The Choice Not Taken (12 page)

“And is Alex the kind of man to react like that? Has he made comments about these things in the past or given other signs?”

“No.”

“All I ask is you consider it, Courtney. It could change everything for the better by being 100% honest with him-and yourself.”

I simply nodded.

“Since we may not see each other soon, I want to follow up on the dreams about Philip,” Dr. Benson continued.

“Okay,” I agreed, readily welcoming safer subjects apart from Alex and the kids.

“We touched on the prospect of guilt and fear stemming from your time with Philip, and the idea they might manifest themselves in dreams.”

Unsure where she was going with this, I just waited.

“Dreams-and the study of them–are such a popular arena, and I tend to steer clear of the crazier interpretations, preferring instead to focus on more realistic connections which can be made,” she explained. “And I think the dreams you described–sexual fantasies, fear of running into him, and anger at the prospect of him essentially “outing” you–tell us more.”

“What do you mean?” I became intrigued at the prospect there might be a solution lurking within what my sub-conscious did over the years to potentially work this out.

“Courtney. I think the dreams weren’t only a possible symbol of wanting him or even that time of your life back, but also a source of comfort...to know he was still out there somewhere-missing you, loving you, taking care of you.”

I just began to decipher those words when her clock chimed we were done.

***

There I remained, for an entire afternoon, sunken deep within the confines of my favorite chair in the great room. The latest meeting with Dr. Benson actually alleviated some earlier distress, but her revelations and suggestions also brought new worries to the forefront.

My OCD was on high-alert, but with a body incapable of reaction I resorted to mentally organizing rooms to alleviate the internal chaos and possibly get some rest. Yet, every time I began to groggily drift off, remnants of our discussion ceaselessly crept in.

Was my reaction to Philip’s passing more than basic grief? Could I possibly feel sadness knowing he wasn’t out there...somewhere?

Dwelling on our session only led to the past, and I closed my eyes, forcing sleep rather than memories. I gradually dozed, and yet even then he wouldn’t allow me to rest.

***

Our first official date was unremarkable, yet surprisingly pleasant. Aside from one thing, that is...Philip never touched me.

With my obvious relief arose concern I may have unintentionally offended him at our previous meeting. I replayed my actions over and over, eventually convincing myself the reflexive recoil went undetected.

Maybe he just wasn’t interested in me that way
, I imagined. And the immediate apprehension over never seeing him again felt so unnatural, I readily dismissed it. Thankfully, he did call-again and again-which eliminated the bizarre paranoia and gave reason to wake each day with a glimmer of anticipation.

It wasn’t until our tenth meeting that, one night over dinner, he asked me–point-blank-why I feared men.

“What?” I stammered, nervously spearing the fork into my plate of pasta.

“Courtney. You’re funny and intelligent and positively stunning. Yet, there’s this extreme disconnect every time a man enters your personal space. I’ve noticed it with waiters, bartenders...even me,” he added softly.

“I’m not afraid of men,” I scowled. “I just don’t feel comfortable around people I don’t know. You probably think it’s weird because you’re everyone’s friend. Calling men “guy,” shaking hands and chatting with absolute strangers. You’re a social butterfly, and I’m not is all.”

“I don’t believe that,” he countered. “You appear to be fine around women.” Philip’s dark eyes captured my own, and within them I searched for possible intent or reason for such undue cross-examination.

I found nothing.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” I harshly replied. “Move onto something else.”

“Okay. Do you think we should continue to see each other?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Wh-what?” I stuttered.

“Do you think we should continue to see each other?” he repeated. Sipping his red wine, he savored it, then boyishly smacked his lips in a way that typically made me smile.

“Why would you ask such a thing?” I frowned.

“Well, my wife wants to discuss reconciliation, and I’m on the fence. While I do love her,” he mused, “our time apart has made me evaluate the failings in our marriage more closely. And to be quite honest...I’m not sure if all of them can be repaired.”

A shocking pang of envy shot through me when he said he loved her. I’d never met her, nor seen her. I didn’t even know her first name. Yet the idea of him loving another woman–even if she was technically his wife–was very upsetting.

“That’s not my decision to make and you know it!” I accused. “You need to do what’s right for you.”

But what about me
? I silently fretted.

“I’ve already made my decision.”

“Wh-what is it?” I whispered.

“I want to pursue Us.”

“Us?” I stupidly repeated.

“Yes. Us. Is it even a possibility?”

“Yes. It is,” I declared.

He leaned back against his chair with the loveliest smile I’d ever witnessed, and the light encompassing his eyes removed every dark worry. More importantly, that night became the first night I allowed him to touch me.

remedy

A ferocious slam of the back door jerked me awake. I rarely napped and immediately looked around, puzzled.

“Mom! Where are you?” Sylvie called. I heard the rustle of backpacks and jackets and shoes being shed.

“Get out of my cubbie, Syl,” Mitch ordered.

“Just hold on,” she whined.

Groaning like a woman two decades my senior, I rose stiffly from the chair.

“MOVE NOW!” Mitch yelled, and a second later Sylvie squealed in agony. Rushing to the mud room, I discovered her clutching an arm and crying dramatically while Mitch calmly tossed things into his now-vacant cubbie.

“What happened?” I shouted, inspecting her blotchy skin.

