Meet Cate (11 page)

Cate sat, staring out the train window at the scenery racing by. She was on her way into work. Again. She felt all her days blend together in a sort of beautiful weave, now that Tom was back.

She and Al had talked late into the night. Cate had then called Nic and spoken to him, needing to feel she'd reassured. In truth, as always, her children helped her cope. By expressing what she felt aloud, safely, she'd heard the lyrics of her heart. Cate hadn't realized how great a burden her fear had been.

She was afraid of Tom.

No, not Tom. Of what Tom offered. He always tended to go back and forth in his feelings for her during PTSD. True, he hadn't ever gotten this close to her, not since they'd been married years ago, or even dated, a lifetime ago.

Was he working her? To what end? If he wanted her, what was the harm? That was almost a beautiful statement.

Cate had built a full life without him and she was happy there. She respected and cared for Tom. She felt a comfort from him, and she was grateful for their children and the life they'd created before he'd left her. He'd always been a kind friend when he was able. And when he wasn't, he kept his distance, protecting her first.

Tom had confided he'd been seeing a therapist. Privately, Cate wasn't sure how much that would help until she'd seen the changes in Tom. Tom's behavior toward her was the first and last leg of his disease. When he'd pushed her away, she'd known he was ill. When he wouldn't allow her to care for him and had treated her with hostility, she'd felt a restriction grow inside of her. And when he'd taken the family they'd built away from their children, Cate had felt a bitter chill enfold her heart.

She shook her head, not wanting to think of that now. She would, she promised herself. One day, Cate would have no choice but to deal with the pain and resentment Tom's disease always left in its wake. She'd take it one piece at a time, at her own speed. Slowly and in the background of her life, Cate would work out how she felt. She'd find forgiveness for him. She knew he was only doing the best he could do.

Right now, though, Cate wanted to focus on how Tom made her feel in these moments. She was struggling with the fear and she wouldn't allow it to encapsulate her.

Was he working her for some reason?

What if he got what he wanted and he started working for her less?

Was his plan to sneak back into her life without any words?

Would he triumph? His emotion was so strong. Did she even have a choice?

Cate knew she and Tom had to have a conversation. But first, she had to get square with herself. Cate realized she wanted him to win, just a little bit. She wouldn't give up her independence and she wouldn't give in to him without the conversation she deserved. But, that being said, Cate hesitated: she wasn't running this show. Her heart was.

Cate paced. Her day had been long, taping two shows and running from meeting to meeting all afternoon. It was something that normally would have fulfilled her, but she found all she wanted now was to see Tom.

She dreaded it as much as she had to admit, she cherished it.

She knew, if this whatever-it-was worked out, one day she'd grow to take Tom for granted again. She didn't want that feeling. She always wanted this fresh feeling. Cate was in love with her life in this moment. With only a mother's petite worry for her children, she
was
going for it.

Al and Nic had encouraged her to do what she wanted, not thinking of them. Cate knew her life was her choice and she knew not to put the responsibility of her decisions on her children (even though they were both grown). She also knew she couldn't get away with being casual. They saw through her big words to her heart faster than anybody else could. They heard her telling them she was in love with their father−even as she held back specifically from such a statement.

And she wasn't in love, Cate thought. She was merely having fun. It was dangerous fun, for she stood to get awfully hurt. And so did her children. She left them separate then, in the end, telling them only what she couldn't avoid and promising to keep them filled in.

One day soon, they'd require−and deserve−honesty. They'd need to be reassured when their anger and resentment (and fear) filled them up. They'd need a lot of words, a lot of kindness. Maybe she could convince each of them to come home for a while. In a typical family, it would only take time to prove Tom wasn't going anywhere. In this family, it was entirely possible that Tom might leave again (Cate didn't even notice she'd painted him back in) and therefore the three of them and Merry would be on guard for a very long time. Only after they'd put their shields down would PTSD strike and giggle. It was a fear they might need help with.

Cate's heart ached for the closeness she and her children had shared. She had no control over the fact that her heart would move her children aside to make room for the reason they were here. She already missed Al and Nic. She missed her life: going to work, coming home, hanging out with Mike (Mike!), walking Merry, heading to bed exhausted. Friday nights out with her girlfriends. Saturday night dinners across the miles with her children. Tom would want to share those times now.

