Chapter 26
Chapter 26
Last night, I tried to channel Knox in my dreams. I thought he’d fade with time, but it hasn’t happened. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of him. About his coffee, his unvarnished truths, and the closeness we shared.
It’s crazy, irrational, but I can feel it in every fiber of my body. If Knox were real, he’d never leave. Ever. It’s so instinctual that in moments of pure panic, I wonder if perhaps I’m the one who is in a dream. It’s actually a thing. Depersonalization-derealization disorder, an out-of-body experience, or the sense that things aren’t real around you. In layman’s terminology, you feel like you’re living in a dream. Except in this case, the dream is real.
Or is it?
I’m going to drive myself mad.
“Can you do February ninth for our makeup in Albuquerque?” Ronnie’s got her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and motions to me that’s it’s my lecture coordinator.
“Uh, I don’t know. Do we have to decide right now?”
“Kind of. That’s the only day the room is available. Otherwise, we have to wait until August.”
“Okay, book it for the ninth.” But my heart isn’t in it. I keep telling myself that once I get back on the road, everything will click in place. I just need to find my groove again.
“What about the sixteenth for Phoenix?”
“No, that’s Taylor’s birthday.” Lolly sent me an invitation. She’s hiring a mini circus to come to the house, which is so Lolly. I want to shock her by actually showing up. “What about LA—can we book there on the seventeenth?”
“You’re in LA in March.”
“March what? I’ve got Uncle Sylvester’s and Wallace’s anniversary in March. We’re going out for dinner. I can’t miss that.”
“March twentieth.” Ronnie is looking at my calendar. “Your dinner is on the fourteenth, so you’re fine.”
“Wait, March twentieth is the Western Days Festival in Ghost. I want to go to that. You know what? Let’s put the bookings on hold for right now. I can’t deal with this; I’m going home.”
I slip my purse over my arm and walk out. It’s so out of character for me that I almost turn around and go back in. Ronnie has to be sitting there, slack-jawed.
What if I don’t want it anymore? Any of it. What if the picture of the life I thought I wanted looks different now?
I drive home in the pouring rain, making my way through the soggy city, pondering the idea of second chances. The days are supposed be getting longer, but except for the light coming from an occasional streetlamp or the headlights from the cars in front of me, it’s already dark.
Austin won’t be home for another few hours. He hasn’t even moved in yet, but my house has become his again. We have morphed from he and I back to a we .
It’s Wednesday, his night for dinner, which means he’ll either get sandwiches at Whole Foods near his office or grab a pizza at Tony’s. I used to like the constancy of it, how the routine made him feel reliable, like he was a sure thing.
But tonight, I’m in the mood for nachos and smoked chicken wings and a Ghost Ghoul. And a kiss that’s a prelude to a new life. Maybe it’s the one I’ve always wanted and just didn’t know it until a streetcar knocked me on my head.
I punch the code into the gate, pull into the garage, and sit in the car, listening to the rain pelt the overhang outside. Then I call Lolly.
“What if I quit?”
“Quit what?” she says.
“Everything.”
“Where are you?”
“In my car in the underground garage of my condo.”
“Go upstairs, take a hot bath, and get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then welcome to Suckatopia, also known as the real world.”
“You’re not being a whole lot of help.”
“Look, I don’t have a PhD in psychology, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re going through some shit after the accident. And it only stands to reason that you’re evaluating your life. My suggestion to you is that you don’t make any big decisions right now. Don’t they say to wait a year? I’d wait a year.”
She’s right, that’s what “they” say, though a year sounds so arbitrary. How will I be different in a year than I am now? What I learned most from the accident is that every day is precious and that you shouldn’t waste a minute of it. But one bad decision, and I could be throwing away a career I worked hard to build. Lolly’s right; I need to think about this long and hard.
“Are you still there?” she says.
I sigh, exhausted from thinking too much. “I’m here. I guess I should go up.”
The rain seems to have tapered off. I can no longer hear it pounding the overhang.
“What are you planning to do?” she asks.
“What you said. Wait.”
“It’s probably the right decision. But hell, what do I know?”
“No, you’re right. I’ve been through a traumatic experience. My mojo is off. I’ll get it back,” I say, hopeful.
“You will. I’ve got to go, so don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, run off with the mailman. Or give yourself bangs. You look awful with bangs.”
“Thanks. You’ve been incredibly helpful,” I tell her.
“I know. You’re welcome.”
I catch the elevator, which is empty and smells like Indian food. It stops in the lobby, and a young couple gets on. I can tell from their body language that they’ve been fighting. He’s trying to hold her hand, and she keeps pulling it away. Her eyes are puffy like she’s been crying, and his are pleading. And I wonder what he’s done. Or what she thinks he’s done.
The door slides open on my floor, and I squeeze by them to get out, though I’m tempted to slip them my business card. There was a time before best-selling books, TED Talks, and inspirational calendars, when my greatest joy was helping people fix what was broken in their relationships. One on one. Before it was one size fits all.
