Chapter 5
Chapter 5
It’s odd, but my assistant Ronnie hasn’t responded to my last email. I want to make sure everything is in order for my lecture next month. It’s in New Mexico, and she is seeing to all the details, including my lodging. Ordinarily, I’d book it myself, but I’m not supposed to be thinking about work while I’m at the cabin. I’m supposed to be recuperating from my accident, though I feel fine if you don’t count the short-term memory lapses. I’ll take care of that problem as soon as I get home. For now, I just need time to heal from the past year and figure out a way to move forward.
I prop my laptop on my knees and fire off another message to Ronnie. It isn’t like her to forget or ignore me. She’s usually on top of everything. In fact, she’s so good at her job that she often knows what I’m going to say before I even think it. I hope she’s not sick or having personal problems. A few weeks ago, she was complaining about her roommate, who was always late paying her share of the bills, which, unfortunately, are all in Ronnie’s name.
I can hear Knox on the roof. And here I am, still in bed. There’s coffee. I can smell it wafting under my bedroom door from the kitchen.
My phone lights up, and a second later, it rings. Austin. I let it go to voicemail. He’s called a couple of times. I presume he found out about my incident with the cable car and is checking to see if I’m okay. It’s kind of him, but I wish he would go away and leave me alone.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. Those Fool’s Golds last night did a number on my head. It was probably the mezcal.
There’s still a half pot of coffee left when I make it into the kitchen, and I don’t waste any time mainlining a cup. It’s good stuff. Any trace of yesterday’s rain is gone, only blue skies. The leaves on the trees keep changing color. From here to the lake, it’s a sea of orange and yellow.
Knox comes in, nods his head at me in greeting, and refills his thermos. The man seems to live on coffee.
“I saw your sister last night.”
“Yeah, she told me.”
“She thinks you’re procrastinating and won’t make your book deadline.”
“Katie talks too much. She should spend more time worrying about her own life, which is a trainwreck, if you ask me.”
“How’s that?” You can never really know a person after only talking with them for a few hours—or in Austin’s case, a multitude of years—but Katie seems to have her head on straighter than most.
“She spent six years getting an advanced degree in urban planning and works tending bar.”
“Oh, you mean like a biophysicist who fixes roofs?”
He shoots me a look. “Did I mention I’m on the faculty at UC Davis? Roofing is just something I do in my spare time.”
I don’t bother to point out that he doesn’t have spare time, that what he has is a book deadline.
“And why is it, in your opinion, that Katie doesn’t want to work in her chosen field?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I regret it. First, it’s none of my business. And second, I sound like a douchie therapist.
And why is it, in your opinion, that Katie doesn’t want to work in her chosen field ? Who talks like that?
“Because she likes wasting her life serving people drinks.”
“That sounds like a judgment call on your part. Perhaps Katie doesn’t think bartending is a waste.” I can’t seem to help myself.
“Yeah? Then she should stop asking me to float her so she can make her rent.”
“Have you had that conversation with her?” Here I go again.
“About a million times. Look, if she doesn’t want to be an urban planner, that’s fine. But she needs to find a vocation and stop pretending she’s still in college.”
He has a point there. “Then you have to set boundaries. No bailing her out when she can’t make her rent.”
He warms his hands on the thermos and holds my gaze. “I’m working on it. But it’s hard. I don’t want my baby sister living on the street.”
My heart melts, even though I try to stay neutral with patients. But Knox is not my patient, and I’m supposedly off duty, so to speak. I’m allowed to just feel. And today, all the feels are swishing together. Regret over the fission between Lolly and me. And the sweetness of Knox’s love for his sister.
I must be wearing my heart in my eyes, because Knox looks away right before his cheeks turn pink.
“Break’s over,” he says on his way to the door.
A few minutes later, I hear him up on the roof again. I make myself a couple of eggs and some toast and wash it down with the rest of the coffee. As I’m sitting at the breakfast table, my phone pings with a text. Hoping it’s Ronnie, I reach for it, only to see that it’s from Austin.
“I’ve desperately been trying to reach you. Please call me.”
I debate whether to respond or ignore his message. There’s no time like the present to cut the cord with him, I tell myself. It’s not like we have children that require us to stay in communication with each other. The only thing we still share is this cabin and all its expenses. For that, I can easily send him a bill without having to talk to him. It’s healthier that way.