She couldn't decide if she was angry, scared or hurt. But she knew the time had come to have the most honest of conversations.

In the back of her mind, she wondered idly how Mike knew to step back.

When Tom's quick knock came, Merry barked, startled, then raced to the door, her paws skidding on the light hardwood. Cate saw it as the first of many transgressions. She didn't want to share her beautiful world, she thought stubbornly. She'd rather miss the man every night for the rest of her life than share her time with her children again. Or her dog, her home. Worry for the next time he'd leave.

She'd built it. It wasn't his to take.

"I'm not in love with you!" she blurted out, as soon as he entered the room. Then she cleared her throat and closed the big door gently, her hand flat against the cool wood.

When she slowly turned, she saw the mirth in Tom's blue eyes.

"No?" was all he said.

"Sorry−" Cate shook her head, striding down the hall quickly. She crossed the great room to the stone fireplace, where she'd built a roaring fire. Warming her hands, she stalled. "−that I blurted that out."

Tom didn't move, other than to lean back casually. One elbow held up his stance, his hands clasped in front of him. His legs were loose, encased in clean jeans. She'd gotten so used to being able to speak to him again−
what if he went away? What if this was their last conversation?
She wanted more.
So much more
, her heart yearned.

It was hard to remember a time where she'd had to have been careful of saying too many words, being too honest. PTSD had forced a life of half-truths and encrypted conversations. If there came a break, it never went on this long.

She had to protect the children, Cate mused out of habit. This honeymoon period would end and they'd be crushed. Meanwhile, she would be holding onto Tom's coattails as he walked off toward the setting sun. Cate wouldn't be looking to Al and Nic; she'd be watching Tom's silhouette, waiting for him to turn around one last time. Her responsibility was toward them. And herself. Not Tom.

"Cate?"

"Yes?" She turned to study him. His head was tipped toward her, his stance casual−where had he put the disease he usually carried around with him like baggage? How was he able to listen to her, capable of hearing her? Willing? "Tom, what are we doing here?"

She wanted to hear his answer, not out of female curiosity, but to gauge where he was in his healing. She needed to trust that her instinct was correct: therapy was bringing him back to her. And perhaps, this time, he'd stay.

Cate's head ached from thinking so much. Her heart couldn't even be found to check its status. She'd fallen again, face first, only to find the man just couldn't follow through. PTSD or no, he didn't love her.

And that was the sad truth.

She sat, snuggled in front of the same fire she'd built for Tom. Staring into the flames that might usually relax her, long after he'd left.

Earlier that week he'd said, "I
do
love you, I do," as if he understood the need to underline his actions with words. But then his actions were always muddy, never clear.

Tonight he'd sat with her, a distance away, growing more and more uncomfortable with her questions. He'd been back such a short time. Maybe it was too soon to ask questions. In Cate's defense, however, she couldn't bear to go through the pattern one more time without answers.

She knew her best action was to talk it through with someone who understood, and even appreciated, her. She was tired of protecting Tom, making excuses for his illness. It was time to explain. She couldn't wish his behavior away any longer. Both sides of him seemed here to stay.

Calista answered on the first ring. Her calm voice soothed Cate immediately. When Cate didn't answer, Calli asked in her gentle voice, "What's wrong?"

Cate couldn't imagine where to start, there was so much to say. So many words. All of them PTSD-related, which required an explanation of its own. She was tired; tired of explaining, tired of life, and she wanted a break. But Cate knew she had to get the words out in order to feel better.

"Tom just left."

"He's back?"

"Back and gone−"

"Oh, honey," Calli's patient understanding always comforted Cate. "What happened?"

"I thought−I thought he wanted to be with me−" Cal was quiet, listening, so Cate continued. "He came around. He talked to me about all of his stress and he seemed relieved. Then we had this great talk, a couple times, about everything we each felt and how we'd each grown and wanted to grow more−"

"Mm-hm," Calista knew what was coming and could do nothing to stop it.

"I said−I said something stupid."

"Honey, what?"

"I asked where it was going," Cate took a breath, ashamed. "I only wanted to relax. I thought he was back to stay. What's wrong with asking a question!"