“Mitch gave me a snake-bite!” Sylvie spat between sobs. Huge tears fell along porcelain cheeks, landing on her pale pink cardigan. I stared in wonder at the intricate daisy pattern, marveling how much the wet spots resembled raindrops as they hovered–mid-air-over the miniature embroidered landscape.

“I told you to move,” he said and heedlessly sauntered into the kitchen.

“Mitchell! Get back here now!” I shrieked.

“What?” he replied with an exasperated attitude, which only fueled my already-short temper.

“What?” I repeated snidely. “Did you give your sister a snakebite?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Tell her you’re sorry,” I insisted.

“Sorry,” he mumbled while Sylvie sniffled and wiped her nose on a sleeve.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“But Mom,” he argued while I glared over him.

“I’m sorry, Sylvie,” he told her sincerely.

“S’okay,” she answered with a sugary smile.

“Now I want you both to go, have snack together, and listen–I mean listen–to the other tell about their day.”

Their whining became nails on a chalkboard, and I raised my hand for silence.

“The sooner you do it, the sooner you’ll be done. Sylvie goes first. And Mitchell,” I turned to him, “if you do anything intentionally like that again, your video game system will be in the yard sale pile. For good,” I threatened. And he sheepishly nodded, knowing how much I meant it.

While hanging windbreakers and sorting through books, I reflected on my life before this one.
Was either really easier than the other
? I reasoned. Like Dr. Benson said, there have always been challenges...some big and unimaginable and others small yet of great importance.

Bored with insightful questions, which lacked valid answers, I shook my head to rid such profound thinking. I had enough with reflection. I needed to be a parent.

Rifling through homework assignments, I stalled to afford the kids privacy. They chatted in the other room over apple slices and string cheese, and I smiled, knowing they’d be civil for at least the rest of today. I sighed victoriously and entered the kitchen with my piles of papers just as the phone rang. I reflexively checked Caller ID.

“Hey,” I answered shyly.

“Hey back,” Alex replied.

Once we fell asleep last night there had been no opportunity to discuss Philip further, and now I not only felt embarrassed but troubled about Alex’s reaction.

“How are things today, Court?” I could tell he was on his office phone, working.

“Better. Today’s appointment helped,” I said, halfheartedly.

“Good. That’s good.” He paused. “Do you need to go back?”

“Friday.”

I neglected to share how Dr. Benson wanted me to spend the next few days sorting out our discussion and “feeling what comes” as she put it, all the while resisting the OCD desires whenever they presented themselves.

When she said that, it took every bit of will to resist the desire to toss my cold cup of coffee in her face. I had no idea what to expect and feared its effect on the kids and Alex. I even debated renting a hotel room so I could endure it in isolation.

“Okay. So you feel okay with that?” he asked.

“Mm. Yes and No. For one thing, I do need a break from her, but I’m also afraid of how I might be these next few days.”

“What do you mean?” I heard someone mumbling in the background.

“Do you need to go, Alex? If you have work to do, we can talk about this when you get home,” I offered, secretly hoping to delay this conversation.

“We probably need to talk now. I have to work late tonight,” he said gruffly.

“How late?” I pouted, really wanting him with me in case my pseudo-detox kicked in.

“I’ll be home by the time the kids get to bed.”

Rats.

“Why don’t you tell me anything you want right now, Court? I have a few minutes,” he offered.

With reluctance, I explained Dr. Benson’s so-called prescription, finding it much easier over the phone than in person, where I’d actually have to look him in the eye and break out my bad poker face.

“What do you need from me?”

“That’s the problem, Alex. I don’t know. I have no idea how this is going to work,” I told him truthfully.

“Do you need to be away from us?” he asked gravely.

“Maybe,” I whispered.

“I could take half day tomorrow and work from home Thursday. Would that help?” And even as he said the words, I imagined dread on his handsome face, heard upset in his caring voice, sensed sacrifice in his generous spirit, and felt suffering in his magnificent heart.

He didn’t deserve a damaged woman like me.

“That would work great. But you...”

“Done,” he cut me off. “I’ll see you tonight. Love you.” And before I could tell how much I loved him back, he hung up.

***

Once Alex finally arrived, I was in a fair mood, compliments of the three glasses of wine I drank before, during, and after dinner. In place of a locked jaw and wound fists, it provided submissive patience with the kids and rare distraction from irrational roaming about the house.

While he tucked in Mitch and Sylvie, I unloaded the dishwasher, because even in my inebriated state I knew this simple, unfinished task would haunt me throughout the night. I didn’t hear Alex enter the bathroom until he was there-standing behind me and staring, intensely, at my reflection in the mirror.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked quietly.

“I wish you’d quit asking me that. It’s getting annoying,” I snapped, marching into the bedroom.

“Really?” he sneered with sarcasm. “Because there’s
a lot
annoying me right now.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” I sighed. “I know this is hard for you, and I honestly can’t express how much I love you for waiting until I get through this...”

“Well, I’m not sure how patient I can be,” he interjected.

“What does that mean?”

“It means this, Courtney. I love you. I love you more than I ever wanted, desired, or needed anything in this world. I’d give up every one of the five senses if it meant you’d still say you loved me, because all I need is the wholeness I feel in my heart,” he gasped for breath, “every time you’re near.”

I extended my arms, and he raised a hand to stop me.

“But when you’re in pain, I am too. And the hurt I feel right now, seeing you go through this...” he paused. I again went toward him, but he moved further away and sat on the edge of the bed.