The Choice Not Taken (13 page)

“I want to be so strong for you, and I’m terrified I might fail,” he confessed in a deep whisper.

“You don’t have to be strong for me,” I told him. “This is my problem, my fault.”

“Never say it’s your fault,” he growled through tight lips.

“I mean the way I react,” I quickly contradicted.

“Courtney.” Now he pulled me beside him, gripping both my wrists in his solid hands. “Nothing is your fault.
Nothing
. I know you aren’t doing anything on purpose and need to work through this. And despite my personal moments of doubt, I promise I’ll do my best to be patient and understanding and never judge you. I promise.”

“You’re too good to me,” I sobbed.

He was just too damn good–better than I could ever be.

The shame rushed through me so unexpectedly, I literally fell upon the bed from its rude force. Unfazed, Alex leaned back with me. And as we laid there, side by side with shoulders touching, I bravely considered divulging the secret about Philip’s marriage.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let him pick me up and place my battered body against the pillows. Through swollen eyes, I watched him lock the bedroom door and switch off the light.

Alex’s image floated, and his features melted against the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Slowly undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, he shed them somewhere upon the carpeted floor. And when he removed his pants, draping them over the edge of the bed, I began to weep again. Only this time, I had no idea why. For one glorious moment, there wasn’t an obsessive thought in my head nor any guilty sorrow in my heart.

“Shh. Court. It’s okay,” Alex wrapped me in his arms.

Amid tear-filled sniffs, I inhaled the scent of his t-shirt. The lasting effects of cologne and deodorant married into an intoxicating blend of Alex, and I involuntarily smiled against his chest. Gripping the washed cotton, I became fascinated over its smoothness and proceeded to massage my open palm along his muscular back. All the while, his heartbeat pulsed into my cheek, and its melodic rhythm soon quieted my own.

I closed my eyes, preferring instead to allow the other senses to enjoy their moment, and within the haziness of this perfection, Alex pulled me on top of him. Touching his lips to mine, I tasted the sweetness of his afternoon stick of cinnamon gum.

A contented sigh escaped my mouth, and he pushed my face up with his hands to better gauge its expression. “I’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” he whispered seductively.

Amid a shadowy darkness, we stared, penetrating that which was seen by the outside world in an attempt to truly measure what laid within. And the longer we locked eyes, the deeper I dug into his private depths below, searching for mercy-and resolution-to a situation not of his making. Before long, blurry images of Philip intruded, morphing themselves upon Alex’s face. I looked away in revulsion.

That’s not fair
! I silently screamed.
Not now! He doesn’t deserve it, and neither do I! So go away
!

My inner torment must have been apparent, because once I looked at him again, Alex’s own features shifted. As a remedy, I heatedly kissed his left earlobe while enticingly pinning my body inside the contours of his chest.

Groaning, he roughly flipped me over. And though his body now hid what little light we had, I felt his gaze upon me, seeking answers to painful questions. I knew he didn’t wish to think the things he did, so I couldn’t fault him.

I’d do the same.

I had done the same.

Lifting off my nightshirt, he tossed it aside before grabbing my wrists. He clutched them over my head with one hand while caressing my trembling thigh with the other. Moving his lips along my jaw line and under my neck, he trailed an invisible, yet undeniable, path down to my heaving breasts. There he stayed until I was ready and then freed my wrists to join me.

There was no other place I wanted to be, and yet it took everything I had to remain there.

In my need to show how much I wanted him, I writhed–loudly-beneath him, and his body moved faster in response. I gasped in his ear, exclaiming over and over that I loved him.

God I loved him!

And he whispered, between his own uneven breaths and with appealing eyes, that he loved me, too.

He pushed with more determination than I’d ever felt before. And for the first time in almost thirteen years together, I believed he was actually a
part
of me–his breath, his sweat, his very
life
flowed into every vein, feeding my malnourished heart.

It was only one brief moment, yet when our two halves finally united...I felt whole.

breathe

In keeping with my treatment plan, I made a personal vow to avoid any major tasks before Alex came home. But sometime between when the kids left for school and lunch-hour, I’d caught up on every stitch of laundry, paid all bills, and cleaned top to bottom. I even threw together a casserole for dinner.

Oh well
, I rationalized.
I’ll stand a better chance at working on me if know things are in order here
.

I’d made reservations at a quaint inn located a half hour away. Alex and I agreed it was worth the expense and close enough in case of emergency. Although the kids were aware of my OCD, we thought it better, considering the odd circumstances, to tell them I was helping a friend recover from surgery.

Yet another lie.

After packing the truck, I turned to find Alex standing on the covered porch, still dressed from work, with hands deep in his pockets.

“Thank you,” I mouthed. Placing my face against his chest, I became frustrated when my arms remained immobile rather than wrap him in the deep embrace my heart so badly wanted. Rosie sniffed, snorted, and nuzzled her damp snout within the palms resting limp against my sides.

“You’re welcome.”

“What are you afraid of?” I daringly asked.

“That you won’t come back to me.”

Unsettled by his honest response, I moved from him and sat in a windswept Adirondack chair. Knocking over a small plant with my heel, I instinctively knelt down to clean it up.

“I’ll take care of it,” Alex promised, eventually grabbing my hand to physically stop me from returning another pile of soil to the clay pot. “You go and take care of
you
,” he asserted.

“I just wish life wasn’t so damn hard,” I complained, slumping onto the red brick steps we put in one summer.

“Sometimes we make it more difficult than it needs to be,” Alex said hesitantly before sitting by my side.