Yet, I continue to stare at his text as if it’s a lifeline, my finger hovering over the telephone icon at the top of my screen. It would be so easy to tap it. So easy to assure him that despite my close call, I’m fine. It would be the grownup thing to do, I rationalize.
“What are you doing?”
I jump at the sound of Knox’s voice. “I thought you were on the roof.”
“I forgot my coat.” He removes a denim jacket that’s hanging from the back of the chair across from me and shrugs into it. “It’s cold outside.” He bobs his head at my phone. “Emergency?”
“No.” I put my phone down on the table. “It’s my ex. He wants me to call him. I suspect he heard about my accident and wants to make sure I’m okay.”
“So?”
I hitch my shoulders. “I’m grappling with whether to do it. On the one hand, what’s the big deal? I call him, tell him I’m fine, and hang up. On the other hand, why do I owe him a status report? He’s no longer my husband, and he’s a lousy friend.” Real friends don’t lead you on and sleep with you while they’re in a relationship with someone else.
“There you go; sounds like you have your answer.”
“Which one?” I ask, because each of my reasonings hold merit.
He gives me a look. “You know which one. But you could split the baby, send him an impersonal text. You know, ‘I’m good. Thanks for your concern but kindly fuck off.’ ”
I laugh. “I do like the ring of that. I’ll think about it.”
“You’re welcome.” He heads for the door and calls over his shoulder, “I’m knocking off early today.”
I wonder if it’s so he can get some writing in. But before I can ask, he’s gone, leaving me alone with only the stillness of the cabin to keep me company. I decide to take a walk and commune with nature. That’s why I’m here, after all.
I grab a thick down jacket from the closet, put on a pair of tennis shoes, and start for the lake. The ground is still muddy from yesterday’s rain, and the smell of wet grass clings to the air. When I get to the dock, I find the bottom of the boat ankle-deep in water. There’s an old watering can in the boathouse that I use to bail out the puddle. It’s a long process, but I find the monotony of it soothing, almost meditative. The next time Knox is here, I’ll ask him to help me drag the boat out of the water and carry it to the boathouse.
The geese are loud today, honking as they fly over the lake, then splashing as they make crash landings into the water. My favorite is when they dive headfirst beneath the surface with only their butts in the air.
I get the boat as dry as I can, then head to the trail that wends around the lake. Knox was right; it’s cold. I can feel my entire face turn numb. There’s a wad of tissues in the bottom of my jacket pocket that I use to wipe my nose, which is runny. Still, it’s nice to be outside. At work, it’s a rare occasion when I have time for fresh air. I’m on the lecture circuit half the year, and the only things I see are the insides of airports, hotels, and auditoriums. The other half of the year, I’m either absorbed in building the small empire I’ve started or promoting it. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for recreation or friends. I’ve always told my patients to create a life of balance and yet, I didn’t take my own advice. Hell, I wrote the book on how to have it all: a perfect marriage and a life filled with fulfillment. And here I am, the opposite of fulfilled. What kind of woman my age has no family, no friends, and no social life? Even my success has been predicated on a myth. I can see the headlines now: F AMOUS M ARRIAGE G URU IS A F RAUD .
At least the view lifts my spirits. Mist hovers over the lake like an ethereal cloud, and instead of it looking eerie, it’s dreamlike and beautiful. It reminds me of a loch in a fairytale. Even the trees with their colored leaves seem brighter and more varied in shade, like a rich mosaic.
I get halfway around the lake and am so winded I have to sit on a log to catch my breath. When did I get this out of shape? My head is spinning, and I have to hold back from retching as strobes of light flash before my eyes. It seems like a weird reaction to a leisurely forty-minute stroll. Then I remember the accident and remind myself that it could take a while before I’m at a hundred percent again.
I close my eyes to block out the searing light but have to force myself not to fall asleep. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. Even though last night I slept like the dead, I can’t seem to stay awake. Just a little nap, I tell myself. And there, in the distance, is a bed of moss under an old oak tree. It takes all my energy to crawl to it before curling up. I pillow my hands underneath my head and let myself trail off into sleepy land. Still, something niggles at me, something that says that I shouldn’t let myself go too deep. That I should keep one eye open.
