“Why do you keep coming here?” I said to Jack. I’d been in the assessment center nearly three weeks and Jack had visited nearly every day for the past week. We would walk the grounds, taking the same route as the first time he’d come.
I didn’t mean to sound blunt, but the events of the past months had stripped away my ability to engage in polite conversation.
“I like the coffee,” he said, his tone teasing, conversational. Then he said, “We’re friends. It matters to me if you’re okay.”
I watched his profile as we walked. He’d recently had a haircut, a dark semicircle of hair rimmed his ear. Friends? He barely knew me. And what he did know of me he’d discovered by sheer determined effort on his part. How had I come to matter to him? Why had he decided to care about me? I didn’t know the answer to that question any more than I knew why Kevin had decided to stop caring about me. Maybe Jack just didn’t know enough about me to scare him off. Maybe he needed to know.
“I’m going to tell you the whole story. Then you can decide for yourself,” I said.
“Decide what?”
“If we’re friends or not.”
He was quiet, then said, “Okay.”
I started with the day of the funeral and I told him everything—Kevin’s voice, Blair, my lost memories, Donna, Heather, and lastly the recovered knowledge of my abortion. It was a confession, a purging. When I finished, I was in tears. I kept my head down, stared at the grass, waiting for Jack to say something. He was a pastor, and for all his caring, I felt certain that some part of my story would disturb him—like hearing Kevin’s voice. Or disgust him—like my abortion. I couldn’t be certain.
He was quiet for a long, long while. Then he wrapped his arms around me and held me.
His comfort felt like a homecoming. He stood very still, like a tree with deep roots, unmovable. His arms were tethers, holding fast so I couldn’t fly away. His silence filled the empty spaces with acceptance. He didn’t shush me, didn’t tell me everything would be okay, didn’t ask me to explain myself. He simply held me up.
“We’re friends,” he whispered in my hair.
Dr. Alexander’s face was a painful red. He said he’d gone sailing the day before and gotten windburned. That was putting it lightly. His entire face was burned except for the glimmering white flesh that had been shaded by his sunglasses. His nose was already peeling. He looked tired and feverish as he sat across from me in the therapy room and scribbled in his notebook. “I’m sure you’re anxious to hear what the judge had to say.”
I hadn’t attended the hearing that had taken place that morning. Dr. Alexander felt it was in my best interest to stay away. And since my presence wasn’t required, I was happy to wait it out at the assessment center rather than sitting stiff and helpless on the hard bench of a courtroom. Better to be helpless far from that place where I couldn’t hear the debate over my life.
But looking at Dr. Alexander’s bright red face, my bravado failed. What had they said about me? What decisions had been made? Where was I going from here? I managed a warbling smile. “Well, I haven’t accosted anyone lately, so that must have counted in my favor.”
The corners of Dr. Alexander’s mouth twitched in a near smile, but he pushed his lips together. “Indeed. Based on my reports to the court, and my recommendations, the judge ordered your release from the psychiatric hospital.” He held up a cautionary hand, as if I’d leaped off the couch and shouted Hallelujah. “The severity of the offense, however, warrants disciplinary action.”
I closed my eyes, waiting.
“One year probation, including community service.”
I let out a long breath, sat back, and let the news wash over me. “I can go home?”
He nodded. “But there are a few more conditions. You must keep all scheduled appointments with me—and I’m requiring that we meet twice a week for the next month or so. And you must return to group therapy until the group disbands in December.”
A small price, one I should have paid before ever coming here. But that was in the past. Now I could go home, start again, get on with my life.
His eyes fluttered closed, then opened slowly. “There’s the matter of where you’ll serve your community service. They have provided a list of approved programs, or, you can submit a request to serve your time at a suitable program not on the list.”
One name jumped to mind: Jack. “Actually … I know a pastor—Jack Slater—who runs a center in the city. Youth programs and Sunday services.”
“That may work fine,” he mumbled, scribbling notes.
“And I’ve made a decision.” I clasped my hands on my lap, waiting for him to ask What is it?, but his red face just looked at me with the professional patience that I had grown accustomed to. I thought of offering him the cream I had in my purse for his face. It was expensive and made from the essence of some rare tropical fruit that only grew on one tiny island off the coast of Samoa. Instead I kept my hands in my lap.
“I’ve decided to sell my house in Greenfield and move to the city,” I said.
He tapped his pad of paper with his pen, but otherwise didn’t move. “That’s a big move. I wonder if you’re ready for such a drastic change.”
I held my empty hands out to Dr. Alexander. “I know it’s big, but I’m ready. And I’m not running away, either. I’m going to take my time, put the house up for sale, clean it up.”
He doodled in his notebook and muttered, “Good, good.”
“I’ll find a small place, a condo maybe.”
He closed his eyes in a long blink. “Go slow, Kate. You have your probation to fulfill, community service, and appointments. That’s enough to keep you occupied for a long while.”
I nodded an enthusiastic agreement. “Yes, all here in the city. Moving means I’ll be closer to all of my obligations.”
He touched two fingers to his forehead. “Yes, well, go slow.”
I reached in my purse and handed him my lotion and two aspirin. He took them both without comment.
The next morning my mother picked me up in front of the psychiatric center. For once I hadn’t called Heather to come to my aid. I didn’t know when I’d be able to talk to her again.
Mom and I hugged in silence, neither of us sure what to say.
Once we were out of the maze of the city, she said, “Am I taking you home?” She threw me a quick sideways glance. “I mean, do you want to go home, or would you like to come to my house for a while?” She chewed her lip. I could see she was agitated, hesitant.
I shifted until I faced her. “Home would be good. Thanks, Mom.” She looked older somehow, the skin under her chin wrinkled and loose. A year of grief had gathered on her face.
It was October. Dad had gone into the river a year ago. She and I had walked such different paths in the past year. She had absorbed the swift loss of her husband. Grieved hard, and yet, in time began to live a little too. I had gone in as much of an opposite direction from her as possible. Down a rough path and straight into the rabbit’s hole. But I’d been given a second chance.
I watched the countryside whirl by. “Things are going to be better. Dr. Alexander thinks I’ve turned a corner.”
Mom patted my knee. “I’m so glad, Kate. You have a whole life ahead of you.”
Greenfield looked smaller somehow. We drove past the same homes, business, and shops that had always been there, but Main Street seemed shorter, the storefronts tiny. When we stopped at a red light beside the bank, I looked away.
At home I invited Mom in for tea, but she said she’d come by later after I’d gotten settled.
I unlocked the door, but didn’t go in. I put my suitcase down on the stoop and walked around the house. I examined the siding, noticed a crack in the downspout and that the flowers had dried and withered. Not too bad, considering …
Finally I went inside. Just like the town, it seemed as if the house had shrunk. The rooms I had roamed through for weeks now looked cramped, cloistering. I had some work ahead of me if I wanted to get this place in shape to sell. But that would have to wait a while. In my bag I had a stack of paperwork to fill out, all related to my release from the center and my obligations. I had to call my probation officer, arrange appointments with Dr. Alexander, file for permission to serve my community service time at Glen Hills—and then there were the insurance forms.
I plunked the kettle on the stove. The forms could wait for one day. Maybe I would call Maggie, or go for a walk—I certainly needed to pick up some food. And a new set of sheets for the bed. I would sleep in my own bed tonight. I smiled, then a giggle jumped from my mouth. I was free to do whatever I pleased.