Meet Cate (16 page)

Every time Tom pushed Cate away emotionally, it hurt her. It separated her further from her own truth: that she was enough. His behavior wasn't realized on his part, nor, she thought for the hundredth time, was it personal. It was merely a reflection of his own pain and his own beliefs. The ones that flew by as each moment changed.

One day, he loved her and admired her. And the next? He couldn't move far enough away from what he believed was poisoning him.

PTSD was an evil mistress. The only beauty Cate could find in the disease was the growth it caused. That growth, however, took time, energy, and spawned pain like no other.

PTSD was running this show, Cate firmly believed. Her Tom, the man who had once loved her, was its hostage.

It doesn't have to be my job
, Cate repeated to herself as she picked up speed again.
It's not. He'll heal with, or without, me. It's okay that I go on.

The age-old questions she wrestled with taunted her brain. Cate lifted her face to the sun, squeezing her eyes shut. She felt the warmth embrace her skin, softly, like a lover's gentle touch.

She needed peace. She deserved peace.

His pain wasn't caused by her, she knew that deep in her soul. She didn't even have to contemplate that further. His healing, then, had to come from him, she decided. Not for the first time.

He expected no more than that from her. Cate pressured herself to be more to him, she realized now. She wanted to be that answer, his answer.

Years ago, as his wife, she'd felt clearly supportive. Even as other friends left his side, she'd stayed. She'd called his patient therapist, she'd endeavored to ease the full schedule Tom created for himself. She held onto him on the bad days (when he let her) and quietly celebrated every good one. Through it all, she felt his incredulous gratitude (and often times disbelief). Perhaps it was the words he rarely, but sincerely, stated. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her. Mostly, it was a feeling. When he was sad, lost, lonely or confused, Tom came to her. And when he'd survived the moment, he laid his heart at her feet for her to take.

She sighed, a deep sound that came from the depths of her toes. To be loved that thoroughly again.

Shaking her head, Cate picked up speed, wanting to sprint. If she couldn't be the answer, she wanted to be his friend and aid him in that way. After all, it wasn't as if they were married any longer or even in a relationship. Cate struggled with the words,
he didn't want her
. Not in his marriage or even his life perhaps−and certainly not in his healing, it seemed. She knew the words to be untruths, even as each flew past her brain, registering, resolute. They were Tom's truths, though, most days. And she wasn't going to fight them any longer. Cate wanted Tom to concentrate on himself, freed from the shell their marriage had become.

Her only leftover worry, then, was what would happen when he healed. True to his course, he'd feel better one day, learn to manage his symptoms and then−she sighed again, her head and heart a mess, and then: his beautiful eyes would look for her. Tom would want to share his newfound happiness with someone he trusted. Someone who knew the road he'd traveled down, someone he felt comfortable sharing his personal stories with.

And what if she had moved on?

No one could blame her.

She wasn't talking about anyone else though.

She was talking about Tom's view.

And her own.

It might take a little bit longer to make peace with that idea but Cate felt herself moving slowly toward it. Whatever happened for Tom, she would support her children's father. He deserved that much. He was her greatest friend, he'd been her lover, and he'd given so much of himself to her in the half lifetime she'd known him. Cate's gratitude ran deep.

She stopped in the middle of the path to catch her breath. Merry obediently halted, her leash offering no choice. Adapting easily, the lean, muscular dog sniffed the sandy path below her paws. From the trees, a bird called out and another answered. Above them, a shiny plane flew slowly across the deep blue sky, its distant engines a comforting drone. And somewhere, a piece of Cate's heart broke off, to be claimed forever by young love.

Cate knew what she had to do then. She took a few minutes and a deep, deep breath, to begin the process of clearing her heart.

It would take so much strength to move back to where she'd been weeks ago, when she'd seen him shuffling along the sidewalk. Cate wanted to move beyond even that moment, to be able to see Tom, wish him well and feel nothing but affection. Not the deep, deep love, the yearning, that caused Cate to want to throw herself at his feet. The familiarity, the comfort that came from so many years of knowing someone, sharing fears that ran as deep as the stormy ocean and the love that had survived that storm.

