8

I bumped around the house for the next two days, wondering how to fill the time before my first therapy appointment. The thought of seeing a counselor made me nervous and self-conscious. And desperate. A part of me hoped for an easy answer, a mental-health silver bullet that would make my problems go away. Or at least explain to me what my problems were.

I made a list of everything I thought I should talk about. Kevin’s sudden death. My father’s death before that. Feelings of sadness. The strange and angry outburst at my sister. My hand hovered over the page, reluctant to write: “Hears voice of dead husband.” How crazy does that make me sound? I looked around my living room, which had become my bedroom. How crazy does this make me? Do they measure on a sliding scale? Maybe they tally your behavior. Four behaviors and you’re sane. Five and you’re crazy.

I was too frightened to tally my behaviors.

I wrote out the answers to the questions I imagined a counselor would ask.

Age: 28.

Occupation: Housewife? No. Homemaker? Nope. Retired? I thought about the amount of the insurance settlement. Yeah, retired.

Marital status: Widow.

Reason for visit: See above.

Patient’s ideal outcome from counseling sessions: Acquire ability to travel back in time.

I bit the end of my pencil. I had no idea what the counselor would ask me. I doodled in the margin, then wrote the only positive thing I could think of: washing my hair again—but then I crossed it out. How terrible was it that I didn’t wash for three weeks? Even now, it wasn’t as if I was making daily trips to the shower. I managed one trip in the past week. I pressed my fists into my temples and chanted, “Not crazy. Not crazy.” I pictured Heather’s pale face as she fled my kitchen. Something in her eyes. She had looked scared. Of me.

I tore the paper up and started a new sheet. I drew a chart with two columns and labeled them, filling in the blanks with my recent behavior.

Not Crazy	Crazy
Trouble sleeping	Camping out on living room floor
Mood swings	Freaking out on sister and kicking her out of my house
No interest in regular routine	Forgetting to eat for days at a time, not showering—allowing leg hair to grow to braiding length
Missing dead husband	Hearing voice of dead hus—

“Write down ‘burns the toast,’” Kevin said.

My pen froze midword.

“You always burn the toast. It’s a terrible habit.”

Without moving I cast my eyes around the kitchen. I saw nothing, no one. My heart tapped out its fear. This really is crazy. Still, some strange part of me want to press on, to know what would happen if I tried to converse with him. “I don’t burn it. You just like to eat raw toast.”

I heard his laugh rumble through the air. I gasped. “Can I see you?” Silence.

Don’t ask questions. “I’m the perfect housekeeper,” I tried again.

“Tell the counselor you burn the toast, and you don’t know how to fold socks,” Kevin said.

What is this? I thought. Am I awake? Dreaming? Dead? I was afraid to move. “I miss you.”

I waited. Nothing. I didn’t know which was worse, hearing his voice or not hearing it. Which was crazier? Hearing the voice of your dead husband, or expecting to hear it?

I spread my hands out in front of me on the table. “I hear you talk to me about teakettles and burnt toast,” I said. “You died and now you talk to me about socks.”

“Everything is white.”

“I don’t know what you mean. What’s white? Socks?”

Silence. Cold, frustrating, infuriating silence.

I blinked at the list I was writing and circled crazy with my pen. “I’m flat-out, stark-raving, bug-eyed crazy.”

“Not crazy,” Kevin said.

I looked at my chart. Should I feel better about my mental health because the voice of my dead husband assures me I’m not crazy? Somehow I did. Even dead, Kevin’s opinion mattered more to me than my own.

It’s the sort of place high school kids try to sneak into. Deafening music pulses like a heartbeat, the bass so loud it’s impossible to hear the song itself. Heather and her new boyfriend, Paul, are on the dance floor, bouncing to the throb of noise. Kevin and I stand by a tall table with no chairs. Heather smiles and waves. I wave back.

Kevin pulls me close and bellows in my ear, “Let’s go.”

I shake my head no. He nods yes. I wish we’d learned sign language. I holler back, “We just got here.”

He taps his watch. “Like, an hour ago.” Then, just so I don’t miss the point, he cups his hands over his ears.

I turn back to the dance floor and watch Heather and Paul. She has this cool-girl way of dancing; she can toss her head and swirl her hips all while looking like she doesn’t really care. Paul is doing something strange with his hands. Balled into fists, he alternates between holding them close to his body and pushing them far out in front of him. He looks like a Rock ’em Sock ’em Robot boxer. We’d had dinner with them at the Tower, then Paul suggested this place. I turn to Kevin. “What do you think of Paul?”

Kevin tipped his glass back, dumping the last of the ice into his mouth. “I give it two weeks. Less if he keeps dancing like that.”

My laughter is muted by the thumping music. I rifle through my purse until I find a pen. I grab his napkin and write, “Heather thinks he could be ‘the one.’” After our meal Heather and I had gone to the ladies room together and taken far too long in there while Heather regaled me with Paul’s many good qualities, starting with how punctual he is picking her up for dates. He was considerate and kind, she said. “Oh, and before our first date, he called me to ask what my favorite flowers were. Can you imagine?” She giggled at the memory. I couldn’t help but like him too.

Kevin takes the pen. “Isn’t that what she always thinks?”

I shrug and write back, “She’s a romantic.”

Kevin shakes his head. “She’s codependent.”

This bothers me more than it should. I’ve always considered myself a romantic too. Any girl who has read the complete works of Jane Austen before the age of fifteen has to be a romantic in the best sense of the word. Right? I gave Kevin a weak smile, but he’s not looking at me. He’s shaking his head at Heather and Paul on the dance floor. I’m suddenly offended. Heather is the nicest person I know, even if she is my sister. She’s sweet and always thinks of others. How does that make her codependent? She and I used to sit on her bed and talk for hours about the men we would marry, making long lists of attributes we believed were critical to a man. I had always been amazed how alike she and I were. But I can’t say any of this here, so I take the pen and write a lame, “No, she’s not.”

Kevin writes, “And he’s a dork.”

I give Kevin a look that says, “Huh?” And he points to Paul on the dance floor and raises an eyebrow. As if bad dancing summed up the character of a person.

I poke him with my elbow and write, “He’s nice.” I’m thinking about adding an exclamation mark, but Kevin grabs the napkin and crumples it in his hand. Heather and Paul have returned to the table. Paul’s face glistens with sweat. Heather yells in my ear, “You guys aren’t going to dance?”

I throw a glance at Kevin, who is gesturing to Paul in an attempt to communicate. “No.”

Heather hollers into my ear, “Should we leave, then?”

I glance at Kevin. Paul is talking to him. Kevin nods, but doesn’t look at Paul. I turn to Heather, “Yes, let’s go.” Heather grabs my arm and pulls me toward the exit, waving for Paul and Kevin to follow. She does a quick jog to the door, dragging me with her. We hit the cool summer-night air and the quiet is like a gift. The guys are several paces behind us. Heather squeezes my arm. “So?” She wants to know what I think of Paul. No, she wants to hear me say I think he’s a dream man, the personification of all our long talks, that he’s “the one.” I look back; the guys are following, Paul is talking, gesturing in broad strokes, Kevin’s hands are jammed into his front pockets, he nods now and again, his face a blank slate. Paul lets out a sharp laugh, a blowing “Ha!” and puts his hand on his stomach. He does look like a dork.

Heather whispers, “Isn’t he fabulous?”

I pat her hand. “He seems … nice.”

She pouts. “Just nice? That’s all?”

“Yeah, that’s all.”