in to work today. Percy was sick. He ate bad fish. It just slipped my mind.”
“My boss is coming to dinner for the first time and it slips your mind. What am I supposed to do, Kate? She just came in here and said she’ll be ready to go in half an hour.”
“Can’t we just go out?” Back in the fridge I find a bowl of fuzzy scalloped potatoes. I try to recall the last time we had scalloped potatoes. I don’t think I even know how to make scalloped potatoes. Kevin’s loud breathing interrupts my thoughts. “Donna wants to see our house and I told her you were a wonderful cook. She’s expecting a home-cooked meal.”
“Kevin,” I say in a reasonable tone, as I throw an empty box of stone-wheat crackers into the recycle bin by the back door. “This isn’t The Dick VanDyke Show. You won’t lose your job because your wife forgot to make a pot roast.”
For a moment he is silent, then: “You think this is funny?”
I shake my head at the phone. I did think it was funny. But there was no sense trying to get him to see the humor. Clearly this was important to him. “No. Sorry. It’s just that there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
“We’re eating at home tonight. Call the caterer.” He slams the phone in my ear.
I stare at the phone. He hung up? Call the caterer? Like I’d ever used a caterer before? Like we had one on speed dial? Okay, Kate, think. Your husband is about to have a stroke unless you can whip up an eight-course meal in the next thirty minutes.
There was a caterer we had used at work. It was supposed to be oh-so-chichi, but Mandy, the manager of the Wee Book Inn, had ordered the cheapest lunch tray, consisting of champagne crackers, cheese cubes, a spinach-and-avocado dip, and an antipasto only Percy would eat. “It’s a pity Mandy didn’t go for the good stuff,” Percy said. “They make a pimento and goat cheese stuffed-olive platter that is” —he held his hands up by his ears, praising the food gods— “to die for.”
What was the name of that place? I look at the clock. The second hand ticks like a time bomb. I reach for the yellow pages and start flipping through. “Any port in a storm,” I mumble.
We eat and eat. The food is good. Too good. Every third bite Donna winks and says, “You must give me the recipe.” She waves her bone-thin hand and asks for my e-mail address. She calls me a culinary genius. I turn red, and I hope she thinks I’m blushing.
I cough into my napkin and remind her to save room for the crème brûlée. Donna makes a tiny O with her lips and says, “How Continental! Do you bake yours in a water bath?” and for a flash I want to throw up my hands and walk away from this sham.
I stand with my mouth open, waiting, hoping something intelligent will pop out. But she turns back to Kevin and they start talking about how federal foreign policy may affect interest rates.
I flee to the kitchen. I take my time arranging the crème brûlées, each snug in its own individual serving cup (white china; I had to pay a ten-dollar deposit on each one before the caterer would think about entrusting me with them) on a tray. I pour coffee into a white decanter and manage to find three matching white mugs with a crisp black strip around the rim. Pretty. Or, as Donna would say, Continental.
I place the tray on the table and Kevin snatches up one of the crème brûlées and places it in front of Donna, as if he’s afraid I’ll forget my mother’s mantra, “Guests first.” I pour coffee and Donna offers me a dazzling smile. Her teeth are perfect. Straight, bright white. I’m sure each time she visits the dentist he cries with pride. She points her fork at me. “The important thing to remember is to stay focused.”
I pour another cup of coffee and nod, pretending to know what she’s talking about.
She cracks the burnt-sugar shell of her crème brûlée, but doesn’t lift the spoon to her mouth. She’s Angelina Jolie thin, and I wonder when the last time her taste buds witnessed eggs, sugar, and cream in any combination. She puts the spoon down, opting instead for a sip of black coffee. “You understand, Kate, how important the next couple of years will be for Kevin.” It isn’t a question. “He’s jumped a number of hoops already and corporate has their eyes on him.” She gives a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve made sure of it.” She holds up her coffee cup as if it were cabernet in Waterford glass. “Here’s to the fast track!”
Kevin gives his aw-shucks grin and looks down. It’s the look that makes my heart skip a beat every time. He raises his cup, clinks it against Donna’s, and then touches the lip of my cup and holds it there, looking into my eyes. “Exciting times, babe.”
I smile back, then turn to Donna. “What does ‘fast track’ mean for us? Will Kevin be running the branch someday?”
She plunks her coffee cup down hard and some slops over the edge and dribbles onto the tablecloth. Her eyes narrow at Kevin. “You’ve discussed this, right?”
Discussed what?
Kevin nods and talks fast. “Kate is my rock. She supports me all the way.” He puts his hand over mine. “Don’t you?”
I nod vigorously. “Always.” This is my Kevin, the warm, affectionate man who shares my hopes and dreams. Even if it means calling the occasional caterer and passing a ridiculously elaborate meal off as home cooking.
Donna beams at the two of us. “Hear, hear,” she says, thumping the table with her hand. “It may be old-fashioned, but ‘Stand by Your Man,’ I say.” She sits back in her chair and sips her coffee, seemingly satisfied with all she surveys. “With your wife’s support, there’s no limit to what you can achieve.”
Kevin smiles at me, then looks at my empty crème brûlée dish and quickly frowns. “You’re finished already? Honestly, Kate, if you slow down, you might actually taste your food.”