"It's not that easy. It's just the start of it," Al had told her once. Cate held onto those words and the understanding of her family, even as she felt the first familiar stirrings of the anger that sometimes returned when she thought of Tom leaving her. It wasn't the divorce, she'd dealt with that. It wasn't the fact that he felt he'd fallen out of love with her.

He didn't leave her, he left
them.
Her children had lost the father they knew that day. And for that, she thought, her hands automatically fisting
, she still had a long way to go toward forgiveness.

One day, he was at home, his feet up in the living room, grinning at her. The very next day, he'd walked out. Her heart had broken in two that day. If she'd known then how he'd begin to only visit the children once a week, never calling, maybe she might've fought harder for their family.

Cate had expected Tom to come home. Every other time he thought his answer was to get away from her, Tom had returned within days. He seemed to have trouble understanding that the disease was what followed him wherever he went, tormenting him. If Cate was halfway around the world, PTSD still curled up to him in his bed. It still snuggled late at night on the couch, whispering in his ear in the firelight.

This time he didn't return. He called her and asked her to leave a duffel bag full of his clothing on the porch. She'd filled luggage with his belongings, even as a part of her screamed not to, and set it outside. Against the steps they'd painted together. Against a huge pot of passionate, intoxicating, red geraniums.

Then she'd left the house, refusing to see him come for his things. Cate had driven into the nearest city, past the train station, without the first thought of how the building might become familiar in her future. Cate drove on, over short straight streets, one block at a time. She played music, the sharp depth of the classic piano pounding into her brain. Cate rolled her window down, needing to feel the cool breeze. She was hot. She felt ill. She wanted to pull layers off, climb out of her very skin.

Cate had parked in a compact corner lot, deep in the city. Leaving her Jeep finally, she breezed past bike stands on foot, ignoring lines of people while at the same time, drawing comfort from them. She entered a clean storefront, the sign offering
fresh coffee
. At the busy counter, she ordered a double espresso to go, and turning, scanned the room. People filled it, their voices bouncing and reverberating against the tall open ceilings. She glanced around, needing the crowd.

Cate couldn't meet anyone's eyes. Her marriage was over. Didn't anyone understand what had happened? Why didn't life stop?

Taking her coffee with a brief smile that didn't even reach her cheekbones, much less her eyes, she left a crumpled dollar in the tip jar and strode out. Leaving her Jeep in the lot, she pounded the sidewalk, walking as far and as fast as she could until she couldn't walk any farther.

She'd given the hot drink to a homeless person. The smell of it was too strong for this moment. He'd been surprised but grateful. She idly hoped the buzz didn't kill the dirty, kind-looking man.

Cate had left the busy city behind her, walking miles off her comfortable low clogs. When she reached the beach finally, Cate had climbed the low rock wall and alone, crumpled into the sand. Great sobs racked her, so deep they rattled her chest. Tearing at her throat with claw-like fingers, they stole her voice. When she almost couldn't breath, Cate collapsed onto the sand and rocked, helpless.

The thought of that time strengthened Cate now. She'd come so far in only a few short years. This was the rollercoaster ride she so wanted to get off of. Not just off; she wanted to crumple her ticket, shred it to pieces and toss it into an empty rusty barrel where it might burn. People would warm themselves by the fire of her ticket, hands extended, glancing at her curiously, she thought, smiling briefly. And she would stride by, uncaring.

Cate would allow herself to grieve Tom properly over the next little while. Maybe she'd change her mind, but in her heart she now knew concretely that she had to come first. Cate would always wish him well. Maybe her decision to indulge in a great deal of self care would inspire Tom to begin taking care of himself.

Shaking off the memory, Cate looked around. She had almost looped the entire lake. The day had grown warmer as the sun shone brightly.  Merry was panting happily, in need of fresh, clean, cold water.

The scent of the tall pines refreshed her. Their smooth trunks were sheared of limbs up past Cate's head, leaving only knobby bumps. Cate imagined a squirrel perching, chattering endlessly, another nibbling a nut he'd hold with two paws, his fluffy tail full behind him. A woodpecker's distinctive song rang out above her. Cate searched the tree line for the little red-headed bird as she listened to the almost musical, steady
rat-a-tat-tat
. The hollowness of the drumming appealed to her, it was a satisfying sound. She wondered if he was looking for insects to eat, a warm place for his family or if he was trying to create one.

