Please understand why I chose the path I did. It’s what I needed to do, Pam. It was what I was meant to do. Maybe it will never be worth it—that is not for me to judge anymore. It is not for anyone to judge. It is what it is. I know I have done a lot of good with my life, and really, what else is there when all is said and done? To say that is not to diminish my sacrifices or anyone else’s in this life I chose. I know what I gave up. I know what my heart is missing because of my choices.
Pam, out of everyone else in the whole world, I would still have chosen you as my sister. You are the best! You’re a wonderful, talented, smart woman—smarter than I could ever be. I know you will have a happy life. Or at least you’d better, or I will never forgive you! My wish for you is that you be happy, and that you find someone to be happy with. Don’t go through this life without the love of a good woman, okay?
I know we will see each other again. Until then…
Love you always,
Laura
It still didn’t explain anything. Didn’t explain why she chose work over love, why the army had been enough for her. Or had it? There was a hint of regret, wasn’t there? And why couldn’t she say Trish’s name? Why could she never honestly talk about Trish, what they had and what they’d thrown away for the sake of her joining the army? Was it a failure so profound that she could never speak of it again? And why is it so important to you that I not go through life alone, huh? No, Laura, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t wish for me the things you didn’t have the courage and commitment to do yourself.
She folded the sheet of paper in clipped movements and wordlessly handed it to Trish. It doesn’t explain anything, she kept thinking. It doesn’t explain a damned thing.
Trish read the letter with pursed lips before silently handing it back to Pam.
“We couldn’t have saved her from the army, Pam. I’m not sure I really understood that before now.”
“She never wanted to be saved from anything.”
Abruptly Pam stood and took one last look at the distant city below. She felt anger rising like a slow, steady geyser inside. How could you save someone who had never wanted to be saved?
Chapter Seven
Trish swam until her quivering arms could no longer propel her forward.
Her friend and one-time lover, Rosa Moran, urged her on from the lane beside her. “Come on. One more, my friend. You said yourself you were in for a little self-flagellation today.”
Trish smiled and clung to the edge of the pool. Rosa’s vocabulary was so much richer than her own. “I said I was feeling a little masochistic today. I didn’t say anything about self-flagellation.”
“You’re not going to wimp out on me now, are you?”
“God, yes. I’m going to drown if I don’t stop.”
Rosa, a fitness buff addicted to triathlons, followed Trish out of the pool. She’d probably have stayed and swum another dozen lengths if only Trish weren’t pooped, but trying to match Rosa in the fitness department was one of those things, like suddenly becoming a world traveler or spontaneously moving to one of the coasts, that was never going to happen to Trish. She was in decent shape, loved to swim and walk and bike, but she had no intention of killing herself with exercise or doing something as outrageous as entering a triathlon. Talk about self-flagellation!
They wrapped themselves in plush towels and padded to the locker room. Rosa had stuck close to Trish the last three weeks. Ever since Laura’s funeral. Today was the first time Rosa had been able to get her out of the house for a reason other than work.
“That was a very commendable twenty-five laps,” Rosa said as they changed into their clothes.
“Please.” Trish hated to be babied, and Rosa was babying her big-time. “It was a crap attempt and you know it.”
Rosa smirked. “You’re an English teacher. Surely you can do better than ‘crap.’”
That produced a chuckle from Trish. “It sucked. How’s that?”
Rosa shook her head. “All right. Fine. But cut yourself a little slack, would you? It’s okay, you know.”
She placed her hand meaningfully on Trish’s arm, and the gesture nearly brought Trish to tears. Rosa and, of course, Pam were the only people who understood the depth of what Laura had meant to her, how desolate and carved out Laura’s death now made her feel.
Later, at a table for two at the nearby Starbucks, Trish looked frankly at her friend, and said, “I feel so…so…excavated.”
“Excavated. I like that word.”
Rosa was a fiction writer and a creative writing professor at the U of M. She loved it when people presented unusual words to describe the way they were feeling. Or to describe anything, for that matter. In fact, it was a weird hobby of hers to walk down the street or sit in a restaurant with a piece of paper in her hand, a pen in the other, and write down all the words she could think of to describe what she was seeing around her. Thankfully, she wasn’t doing that now.
