Unlovely (33 page)

"Why didn't we ever talk about God? I've been
coming here for almost a month and we've never once spoken about God."

"We could have talked about
anything during these one-on-ones, Claudia. Do you want to talk about it
now?"

"No. Not really."

"Well, there must be a reason you
brought it up."

"No. It just occurred to me, that's
all."

Dr. Phillips jotted something in her
notebook. "Is there anything about God you'd like to discuss? Anything in
particular?"

Claudia would have loved to get a hold
of that notebook.

"Okay. How about this: do you believe
in God?" Claudia asked.

"Would it matter to you if I
did?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Do you believe in Him?"

"Do you think it's relevant to your
recovery if I believe in God?"

Claudia delayed answering, hating to
make the concession. "No, probably not."

Dr. Phillips nodded. "Okay."
(Did Claudia detect smugness?) "Let's stick to things that are relevant,
then."

Claudia picked at the sofa arm. In the
course of her semiweekly visits to the office she had fully loosed a thread and
had begun to unravel the upholstery. Surely Dr. Phillips noticed, but she never
said anything about it. Claudia wondered if she could strip the couch down to
the cotton batting and springs before someone asked what she was doing.

"What about suffering?"
Claudia asked.

"What about it?"

"When I think about God, I think
about suffering."
"That's interesting. Why do you think of suffering?"

Claudia ignored her. "Is there a
reason why we have to suffer? Do you think suffering is really
redemptive?"

"That's not an area in which I have
a degree," Dr. Phillips smiled.

"Well, what do you
think
?
Would you tell me what you think?" It would be such a victory to get Dr.
Phillips to state an opinion.

Dr. Phillips sighed and crossed her
legs. "Not that it matters, but I'd have to say no, I don't think we
should ever have to suffer. I think much of life is spent avoiding suffering,
and that's one of the reasons I became a doctor. I want to relieve suffering,
not explain it."

Claudia was surprised to get a straight
answer. She pressed on. "You're a psychiatrist. Shouldn't you want to
explain it? Isn't that part of your job description?"

"Do you think it should be?"

Again with the question to a question.
Claudia was loathe to go back down that path.

"What about unavoidable suffering?
Is there a purpose to that?"

Dr. Phillips opened her mouth, then shut
it again before answering, "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I've been thinking about it a lot,
actually. I've begun to think all suffering has some purpose, even if we don't
know what it is. There's no way to escape suffering altogether, and I'm not
sure people should always try to."

"So if I understand you correctly,
you believe some suffering is good."

"I don't know if it's good, really.
I just think it's reasonable. There's a reason for it."

"Do you think you deserve to
suffer?"

"I've suffered."

"Did you deserve it?"

"I don't know. What do you
think?"

Dr. Phillips' expression was
inscrutable. "This seems like a good subject for you to explore after
you're discharged, Claudia."

Claudia had hoped for something more
from her doctor, but she hadn't really expected it. She persisted, "What
about forgiveness? Do you believe you can be forgiven?"

"Do you mean by a deity? Obviously
I believe you can be forgiven by another human being."

Claudia nodded. "Yes, I mean by
God. Do you think God can forgive you if you're sincerely sorry for something
you've done?"

"Is it important to you to believe
that you've been forgiven by God? Is there something you feel especially guilty
about?" Now she looked interested. Guilt was something the doctor loved to
discuss.

"I hadn't realized that your office
also served as a confessional," Claudia countered.

The slightest twitch around Dr.
Phillips' mouth – she was provoked. "It doesn't. I don't offer absolution.
I'm here to listen, though, if you have something you need to share."

"Frankly, I don't need to share.
What good does it do? If I want to share something, I can tell it to a bum on
the street for free. I'm not here to share, I'm here to get answers. That's why
I'm here."

Dr. Phillips took a note.
"Searching for answers is part of the process of healing, Claudia. I can
see progress in that."

Claudia yanked at the thread and
unraveled another row.

Claudia had thought about Mark Adams from time to time
through the years: when the Berlin Wall came down, Claudia wondered how it had
affected Mark's career; when she was sent information about study-abroad
programs in Russia, she'd wonder if he was participating in something similar.

But now, as she prepared to meet her
parents for breakfast, memories of Mark crowded her thoughts, and a peculiar
thrill tingled her blood. She actually felt giddy.

It was so ridiculous, and Claudia knew
it was illogical, but it was there: that tiny spark of hope. Was it fate that
had made Sylvia remember Mark, so that she would mention him to Claudia? It was
awfully odd: now that Claudia was finally ready for a relationship, and
struggling to make it happen, Mark Adams' name had emerged out of nowhere.
Mark, her first love.

As she reminisced, rubbing moisturizer
aggressively onto her neck, it came to her that Mark had actually been her only
love. He was so much important to her life's plot than Kurt or Peter had been.
Was the distressing conversation with her mom some sort of cosmic nudge in
Mark's direction, or was it simply the idle chatter of an old woman who wanted
to see her daughter married off?

Fate. Who believed in fate? It was
fiddle-
faddle
.

Still, Mark Adams. Mark.

Throughout breakfast Claudia entertained
a tiny hope that her mother would bring him up again, but of course she didn't.
They only talked about what was going on in
Mapleville
these days: a scandal in the town council, a fire in the waste bin in the
ladies' room at the library. Claudia participated in the conversation, but
throughout the meal an image of Mark Adams standing in the common room all
those years ago, eager and adorable, stuck in her brain with the resilience of
a chigger, and the very persistence of that memory, the intensity of it, lent
it legitimacy. Mark. There must be a reason that he was rattling around in her
consciousness.