Pine needles littered the ground. Cate knew them to be soft, a bed she could fall safely to if she only needed it. The smell from the velvety piles intoxicated Cate.

Gentle waves dotted the water as a paddle boat glided by. Cate smiled at the image of a little boy pushing his short legs, paddling studiously. She imagined his face screwed up in concentration. The boy's father leaned comically into the far middle of the seat cushion to balance their weights. On the other seat sat a short beagle with big, droopy eyes, his long, floppy ears pooling on the seat on either side of him. The spotted dog matched the color of soft caramel and fluffy marshmallow. Cate couldn't tell if the sedate pup was amused or bothered by the ride.

Her good mood revived, feeling lighter than she had in a long time, Cate fluffed Merry's fur.

The big dog looked at her,
we're still going, right?

Cate adjusted her music, picking a Boston playlist that included Aerosmith, Foreigner and .38 Special.

Resolute, refreshed, Cate sprinted one last time. She had only two more things to do. She had to speak to Melissa. And then Mike.

"I'm taking you up on your offer," Cate told Melissa, after dialing the phone she slid out of her tightly-fitted armband. The Velcro groaned as Cate breathed loudly, in and out.

"You're alright? Are you kidnapped?" Melissa asked.

"I was running," Cate smirked.

"What offer then?"

"Mary."

"For Monday?"

"But only because she deserves a vacation," Cate smiled through the words, tears drying on her cheeks in the sun.

"Cate, that's wonderful. You sound great."

"I feel great."

"Tom?"

"I'm with Mike."

"I can keep up," Cate couldn't see Melissa's wolfish smile. "So, Mike?"

"No, me."

The women signed off and Cate slid the phone back onto her upper arm, glistening with sweat. She continued the last of the lake loop, wanting cold water, hearty food and a single conversation.

Back at the cabin, Cate stood before Mike, freshly showered. Her long hair was still wet, combed down her back in a neat line. She wore a white tank top with thin spaghetti straps that bit into her muscled shoulders as she moved. Her comfy old jeans were so faded they were almost bright, ending at bare feet. Around her shoulders lay a thin, hooded sweatshirt in a soft blue, the zipper loosely pulled up past the double pockets. The sleeves were long, Cate's hands hooked in them as if searching for comfort.

She had gobbled a plate of fresh strawberries covered in yogurt and granola, a few cookies and a glass of milk. Before the shower, she'd downed a few glasses of cool water. After Cate washed the dishes, she began drying them, replacing each neatly on an open shelf as she worked. She took a deep breath.

"Mike−"

"Cate," the dimple she rarely saw blinked at her. He lifted a second dish towel, moving next to her and reaching for the last clear plate she'd placed on the wooden drying rack.

"I need to talk to you." She stalled momentarily, hesitating.

"About?" He was less interested in her conversation and more in the last of the fat strawberries, still sitting in the stainless steel sink after being rinsed.

"Let's go sit outside," Cate told him. She avoided his eyes as she shook water droplets from the strawberry container before placing it in the refrigerator. She folded the dish towel she held, replacing it neatly on the oven handle, exaggerating care as a way to buy time. "Do you want a drink?"

"It's that kind of a conversation?" Mike leaned back against the counter, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his thick arms crossed. The typical lazy grin that seemed so at home on his face told her he didn't know what was coming, while his body language argued that he did.

Cate reached for the buttery wine they'd enjoyed, only to veto it. She opened the small refrigerator, and leaning down, she found milk, cream, a clear glass pitcher of water, and orange juice. Settling on the water, Cate closed the door and lifted a lemon, inspecting it. She scrubbed the outside ferociously. Then she sliced it quickly, using a small wooden cutting board and a sharp knife she pulled from the strong magnet above the sink. She tossed each piece into the pitcher, concentrating, the consistency of her own fluid movement comforting. Each lemon landed with a splash, making a
plop
that Cate might've found pleasing at any other time.

Cate slowly poured two tall glasses then placed the pitcher back in the fridge, her brain making mental notes of what needed to be done before she closed up the cozy cabin for her new friend at the gas station, Sam.

Once outside, Cate placed the drinks on a low table between two Adirondack chairs. Settling reluctantly, Cate adjusted the pretty lime-green cushion, decorated with white palm tree silhouettes, behind her lower back. She was stalling again. She didn't want to hurt Mike, and she wasn't sure she could finish this conversation without touching on, at least, his pride.

