The Choice Not Taken Read online

  Giddy relief washed through my weary body, and I made a wobbly path to the bedroom while Alex cleared up any evidence. We didn’t hide the realities of alcohol and responsible adult use from the kids, but we also didn’t make it a regular image in their eyes. And having a bottle on a school and work night was a rare occurrence indeed.

  Alex entered the bedroom just as I turned off the bathroom light. I’d already changed into a white sleeveless nightdress and was performing my nightly routine of slathering lotion on elbows and forearms.

  “Hey you,” he said, sitting on the bed with arms outstretched. “Come here my little chick-a-dee,” he coaxed in an awful imitation.

  His eyelids reflected the toll from these past months of mediation and recent hours of wine. The corners of his mouth turned in a slow, engaging smile, and I couldn’t help but go to him.

  He pressed me into the heat of his body, and I suddenly felt too warm. Looking up to check if the ceiling fan was on, I waited impatiently for cool air to be pushed down on top of us.

  Alex lay back on the bed, still cradling me in his arms.

  Staring over him in the dim light of a side lamp, my tired eyes traced along the path of faint, yet emerging, lines etched around his equally tired eyes. They’d become a permanent reminder of his ever-smiling face, and I wished–even after all of these years together-that I could absorb some of his contentment.

  The peace flowing through his muscular body became more than desirable to me. I craved it much like a junkie craves the next hit of a drug.

  As I leaned against him with my palm resting on his steadily beating heart, he lifted his hand to brush dirty blonde locks from my eyes.

  I wanted him.

  But I wanted his happiness more.

  He had given me so much...everything he possibly could. And yet I still wanted more.

  I lightly brushed my lips across his. And he kissed me back, gently at first. He was kind and patient and thoughtful, and yet I knew what was to come.

  Still waters run deep, I secretly smiled in anticipation.

  He lifted my body on top of his, roughly this time, determined to bring me closer. And I eagerly complied. I wanted to be closer, too. Because although my desire for him was nothing new, I became terrified to realize I needed him tonight.

  More than ever.

  I wanted Alex to remind me why I loved him so much. But I needed him to erase the sorrow that unfairly opened a part of my heart I believed had been closed and healed forever.

  ritual

  The alarm offensively filled our bedroom, and Alex stubbornly hit the snooze button. As usual, it was programmed to “radio mode,” and the pop tune that came on for a mere two seconds would become incessantly branded into my subconscious for the next twenty-four hours.

  He’d habitually press it three more times. And though Alex would fall asleep for each subsequent 8-minute interval, I would not.

  I never did.

  Why couldn’t he let me peacefully sleep those extra minutes and hit the snooze once like it was intended? It was a rare pet peeve of mine but a daily one, nonetheless.

  Typically, my too-awake body would get up before the second round of dance party made its appearance, but today I couldn’t move. Sore muscles hinted at a difficult night of sleep, and I felt anything but rested.

  A dull, yet throbbing, ache coursed through the entire right side of my neck and shoulder. And despite numerous attempts, my heavy eyelids refused to stay open. Though I possessed no true memory of it, their inflamed edges gave me the distinct sensation I cried sometime during the night.

  Even when I willed it to rise, my body didn’t oblige. Fully aggravated now, I pushed up on my elbows, and a piercing twinge in the center of my shoulder blades forced me to land hard upon the bed.

  Alex shifted in response to the weight of my body, but within a miraculous millisecond he was snoring again.

  How the hell does he do that? I griped. On a good day, I couldn’t fall back asleep so soundly once I was awake. Whether it be a random noise, one of the kids, or the scheduled alarm, my mind would inevitably take over even if my body begged for rest.

  Pushing through the hurt, I sat along the bedside, convincing myself these were natural maladies for a woman my age. What’s more, I knew the pain wasn’t debilitating enough to infringe on my work.

  Today held a full agenda-deadline to meet, yard sale items to price, overnight bag to pack, soccer meet to watch, and then dinner with the kids and parents before finally driving to my sister’s home.

  Under normal circumstances, this type of day–one filled with a combination of work and family-would bring me joy.

  Not today.

  Blistering reality tugged at the outer edges of my thoughts, ushering in layers of apprehension and fatigue-two things which had been absent for so long. Their very presence brought me back to many years before...when I believed life would never begin again.

  Another round of an 80s tune filled the silence, and this time Alex mercifully hit the OFF button.

  “Mornin’ Sweetheart,” he said in a raspy voice before kissing my cheek.

  Even after hours in bed, his breath smelled of spearmint and his skin hinted at musk. I wondered if he surreptitiously showered and groomed himself in the middle of the night-while I was asleep-to awake so refreshed. But one glance at his mussed hair and playfully bouncing cowlick, and I knew he’d never left my side.