“But I didn’t want-or choose-these problems! Why can’t things just be simple,” I protested. “Just once I want life to be simple for me!”

“Life isn’t easy for anyone, Court. Some of us just get dealt more difficult hands to play. But, the important thing to realize is you always hold the power to make the decision whether to bet or fold...”

I kissed him, gently, one last time. Hating the need to leave my family, I hated the stupid reasons that caused me to do so even more.

Waving a final goodbye, I pulled from the drive without looking back. Even if I wanted, it would have been impossible.

***

The inn was quaint alright, but it was also something more.

Places such as these were where Philip and I stayed on special weekends, and I intentionally selected one in the hope it would immerse me in memories. For although I still didn’t want to remember, I’d become too tired trying to forget.

After checking in with my small bag and oversized purse filled with magazines and books, I dutifully followed a robust, cheerful woman to my room. She chattered the entire way, never stopping to take a breath, and I tuned out everything except the meal schedule. Once at my room, I forced a smile, politely thanked her for the information, and slyly guided her out the door.

One cursory glance proved my space to be extremely comfortable. Hidden behind a heavy oak door rested the small, yet regally decorated bathroom complete with claw-foot tub and antique fixtures. The meticulous subway tile lent a nostalgic feel while the floral cloth shower curtain and burgundy rugs brightened the windowless room.

The main area was essentially a large bedroom with the four poster king-size bed dominating much of its space. Despite it only being early afternoon, the crisp ivory bed-linens and mountains of pillows tempted me to rest.

Nestled in the corner, beside French doors leading to a tiny balcony, sat a humungous chair and ottoman upholstered in striped fabric. Rounding out the room were a weathered armoire, retro-fitted to house the TV, and a marble vanity situated above a small refrigerator, which was cleverly hidden behind a curtain matching the furniture.

It took all of five minutes to unpack, and I flopped upon the bed, unsure what to do next. Grabbing a magazine, I migrated to the chair, which seemingly called my name much louder than the bed. The glossy shots and stories of people I cared nothing about soon proved boring, however, and I let it tumble, resolutely, on my lap.

I should just get on with this
, I concluded. But of course when I
wanted
disturbing memories to appear, none of them did. Discouraged, I grabbed a sweater and headed out the door for a walk.

It was a pleasant section of town, with stately and well-tended homes, adorable little shops, and unique stores.
Philip would have loved this area
, I determined. Yet just thinking of him in the past tense made my eye twitch, and I involuntarily rubbed it.

Maybe I did make things more difficult than they needed to be
, I deliberated. Alex could have something there.

Stopping for an overpriced coffee drink, the enticing aromas of the specialty shop brought Philip back to me again. We spent so many of our hours in places such as this, enjoying the flavors and smells and privacy.

Strategically weaving along the busy street, I stole intermittent sips while plotting a plan for my afternoon. In classic form, I fashioned a checklist of what I believed to be the principal problems.

Philip’s passing was obviously the trigger, but was there more? I didn’t think so, yet I couldn’t really be sure. All I knew was the memories, insomnia, and subsequent OCD appeared once I found out he died.

Philip died.

He was dead.

And I’d never see him again.

Through the haze, I made a great effort to recall Dr. Benson’s words: something about “
a source of comfort...to know he was still out there somewhere-missing you, loving you, taking care of you
.”

He
had
always been out there somewhere.

But now he wasn’t.

Wiping abrupt tears before they could actually fall, I chugged the remains of my coffee. Tossing the cup into a garbage can too pretty for trash, I hurriedly returned to the inn.

I opted for dinner in my room, and the gracious host didn’t blink an eye. Apparently, I wasn’t the first anti-social guest to ever bow out of the communal dining scene, and I felt immense gratitude when she arrived carrying a stunning hand-carved tray.

I thanked her-sincerely this time-not only for the food but also for leaving me alone.

I hungrily surveyed the contents. A refined pattern of pale pink and gray-blue flowers rimmed the china’s edge, and I gingerly rubbed my fingertip along its raised surface in appreciation. On it rested a chicken breast stuffed with something that smelled heavenly, a perfect pile of fresh asparagus, and a mound of redskin mashed potatoes with glorious garlic chunks. Perfecting my meal was a hearty slice of bread, a spiraled dollop of real butter, and a scrumptious slice of coconut cream pie.

I gobbled the pie first. And once I cleared that plate, I moved onto the rest. Situating my chair near the French doors, I ate everything else while overlooking the back lawn and gardens.

Dutifully placing the emptied tray in the dumbwaiter at the end of the hall, I lowered it and rang the bell as directed to signal whoever was at the other end to be on the lookout.

Now if only life was that easy
, I envied.

Refreshed from my walk and dinner, I popped open the bottle of wine Alex so deftly tucked in my bag. “You might need this,” he knowingly joked.

I scooted my chair back into its proper place and closed and locked the doors. Snuggling deep within its folds, I gripped the crystal water glass–now brimming with a robust red–which had been tucked in a basket by the hidden fridge. With the first dry sip, I made a mental note to thank my husband for including the corkscrew.

Against a fading light, the room became even more welcoming, and my wish to share this with Alex quickly diminished due to persistent flashbacks of Philip.

In their place, I focused on thick moldings tracing the high ceiling and elegant details of a picture rail. Antique frames and yellowed photos gracing its precariously thin line offered reminders of a simpler time. And though they reflected the past of others, I no longer fought the glaring reality of mine.