I awake to find a red fox sniffing me, or at least sniffing the air around me. He’s about two feet away. Rabies is the first thing that comes to mind, and I freeze, searching my brain for anything I might’ve read about how to fight off a rabid fox or just a hungry one (are they even carnivorous?). Do I make noise, wave my hands in the air, or play dead? If it was a bear, I’d know what to do. Lord knows I’ve studied enough guidebooks about the black bears that roam the area and what precautions to take if you cross an angry one. But nothing about foxes. I always assumed they were harmless. That is, until they were only a nose away from my jugular vein. In a fit of irony, it occurs to me that I may have survived a 15,000-pound cable car only to be killed by a fox smaller than my neighbor’s border collie.
He seems to realize that I’m awake or not dead and is contemplating his next move. I don’t recall ever seeing anything in the news about a fox mauling a human. But it doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened. Then again, perhaps he’s as freaked out by me as I am by him.
“Hi, little fox,” I say in a singsongy voice.
His head jerks up; then he goes stock-still. A few seconds later, he howls, but it comes out like a high-pitched scream that makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
Shit .
I should search for a rock or something I can use as a weapon, but I’m too scared to move my hand. He’s staring at me, his beady little eyes alert, feral. And just when I think he’s going to pounce, he backs up and runs away.
As soon as my heart stops pounding, I come up into a sitting position. That’s when I realize it’s almost dark. And so cold, I can see my own breath. The scent of woodsmoke swirls around me, and it takes me a while to realize that it’s coming from someone’s chimney. It’s got to be close to four or even five o’clock, judging by the lack of daylight. I’ve been out here for hours.
I get to my feet, anxious to go home, where it’s safe and warm. But I’ve sort of become disoriented, and I’m still a little dizzy. Still, I manage to find the trail and follow the lake until I come to my cabin. It’s not until I get inside that I see that my clothes are covered in moss, leaves, and dirt. There’s even a mat of twigs in my hair.
I strip down in the laundry room and take a hot shower, which helps the leftover throbbing in my head. When I get out, I put on the warmest pajamas I own. They’re red flannel with little Christmas trees that I ordered nearly a year ago from a catalog I found in the mailbox addressed to the previous owner. They looked soft. And the one thing I hate is scratchy lace. The bright spot of sleeping alone is that I never have to wear uncomfortable lingerie again. Lolly would not approve. Not only are these on the garish side, but they’re also pilling from wear.
I go to the kitchen and throw together a sandwich with the rest of the deli meat I got at the market and wolf it down with a tall glass of water. I don’t know if I’m more thirsty than hungry. All I know is the sandwich doesn’t fill me. I scrounge through the pantry, looking for something sweet, and curse Knox for filching my cookies. I rummage around until I find the Halloween candy I purchased for the trick-or-treaters, who I know will never come because the cabin is too off the beaten path, and rip into the bag.
I spend the rest of the evening eating bite-sized Snickers and Baby Ruth bars in front of the television. If I didn’t feel so lousy, I’d go visit Katie at the Ghost Inn, where I’m sure she’s bartending tonight. Instead, I nod off after my fourth Law & Order rerun, only to be awakened by my phone ringing.
It’s Austin. The man never lets up. I let it go to voicemail. But as soon as he disconnects, he starts calling again.
I finally relent and answer, trying to sound as composed as possible. “Hello, Austin.”
“I heard what happened after you left the Top of the Mark. Jesus, Chelsea, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a few cuts and bruises.” I don’t tell him about the headaches and my loss of memory. What’s the point? As soon as I return to San Francisco, I’ll see a specialist. I’m sure there’s medication I can take or some other remedy. Modern medicine.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he says. “I could’ve come to the hospital. I could’ve made sure you got home alright. For God’s sake, Chels, you don’t have . . .”
“I don’t have . . . What, Austin? What don’t I have? Spit it out!”
“I just meant . . . well, a person who’s been badly injured shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not alone, Austin. I’ve got plenty of friends up at the cabin. And Lolly and the kids are coming. Uncle Sylvester, too.”
There’s a long pause. Then, “You don’t have to put on a brave face for me. Say the word, and I’ll come up and make sure you have everything you need.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I say between gritted teeth, because what I want to tell him is I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place if it wasn’t for him. But that’s not really fair. I’m the klutz who walked into a cable car. I should’ve been paying attention. “But it’s unnecessary. I’m getting all the care I need.”