What's wrong indeed
, Calista thought to herself, broken for her friend. "Nothing, Catie."

"It was the stupidest thing I've
ever
done!" Cate was finding her anger, released, validated by her sweet friend. "He was so comfortable before I said the words. He was so calm and strong and confident. Then he just curled up inside of himself and..."

"What?"

"Got scared, I guess. He was talking about a trip he wanted to take with me. In mid-sentence he changed it back to
his
trip. He needs a vacation. He wanted one with me. Then suddenly, he was telling me about where he was going to go."

"And he was fine for how long?"

"I don't know, a couple days? A week or more?"

"Did he comment on anything else negatively?"

"He complained I was busy."

"Is there any other reason he could be−" Calista searched for the right word, "upset?"

"I don't know."

"Honey, he's not done healing."

"Apparently not."

"Sounds like he's getting there though," Calista kept her thoughts short to encourage Cate to talk. Then it hit her. "You thought he was?"

Cate nodded at the phone through sudden tears.

"He will get better again, Catie," Calista continued, her voice gentle. This was familiar. Calli remembered the rollercoaster of Cate and Tom's life together before he'd been diagnosed. Tom would go into a downward pattern. It would last several years then he'd start therapy and reemerge as if nothing had happened, managing.

Her heart broke for her friend, imagining the pain she felt and feeling helpless to cure it. "You want me to come up?"

Cate knew a visit from Calista would cheer her and she knew she could move things around enough to clear her schedule for a few days. It was a terrible battle to understand she was worth it, after fighting the disease that stole her soul, but she would. She nodded at the phone again, reduced to a young age, needing comfort.

"We could go apple picking," Calista said, listening for any sound that Cate felt better; any stray giggle would do. "Do a corn maze? Dress up like witches and go trick or treating? Sit around a huge bonfire and tell ghost stories?"

Cate sniffled.

"We could make big mugs of cocoa and sit by the fire and talk about why men stink."

Now Cate snickered, despite herself. "He doesn't, though. I understand everything he does−that's not the same as excusing it−and I
do
love him." She spoke earnestly.

"I know you do, Catie."

"I don't know why I do, or if it's the right thing. He's Al and Nic's father−"

"Leave Al and Nic out of this for one second," Calista said wisely. "What do you want?"

"I didn't think I wanted him," Cate paused, reasoning. "I didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Well−"

"Be honest."

"I was so content with my life. Everything was going along so beautifully. When he came around, my back went up. I'm glad he's okay, and I love him living so close, but my life is my life. I love my relationship with Al and Nic−"

"Out−"

"And my work and my friends−"

"Sounds like he's the frosting."

"I guess. Frosting that didn't want to be−"

"Yeah. Maybe he just isn't ready for a commitment."

"He sure was acting like he was."

"I know. But maybe he came to you for comfort and he's doing that stupid guy thing where they don't know what they want?"

"Don't their actions usually give it away?"

"What were his actions?"

"He held me," Cate said quietly. That was special to her.

Calista sighed, "Oh, Catie."

"I know."

The women both paused, an understood moment of silence for love.

"What else?" Calista asked.

"We went out to dinner. He complimented me on holding everything together while he'd been gone. It was like he could see−like he understood... He came to
The Show
. He bragged to Al and Nic that we were spending time. We talked. All these really great, long, deep conversations." Cate drew the words out, holding onto the feeling they each provoked. She felt stupidly fragile and female where normally she was calm and confident.

"When did it stop?"

"Today."

"And you're sure it's not something else? Anything?"

"I guess he could be tired."

"And stressed."

"Those are excuses."

"Don't we need to consider them? He's not exactly typical."

"He's scared. I'm tired of making excuses, though. I want this to be over−"

"No, you don't," Calista challenged.

"I want−"

"What do you want? Really think about it."

Something about Calista's quiet, sensible voice brought Cate confidence. Calli would help her fix it, she always did. Cate imagined Calli stopping what she was doing (probably something wonderful with children) and giving Cate her full attention. With her straight strawberry blonde hair that bounced back and forth deftly and her bright, intent blue eyes, Calista would hide the beginning of a warm, beautiful smile until she couldn't stand it. Cate loved that moment when it broke out and spread all the way to Cal's eyes.