  “Mind if I go first?” he politely asked. I shook my head, and he stumbled to the master bath, partially closing the door behind him.

  Once the hiss of a steaming shower began, I grabbed the end post for support and hoisted myself out of bed. Stretching my neck and shoulders to loosen the underlying strain didn’t help, but I had too much to accomplish so I ignored it.

  With only a limited half-hour before the kids needed to wake, I hurried into the kitchen and set out bowls, spoons, and cereal. Although they were entirely capable of doing this for themselves, I welcomed the busywork.

  After lining four different boxes in a neat row between the place settings, I headed for our bedroom. Alex would be out by now, and I determined a hot shower might soothe my pain.

  Passing the small kitchen desk tucked amongst a long wall of pantry cabinets, I purposely steered my gaze away from the laptop. The temptation to further research his eulogy was great, but I overcame it, preferring instead to be completely alone in the house when I finally dug deeper into the details.

  I respectfully tapped on the bathroom door before entering.

  “Hey,” Alex smiled into the mahogany framed mirror spanning the marble vanity and dual sinks.

  I hugged him from behind while he expertly knotted a striped silk tie. Staring over his reflection-up and down, over and across-became one of those strange life moments when it seems we discover something familiar for the very first time.

  My sleepy gaze took in his dark features, and they appeared so new...I needed to re-learn them all over again. Standing on tip-toes, I rested my chin upon his shoulder to peer at him, closer this time. And though the back of my neck pinched in protest, I didn’t care.

  I studied him.

  His sparkling eyes winked at me and the fine lines, once masked in the dark of night, now blossomed in amazing depth and handsome beauty. Raising his right hand to brush my cheek, the gentle touch began to remind me of who he and I were.

  Alex faced me, and I lightheartedly straightened his tie while he planted a goodbye kiss into my hair and murmured “I love you.”

  Left alone, I peered at my image in the bathroom mirror. Without Alex here, I again questioned who I was.

  Washed out curls landed on petite shoulders, and wide-set gray eyes followed a visual path down lean arms, over small-yet still perky-breasts, and along slim hips. Underneath the gauzy white nightgown, I could detect the outline of my frame. And my repulsive reaction was one I hadn’t experienced for quite some time.

  This person looked like someone I once knew. She held a striking rese
mblance–too much so–of a previous self; one that fortunately disappeared long ago. And I hadn’t missed her...never once-or ever-since those immediate years following the incident.

  She had reluctantly stepped aside so her authentic self could have a chance to live. And love. She once pledged she was gone forever. But now here she was–a spectral trace of that young, broken girl–staring at me in the mirror.

  “Mom?” Sylvie sleepily called from the master bedroom. “Where are you?”

  I immediately went to my daughter, hugged her good morning, and led her tiny half-asleep, yet surprisingly dressed body to the kitchen table. Once she settled beside Mitch, who was already on his second bowl of cereal, I turned to make a pot of coffee.

  The shower–along with everything else–would have to wait.

  ***

  With a quiet house, thoughts buzzed in and around my head while I forged through layouts of sketches for a children’s book. The author was waiting on a first round of rough drafts, and I was under signed contract to submit them by day’s end.

  Page after page, I’d continually pause and stare blankly around the makeshift library nestled in our lower-level. While decorating the room, I believed the dark wood and leather furnishings brought harmony to the pale green walls and patterned rug. Yet today, their soothing tones offered little consolation. And the full wall of shelves graced with an eclectic book collection, framed family photos, and tacky vacation souvenirs fostered discontent rather than inspiration.

  Struggling, I drew and re-drew while subsequently fighting the drone inside my head. Against the silent backdrop, the decibels seemingly increased. And more than once, I impulsively swiped my hand at the air, as if to shoo an unseen pest away.

  I worked through the morning, never fully satisfied with the ideas, shading, or flow of images. But finally, after downing the entire contents of a pot of coffee, I had twenty acceptable drafts.

  One longing glance at the desktop computer propped upon the heavy walnut desk, and I silently wished it could be used to send my files. However, this assignment required special software, which meant I needed to use my laptop.

  After immense deliberation, I headed upstairs.

  My shaking index finger hovered over the power button. Not wanting to even turn on the screen, I somehow feared what it might reveal-as if it telepathically recalled my search last night and would automatically offer it to me again today.

  Of course, it didn’t do that. But my scanned files did take forever to download and in the time I sat waiting to enter the appropriate prompts of my software program, the appeal became too great.

  Recklessly, I re-entered his name. P-H-I-L-I-P B-U-R-K-E.

  Resuming my hunt for answers to an expanding list of questions, I read the eulogy, slowly and word by word. It was sincere and kind and touching, and in its glowing descriptions and heartfelt praise, I realized it was, in fact, for the man I once knew-and loved.

  He was indeed gone.