“Are you sure?”
Even though I don’t want him to come, I’m angry that he’s given up so easily, which is incredibly passive-aggressive of me. It’s something I spend a lot of time discussing in my courses and books. How damaging and unhealthy passive-aggressive behavior is. How instead of confronting anger, you let it fester just beneath the surface, thwarting any hope of resolution.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Well, thanks for calling.” I start to disconnect, but he stops me.
“What’s the big hurry? Can’t we talk for a few minutes?”
“I’m tired, Austin,” which is the truth, despite having slept a good portion of the day away.
“But it’s not even ten o’clock yet. I thought you were feeling fine?”
“I was out last night and got up early this morning to go on a long hike.”
“Out last night? Where?”
I’m about to take a page out of Knox’s instruction book and tell him to “kindly fuck off” but decide it’s better to be an adult about it. “The Ghost Inn.”
“The Ghost Inn? Why?”
“I popped in for a drink.”
“You go to random bars now?”
“Random bars? You make it sound like I’m a barfly. It’s a beautiful hotel, and the lounge is lovely. My friend is a mixologist there.” I don’t know where the mixologist part came from, but I want Austin to know that we’re not talking about some saloon at the O.K. Corral.
“Chelsea, it’s not like I don’t know the place. I’m not casting aspersions at the Ghost Inn, for God’s sake. It’s just out of character for you to hang out at a bar, any bar, is all I’m saying.”
“Oh is it? Did you ever think that maybe you don’t know me anymore? We’ve been divorced for a year. A lot has changed, including how I choose to entertain myself.”
“I’m surprised is all. There’s no need to get pissy about it.”
I modulate my voice, as if I’m talking to one of my clients. “Do I sound pissy? I don’t think I do, Austin. Perhaps you’re hearing what you want to hear.”
“Look, Chels, I’m not trying to turn this into a fight. I called because I was worried about you. When you didn’t return my calls, I became even more concerned. Now that I know you’re all right, I feel better. I’m glad you’re at the cabin, safe and sound. And I hope you enjoy your stay there. Okay?”
“That’s very kind of you, Austin.” It’s all I can do to keep from saying, I hope you and Mary choke on your wedding cake. “Thank you for calling and good night.” I hang up before he can get the last word in.
Now I’m wide awake and angry. To make matters worse, I’m a little sick from all the chocolate I’ve eaten, and my headache has returned with a vengeance. I go in search of a bottle of Advil and stub my toe on the console. Dammit! I wish I’d never answered the phone.
I find the bottle in my nightstand drawer and wash down three tablets with water from the bathroom sink. It’s funny, I think as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, that the swelling and bruising in my face is gone. My skin looks the same as it did before the accident, which I take as a positive sign. It means I’m a good healer.
I plop down on the sofa and switch through the TV channels while I dissect every word of my conversation with Austin. Who knew he was so judgy? What’s it to him if I want to hang out in bars? It’s not like he and I painted the town red when we were together. Most nights, we were too tired to have an in-depth conversation, let alone grab a drink at the cute Irish pub down the street from our condominium. Maybe I’m making up for lost time.
Then it occurs to me that the one thing he didn’t ask me about, the one thing that would’ve meant the most to me, is about the twenty-fourth anniversary of my parents’ death. While there’s always been a pact between us that we don’t talk about it (my rule, not his), he knows the date as well as I do. He can set his clock by it. Every October it’s the same. The melancholy sets in around the twelfth, and on the actual day of their death, I basically go MIA. No speaking engagements, no book signings. No professional or social interactions whatsoever.
And to ease my pain, Austin sends me a bouquet of white calla lilies, my mother’s favorite. It’s his way of silently commemorating their death with me, so I don’t have to talk about it. Even last year, in the midst of our breakup, the flowers came.
But this year, nothing. Not so much as a simple note like, I know today is difficult. Thinking of you.
It should convince me that he’s moved on, that we’re truly over. But instead, I find myself making up excuses for him. FTD doesn’t deliver this far out. He was distracted by my accident and forgot about my parents.
But the reality of it is he’s with someone else now. It would be disrespectful to Mary. How would I feel if my fiancé was still sending flowers to his ex-wife?
And for the first time, I let it sink in. Really sink in. I’m alone now, truly alone.