Cate deflected, "He asked me out."

"Yeah?"

"But then he changed it. Something had come up."

"You felt second," Calista guessed.

"I understand things are important. I guess−"

"You'd be most important if he were falling for you."

"Wouldn't you think?"

"Yes," Calista was torn between female truths and female loyalty. "If he's putting himself first, that's only the disease."

"I know that's important, too."

"The PTSD?"

"No, putting himself first."

Cate began to relax a bit, listening to Calli's soothing voice. Knowing that someone, somewhere, would stop everything and help her was comforting. Especially this late at night. She stretched her toes out in front of her, comfortable in clean white socks. She wiggled them, staring and thinking.

Her friends were the absolute best to her. Cate knew, in the days to come, that somehow−Calli−all of her closest friends would reach out with understanding. The fire crackled as she stood, stretching dreamily, the phone to her ear.
Night Train
clicked on the stereo and Cate thought idly of the summer it had come out; she and the children had cranked it up and sang along loudly every time it had played. The soft darkness of the room crept around her like warmth and Merry lifted her head.

"Catie?" Calli's voice was soft in her ear.

"Calli−" Cate's smile was clear in her voice. She would try to thank her friend, then heat some milk and take it upstairs in a hefty white mug.

"Do you know what you want for you? From him?"

Rocketed back to reality, Cate's heart crashed. "I want my own life."

"Without Tom?"

A million feelings rushed through Cate's heart at once. Not one of them was freedom. She detected a smudge of fear. When did this happen?

"Not without him, no. But not with him. What's wrong with me?"

Calli stifled a snicker successfully. "Nothing. Not a thing."

"I keep going back and forth between the things he did and said that were wonderful, and the−" here, Cate hesitated, "
not
wonderful."

Calli's hatred of the disease had never been so full but she kept her cool until Cate needed more. "Give me an example of each."

Cate chose to ignore the negative. Instead she held it in her stomach where it would fester. "He was sitting here with me one night−"

Calista knew that Cate was most likely curled up on the comfortable couch in the great room, before a roaring fire, with Merry. The tall windows would be dark, the lights from the city beyond the shore dotting the horizon. The kitchen−the whole house, actually−would be tidy, and she'd be wearing something cute. Probably yoga pants or faded jeans that hugged her curves with an oversized, faded sweatshirt loose around her shoulders. Cate's hair would be a mess of curls, piled on her head in a knot. She'd have a pencil stuck behind her ear and a stack of paper with scribbles on it somewhere nearby. And a snack−something delicious.

Although if she was hurting, food and ideas would be the last things on her mind. Calista corrected the image.

"The bad is the disease. The bad can be fixed," Cate interrupted herself.

"Cate, don't do that."

"I know."

"Tell me the positive then. Finish your thought about where you were sitting."

"He was sitting here with me. We were just quiet for a minute, staring at the fire."

"And?"

"He'd leaned over and curled up with me−" Calista had seen great love from Tom over the years, written all over his face, and only for her Cate. She'd seen it in his actions; the gentle care he took of Cate, the protective stance he took when it came to her and in the way he looked at her, almost wistfully. Like he knew what he had, what he didn't think he deserved, and who he didn't expect to hold onto much longer, Cal thought, as an idea started to click. She'd seen him hold onto Cate when he was happiest (which wasn't often, she remembered now) turn to her when he was frightened (was that possible?) and laugh with her companionably the rest of the time. Calli had never been present for a fight. Now she imagined them throwing things at one another, ducking and laughing. Moving closer to each other even then until they were staring one another in the eye, serious, the anger forgotten.

Calli's vision was interrupted with Cate's words, "He got all comfortable. It was so familiar but it wasn't. You know?"

Cal nodded.

Over the phone, Cate knew she would. Cate continued then, "He sighed, this big, long sigh, and said, 'I knew I should of brought a uniform.'" She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't cry at the sheer romance of the moment, what she couldn't express in words.

Calista understood. "You love him."

"I do." Was that surprise or resignation in her voice?

"What are you going to do about that?"

"I guess I've got some thinking to do. I just want my life−" Cate lamented one last time.

"You're not giving anything up, Catie−"

"Freedom, independence−"

"If you're doing that, it's not right."

"What are my other choices?"