  A startling beep signaled my email transmission as complete, thankfully bringing me back to the present before I could stumble dangerously into the past.

  With little time, I scurried through the house, preparing for a long weekend with my sister. I only had pajamas and underwear in the overnight bag before I found myself freezing mid-task. As ancient images and ideas grew more persistent, all efforts to concentrate on my current packing failed. I anxiously headed to the farthest room upstairs.

  And so the ritual began.

  Passing from one room to the next, I checked that everything was in its place and organized. I typically did this whenever we headed out of town, but my usual habit was to perform it only one time, right before we locked up and left.

  Today was different.

  The compulsion-to be absolutely sure items were put away, things were turned off, and windows were locked–permeated my thoughts and actions. I could think of nothing else.

  My shoulders dropped in understanding upon the swiftness with which the obsessive-compulsive disorder returned. And I instantly became driven to combat it with my behavioral techniques.

  As I performed the pattern for a second time, I stopped at the door of each room and consciously registered its organized completion in my mind. Each space then became mentally checked off-one by one. Finally, I used visualization to see the house from the outside.

  It was imperfect but whole.

  The method worked long enough to allow me to finish packing and bring yard sale items out to the garage. Once I get everything in the truck, I’ll be home free, I promised myself.

  But the very sight of boxes and bags filled with clutter as they lay scattered on the dirty cement floor brought me back. I couldn’t fully concentrate on the next task nor could I ignore the impulse.

  Hopping the stairs, I rushed around the house three more times. And with every need to start over–and check again–I realized minutes were rapidly getting away from me. The fear of missing Mitch’s soccer match eventually helped me pull it together. This sole choice-between alleviating my distress or disappointing my son–eventually made me stop.

  Knowing I was now officially late, I hastily packed the SUV with yard sale items, my bag, and Mitch’s duffel he left here by mistake. On a distracted whim, I added my laptop.

  Peeling out of the circular driveway, I deliberately set my cell phone in the cup holder. I needed a reminder to call my therapist. And I was way over-due for an appointment.

  My OCD tendencies were at one of the highest levels I could ever remember since meeting Alex. Even with the stress of my two pregnancies, I’d been able to work through them with behavioral techniques or meditation.

  Of course, I recognized, those had been events I could anticipate.

  The startling revelation and onslaught of unpredictable emotions in the past day was apparently too much to process. And unless I could talk about some of what was happening to me–to someone-there would surely be more to come.

  Relieved I had a plan in place, my primary interest now became holding on until I could meet with Dr. Benson.

  ***

  I arrived at the field just as Alex pulled into the parking lot. With the latest merger complete, he now had the rare freedom of picking up the kids from school and sharing an extended weekend with them.

  “Mom,” Mitch cried, “I forgot my cleats!” His anguish turned to glee once I tossed him the bag.

  At least part of me is still functioning properly, I chided.

  “Thanks, Mom!” he yelled, already running toward his team for warm-ups.

  “Good day?” Alex asked, pulling three collapsible chairs from the opened back of the SUV.

  “Yeah,” I hesitated. “It was good.”

  He glanced at me with disbelief before hoisting the load and securing it over his right shoulder by the attached straps.

  “Want to vent?” he offered.

  We’d always talked openly about our problems, and in his characteristic way he was overly patient and supportive of my efforts to overcome the OCD. And though I’d generally disclose my distress with him, I didn’t today.

  “I’ve scheduled an appointment,” I cryptically assured with a slight nod in the direction of Sylvie. Clutching my side, she intently listened with eager eight-year-old ears.

  “Okay. Good. But you can fill me in later if you want,” he reminded as we marched the gravelly path toward spectator seating.

  Earlier sunshine and warm temps were now replaced with a gloomy chill. Donning fleece sweatshirts and tucking lap blankets around our legs, the three of us tried to keep warm while the opposing team missed its first attempt at a goal.

  Though I loved to watch Mitch play, I quickly tired of socializing with the parents seated along the sideline. Between intermittent cheers for their kids on the field and hollers to others playing in the grass, the men discussed the start-up of baseball season while the women chatted about recipes and summer school programs.

  In no mood to be charming today, the laughter and bante
r amidst our friends grated upon tender nerves rather than uplift my spirits as it would any other time. Making great effort to be sincere and speak when prompted, I just couldn’t remain focused on who was talking or even what they were saying.

  This, to me, became a glaring sign something was terribly wrong.

  Leaning close so only he could hear, I whispered to Alex I’d rather leave after the match and skip the pizza party. I used the excuse of preferring to drive to my sister’s while it was still daylight. He nodded in agreement, and I impatiently waited for the game to end so I could be alone.

  Mitch scored one goal, but his team lost. The boys seemed unfazed, however. With its arcade games and prizes, it was apparent the local pizzeria held more allure than victory did at the moment.