Hours later, after the school day was
over, back in her rooms and cradling a cup of tea, she allowed herself the
luxury of extended daydreams. She lingered on every vivid detail of their
dates, picturing what she had been wearing, what Mark had worn – that beautiful
blue cardigan that brought out his eyes – even the way Mark took his coffee.
She remembered the bulk of him in the driver's seat of his car, the smell of
his leather jacket. There had been no hand-holding, no snuggling,
no
kissing at all, until that last evening. Then he finally
got up his nerve and kissed her one last time, right before leaving. So much
reticence. He'd been concerned about how she'd react to any physical contact,
remembering how skittish she'd been after their initial intimacy.

The sex. At the time it had been
traumatic, but now, observed through the lens of life experience, that first
sexual experience seemed strangely wonderful. The scene that had followed had
been regrettable, to be sure (explosive – she blushed to remember it) but in
the end it had all worked out. She and Mark had talked it through, and had
achieved the improbable: they'd turned a one-night stand into friendship. When
you thought about it, it really was a remarkable demonstration of Mark's
character and maturity. Compare that to Peter Tomlinson! No, you couldn't.
There was no comparison.

Claudia relived their final moments: her
toes cold in her boots, the scratchy wool of her scarf; his hesitation; the
embrace; how he smelled like cold air and Chaps cologne. And then the kiss. Not
too passionate, but far from platonic.

And now, years later, Claudia found
herself almost crying when she thought about it. If she had been smart, she
would have realized that she would never kiss him again, and if she had known
that, she would have kissed him longer. She might never have stopped kissing
him at all. What if Claudia had responded to his postcards all those years ago?
What if she hadn't been so damnably practical-minded, and had corresponded with
Mark?

"Do you think men remember their
ex-girlfriends?"

Peggy Brindle looked up from the quizzes
she was correcting. Odd. Claudia came around so rarely these days, and when she
did, it was generally to discuss students or her cactus.

"Well, I suppose so. Why?"

"I don't know. Just thinking about
it.""

"Really? Just out of the blue like
that?"

Claudia allowed a small smile to twist
her lips. "I had a boyfriend in college who's been on my mind
lately."

This was news worth paying attention to.
Peggy, who had returned to her grading, paused mid-slash. "Oh, a
boyfriend. Is there a reunion coming up or something?"

"Maybe." Who knew? It could
happen.

"Ah, I see," Peggy teased,
drawing a B in the top margin of the quiz she was correcting. "Looking to
blow the ashes into embers, eh?" Not hearing a ready reply, she glanced up
at her colleague and found her blushing. Actually blushing! That was one for the
books.

"He couldn't have just forgotten
me, right?" Claudia continued, her eyes on the tabletop where she was
tracing a pattern with her index finger. "You don't completely forget
someone who meant something to you."

"If you dated for any length of
time, I doubt it," Peggy said, drawing angry red slashes and shaking her
head in disgust at the ineptitude of her students. If they'd spent a little
less time on their hair and a little more time with their fetal pigs, they
would have had no problem with this exam. So frustrating.

"Well, to be honest, we were
together just a little while," Claudia confessed. "It was very
intense, though. Like a much longer relationship, but compressed into a few
weeks."

"Hmm." Peggy murmured,
beginning to wonder if the man even existed.

"He moved to the Soviet Union. We
lost touch."

"Yes, that would do it, wouldn't
it?" Peggy looked up and smiled.

Claudia didn't smile back. "So
you're saying you don't think he'd remember me since it was a short
relationship?" she countered sharply.

"No, I didn't say that. Not at all.
I think you're very memorable," Peggy hastened to reply. She put her pen
aside and crossed her arms on the desk. "Is everything all right? Is there
something you want to talk about?"

"I'm fine. I was just wondering out
loud," Claudia responded sourly. Then she muttered, "I thought I
could do that. I wasn't expecting the third degree."

"Of course. I'm sorry, Claudia. I
didn't mean to be rude," Peggy said cautiously. Obviously she had touched
a nerve.

Claudia scowled. "It's okay. I have
to go, anyway."

"All right. See you." Peggy
watched Claudia shuffle out of her classroom. Who would have guessed that
Claudia had a romantic history? There had been some rumors about Claudia
pursuing Peter Tomlinson a while back, but no one who knew Claudia at all had
taken them seriously. If there had ever been a less sexual woman on the planet,
Peggy couldn't imagine her.

Claudia walked back to her rooms, castigating herself
for poor judgment. She shouldn't have spoken to Peggy about Mark. Now she
regretted it. Her relationship was nobody's business, and no one would
understand it anyway, particularly not Peggy, who wouldn't recognize nuance if
it bit her on the ass. Claudia resolved to be more circumspect in the future.

Reaching her rooms at last, Claudia let
herself in and brewed a cup of tea. She took it over to her desk and turned on
her computer, sipping and shaking her foot with impatience while she waited.
Finally, she got online, and typed "Mark Adams Russian professor Pennsylvania"
into an Internet search engine.

A page of links flashed onto her screen,
one page of a dozen, and suddenly there it was: Mark's life, made accessible at
lightning speed. All at once Claudia felt excruciatingly self-conscious, as if
she were looking at him through a two-way mirror: he couldn't see her, but he
knew she was watching. Then she pulled it together, chided herself for being
ridiculous, and clicked on a link for the state college where she'd heard Mark
had a teaching position.

It opened to a page featuring brief
biographies of the language department faculty. Claudia scrolled down the page,
past Spanish, French, German, American Sign Language, all the way to the
bottom. And there it was: Russian. And there he was (or at least, there his
name was): Mark Adams, PhD.