“I shouldn’t, I know…”
Many times, during the eighteen months they’d been lovers, Rosa had scolded Trish for the intensity of her feelings toward Laura. Not only were those feelings getting in the way of their relationship—hell, they were a relationship of three, Rosa told her numerous times—but they were getting in the way of Trish living her life. Of Trish being happy. “You can’t spend the rest of your life wishing for something you can’t have,” Rosa often lectured her in frustration, with Trish readily replying in anger, “I can if I want—it’s my life.” Things went quickly downhill for them after a couple of those epic battles.
“Shouldn’t doesn’t mean you don’t feel like shit about what happened.”
Trish raised her eyebrows at the word “shit.”
“Oh, all right. ‘Bereft,’ then. ‘Aggrieved.’ ‘Disconsolate.’”
“I was thinking more like ‘wounded.’”
Yes, that was it exactly. She had a gaping wound in her heart that would not heal. Okay, she’d had a bruised heart over Laura for longer than she could remember. But now it was a gaping, mortal wound, as though her heart had been flayed open. This was a much deeper and, of course, permanent form of losing Laura.
“I’m sorry, Trish. I was so jealous of her when you and I were together. I think I almost hated her. And I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry she died. And I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“Thank you for saying that.” Trish took a swallow of the too-hot coffee to melt the lump in her throat. She knew Rosa meant it, but Trish couldn’t be sure Rosa was capable of truly understanding what she’d lost. “Sometimes I’m sorry I ever loved someone so much, because I feel like I’ll never be able to love anyone else that much again. I always suspected as much, but now it feels like a truth.”
“It’s not a truth, it’s an assumption, and a poor one. I think you will love again, and the only reason you haven’t is because of the great big roadblock you always unceremoniously deposit into the middle of a new relationship. The one complete with signs. ‘Rough Road Ahead,’ or, ‘Be Prepared To Stop.’”
They’d had this argument many times since their dates and lovemaking detoured to friendship. She knew intellectually that Rosa was right, that she’d never get past Laura if she never really tried. That it was entirely up to her whether she allowed herself to move on or not. Now, however, while the pain of Laura’s loss was so fresh, she didn’t want to think about what getting past Laura might mean. She didn’t want to get past her, not right now. No. Right now she wanted to feel every inch of the razor-sharp pain, because that meant that in some way Laura still existed. At least in her heart if nowhere else.
Trish sighed. “Part of me knows you’re right, but right now I can’t even consider not loving Laura. It would feel disrespectful, disloyal.”
“Oh, you’ll always love her. Trust me on that one. But the human heart has an infinite capacity for love. You have a lot more room in there than for just Laura. And really, honey, is it fair to Laura, to what you two had to
gether, to let it paralyze you forever? Especially now?”
Tears hovered below the surface, like distant storm clouds that threatened to dump their torrent. Trish couldn’t talk about letting go, not yet. She’d held on to Laura for so long, it was as though she were a permanent part of her now.
Rosa seemed to sense Trish’s silent objection and changed the subject. “How’s the sister doing? Pam? Have you heard from her since the funeral?”
She’d heard from Pam a few times. They’d fallen into a loose habit of checking in with one another every couple of days, either by text or email. “I think she’s trying to put one foot in front of the other, get through the days. It’s hard. She’s the only one left in her family now.”
“What’s she like?” Rosa’s blue eyes were piercing, like those of an eagle. It was disconcerting sometimes, as though she could read a person’s thoughts through that mind-stripping gaze of hers. “You’ve never said much about her.”
True. She’d hardly ever mentioned Pam in the handful of years Trish and Rosa had known one another. There’d never really been a reason to until now. She’d not often thought about Pam, other than during her mother’s illness and death six years ago and in the occasional polite inquiry she’d pose to Laura the few times they’d emailed or talked on the phone. How things had changed. Now she thought about Pam constantly, about how she was doing, about what she was doing, about whether she was okay.
“She’s nice. She’s a good kid,” Trish said with a shrug.
“Kid?” Those eyes lasered her over the rim of a tall latte. “Surely she’s not a child now.”
“No, of course not. She’s thirty or so. She’s a trauma physician in Chicago. And yes, she’s gay, since I’m sure that was going to be your next question.”
“Chip off big sister’s block, eh?” Rosa was Canadian.
“Yes and no. She’s never had any desire to join the armed forces or to go save the world.” She knew she sounded bitter about Laura’s career, was belittling Laura’s choices. And Rosa was smart enough to realize it too.
“Ah, so Laura got to keep her title as saint of the family, eh?”
“Do you always have to be so blunt?” She wasn’t criticizing. Sometimes bluntness was a good thing.