Despite the rain and the cold, the apartment feels stuffy. And claustrophobic. And although I have a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge, I miss looking out a window and seeing the lake. Or the geese. I miss the Canadian geese that are supposed to fly south but never seem to leave. I miss watching them dabble in the shallow end of the water with their butts in the air.
I open the slider a crack for air and hear the rain hit the balcony. It’s only spitting now, but the dampness feels good, like renewal.
There’s a message on my phone. Probably Austin wanting me to choose between sandwiches and pizza. But when I play the message, it’s Ronnie.
“Just checking to see how you’re doing. You seemed . . . Call me.”
I hit redial, and she answers on the second ring. “Sorry I rushed out like that. I didn’t mean to leave you in the lurch. It just all became overwhelming.”
“No worries,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure everything is okay.”
“Everything is fine.” But the thing is, I don’t think it is. It’s like I’m stuck in a rut and can’t get out. That every time I hit the pedal, my wheels keep spinning, but nothing happens.
“I know it’s a lot. No one would blame you if you wanted to take a little more time. We can book in summer.”
“No, no. It was just a moment of panic. I’m sure tomorrow will be better.”
“Alright,” she says. “Hey, Chels, I hope you don’t think this is out of line, but maybe you should see someone. I only say this because . . . never mind. I’m definitely out of line.”
“Because why? Go ahead and say it. You won’t offend me. You’re worried that I’m a whack job now, sending you in search of people who don’t exist, staring off into space because I’d rather be in a coma instead of here.”
“Oh God, not a whack job. Come on. I just see you struggling, and who wouldn’t after what you’ve been through? I’m sure you have a list of people, but if you’d like, I could make the appointment for you.”
“Call JoAnn Sands,” I say, because what kind of therapist would I be if I wasn’t a proponent of therapy? And to say I’m struggling is an understatement. “My guess is she doesn’t have an opening anytime in the near future, but it’s worth a try.”
“On it.”
“And thank you, Ronnie. Thank you for all you do. I may not say it often enough, but you’re appreciated.” I sound like one of my self-help lectures, which makes me throw up a little in my mouth.
At seven, Austin comes through the door, surprising me with gyros from the Greek place on the corner. The restaurant is actually called Troy, but the entire time we’ve lived here, we’ve simply called it the Greek place .
“Wow, a little out of your comfort zone,” I tease.
“I was in the mood for French fries.” The Greek place makes incredible fries. Double-fried, with the exact right amount of salt and a healthy sprinkle of parmesan cheese.
He unpacks our food from a series of white greasy bags, while I set the table. It’s been our ritual for as long as I can remember.
“What do you say we go out Saturday night?” He uncorks a bottle of white from the fridge.
“Sure,” I say, though it’s only Wednesday, and I am not thinking that far ahead. But Saturday date nights were also part of our routine on the rare occasions we could fit it into our schedules.
“Some place special.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll make a reservation.”
“Look at you.” I smile at him, but I’m finding it difficult to breathe, like I’m on that mountainous road to Misty’s house and I can’t look down. It’s just a nice dinner, I tell myself. Like dozens of other nice dinners with Austin.
“You okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m great,” I say. At least the pressure in my chest is loosening.
“Good.” He pulls me in for a quick kiss, then goes on to tell me about his day, specifically about a client who, against his counsel, has decided to give up everything. The house, the investments, spousal support, half her spouse’s pension, all in exchange for the cat. She just wants the cat.
“These are not paltry assets,” he says. “The house alone is probably worth two mil, and it’s paid off. Between that and the investments and pension, she’d be set. But the fucking cat, yeah, that’s an equitable trade.” He shakes his head. “You can’t fix stupid.”
“Did you ever think that maybe the cat is her child, and without it, she’d be lost?”
“It’s a cat, Chels. This is a woman in her late fifties, who works three days a week as a substitute teacher. How’s she going to secure her retirement on a damned cat?”
“Did you ask her that? For all you know, she has a plan.”
“I don’t care if she has a plan. The husband’s getting away with highway robbery.”
“You’re just mad that you’re not getting to fight.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“All it means is that it’s not always about money or winning. Sometimes it’s just about getting the life you wanted. In this case, the life is a cat.”
“Whatever the hell that means.” He takes a big bite out of his gyros and grins. “In other news, I booked us a trip to Bonaire this spring.”
“What?”
“You said you always wanted to go, and after everything . . . us, the accident . . . well, we shouldn’t put it off. Carpe diem, right?” I must look stunned (I am), because he quickly adds, “Don’t worry, I checked your schedule with Ronnie, and everything lines up. No conflicts.”
I’m at a loss for words. The best I can do is, “Bonaire, wow,” hoping that it sounds enthusiastic enough.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You need this, babe. It makes me happy that I can give it to you.”
“Thank you,” I say, but I’m already dreading it.