"Cate," he started. Standing at the stained deck rail, his broad back to her, Mike looked out over the water. He wanted to kayak, he wanted to run. He thought he knew what was coming and he didn't want to hear it. "What is it?"

Cate didn't see any reason to mince words. He knew what he meant to her−hopefully. "I'm going home."

Mike turned to face her, a study of chiseled Roman beauty against a backdrop of serene water and brilliant colors, the cover of the novel she'd never written. His muscular arms bent, one elbow supporting his weight against the railing. She half expected him to crook a finger and invite her closer. A few days ago, she might've accepted that interesting thought.

Mike just looked at her, nothing showing on his face. He'd always let her answer her own questions, listening thoroughly but quietly. If Mike had views about anything Cate did or said, he often kept them to himself.

"I had a wonderful time, Mike. I've just got some things I've got to do. Stuff to work out."

He looked at her for a long moment, as only he could, understanding dawning in his beautiful eyes. His eyes looked away then, toward the forest where her Jeep sat, waiting. They skimmed the trees, slowly, as if he were looking for something−a sign? Finally, Mike spoke in a low voice. "You deserve to be happy."

She nodded, a lump in her throat. Looking away for a beat herself, she answered, "I do know that. I think I just forgot."

"You deserve good things," he told her now, tenderly, as he crossed the deck and crouched in front of her.

"You do, too, Mike. I need to concentrate," she told him, filling space where their words stopped and their eyes started. "Um, on me." Shaking her head to clear it, she placed her hand on his shoulder and pushed, standing.

Turning her head once, she saw Mike settle back on his heels, the twinkle returning to his eyes. Cate pushed open the sliding glass door, looking for her phone. She wanted music.

Mike called after her, "Pretty small house to hide."

"I'm not−" Finding her phone on the counter, Cate strode back toward the sound of his voice. When she reached the screen, she stopped dead, Mike's face appearing on the other side suddenly. "Hiding. I'm not hiding. Mike−"

"What?" he asked innocently, biting back a grin.

"Move," Cate pushed past him, phone in hand, and sat on the wide bench that adjoined the lower deck rail. She placed her phone on the weathered wood before her, scrolling through music channels. Finding her Boston playlist, she hit play and pushed the phone away, looking toward the water.

"Cate," Mike plunked down behind her, realizing he probably wasn't taking Cate as seriously as she had expected.

"Yes?" She drew her knees up in front of her, wrapping her arms around her legs and pushing her face into them.

"I hope−"

"What?"

He shook his head.

"Tell me." Grateful, relieved, Cate turned and poked one long finger into his side. "What were you going to say?"

"You're not getting rid of me," Mike said seriously.

Cate nodded, touched.

"I hope you find someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated and loved the way you deserve to be loved."

"That's the point, Mike. I don't want to find someone. I want to live my life." Mike just nodded. "I want to go back home, pick up cooking, find my life again−find
me
."

Their faces were inches apart. Mike reached up, tracing her cheek slowly. As he did, he wiped the lone tear that fell with the smooth pad of his thumb.

"You know−you know it's not you, right? Tell me you do," Cate whispered.

"I know," he answered softly. She smelled her coconut shampoo in his hair, her favorite lemony soap on his skin. For a minute, they stared at one another. "Catie−"

Cate looked down at her toes, wiggling them, suddenly uncomfortable. Mike did a lot of things very well. His confidence inspired her. His love made her feel safe, his teasing, special. But when he spoke sentimentally, she froze. It was more than she ever expected, more, she felt, than she deserved.

Mike was someone she'd always looked up to. He was what she thought she'd wanted, from the time she was a little girl. Young enough to wear a curtain on her head and parade around with her friends in tall high heels. A big, strong man, someone who'd care for and about her. Someone she could laugh with, travel with, and be completely herself with. He was good to her friends, her puppy and her children. The former he'd helped himself to, flirting with each of the beautiful women, making sure Cate saw. He was beautiful, he was kind, he was sweet.

Boston sang on,
I Had A Good Time
filling the moment perfectly.

"You deserve all good things," Mike was saying. "Only the best."

Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him.