“I’m a writer. I don’t have time for evasiveness or avoidance tactics.”
“Anyway, I’m not sure I’d agree about the saint part. Pam put her career on hold to look after their mother while she was dying of cancer a few years ago.” Laura did a good job of looking the hero in that splendid uniform of hers, but Pam was no less valiant. I should tell her that some time.
Rosa held up her cup in salute. “Well, well. No wonder those Wright women are so easy to fall for.”
Trish puzzled at Rosa’s words. Fall for? Yes, she’d fallen for Laura a long time ago, but not Pam. To her, Pam would always be that cute, adorable kid who trailed after them, all wide-eyed and in search of her own identity.
“Oh, Rosa, you’re always trying to incite some kind of reaction from me, aren’t you?”
“Nothing doing. Just keeping you honest, my dear.”
“Whatever.”
Rosa, she realized, was one of the few people in her life who’d ever given her complete honesty, even if it sometimes pissed her off. Pam, too, had given her nothing but honesty. Trish recalled their recent and somewhat inebriated conversation about Pam’s lifelong crush on her—a crush she’d not necessarily outgrown, if Trish had read between the lines correctly. It was flattering that such a beautiful woman was attracted to her, but it wasn’t real, wasn’t substantial in any way. It was simply an extension of affectionate, youthful feelings brought to the surface by shared grief. Emotions had been running through them both like stock cars on a NASCAR track since Laura’s death.
Trish’s cell phone rang its text alarm from inside her knapsack.
“Go ahead. Answer it.” Rosa smiled, cat-like, as though daring her.
“I don’t want to be rude.”
“No worries. I need to go to the washroom anyway.”
Trish pulled out her phone. It was Pam.
Should I do it?
Do what? she texted back.
Go on a date with Connie. She’s been bugging me 4evr. I have her on hold.
Trish laughed to herself. It was as though she were Pam’s big sister now.
Yes, she texted back. Go for it, lol.
There, she told herself as she tucked her phone away. I hope Pam has a glorious date with this woman. See, Rosa? You’re being ridiculous. I am not falling for Pam. Or anyone else!
* * *
Pam sipped her wine with as much enthusiasm as a fly and wondered if she was doing the right thing. She was still numb, had trouble concentrating, forgot things easily. Had barely the energy to get out the door each day. She’d only been back to work a week, although she could hardly call it “work,” since they were giving her only easy cases in the ER, cases that a fourth-year medical student could more than handle—sprained wrists, sore throats, cuts to suture. Even those took all her mental and physical energy. She’d burst into tears the other day reviewing a simple blood test because the patient had the same blood type—B positive—as Laura.
She kept revisiting the day the two army notification officers had shown up at her door, how their horrible message had changed her life forever. It had instantly vaulted her into this new and strange reality of life without Laura that she could not adjust to. She didn’t know how to do so, or if it was even possible. Intellectually, she knew she had to try, if for no other reason than she hated living this way, as though she were a ghost moving invisibly, unable to feel.
Two days ago she’d gathered her courage—or perhaps it was more like ignoring her head—and finally acquiesced to the persistent Connie. If nothing else, it would be a diversion, she figured. Now they were on a date, and Pam couldn’t decide whether it was a terrible mistake or if there was still a sliver of hope of salvaging the evening.
“My last girlfriend, Dawn. She drank the same Valpolicella as you.”
“Oh,” Pam said dumbly. What was she supposed to say to a statement like that? Sorry I remind you of someone you’re no longer with?
“Yeah, she liked it a little too much. Not as much as Ginny liked her gin and tonics though.” Connie laughed in a shrill voice that reminded Pam of nails on a chalkboard. “Guess her name suited her, huh?”
Be nice, Pam told herself. She bit her bottom lip and tried. Really tried. But she couldn’t quite pull it off. “So you’re telling me you only date alcoholics?”
Connie’s face reddened, and Pam instantly regretted her sarcasm.
“Sorry,” Pam muttered. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
Actually I did, but I shouldn’t have said it.
The nails on a chalkboard screeched again. “No, that was pretty funny, actually. You’re not one, are you?”
“What?”
“An alcoholic?”
No, but I might become one if I stayed with you for any length of time.
“Ah, no. And I don’t smoke or do drugs. And I don’t leave my dirty clothes on the floor, but I do sometimes skip washing the dishes for a couple of days.”
“You’re funny, I like that. And you sound like a keeper to me,” Connie slipped her a flirtatious wink. “What do you like for breakfast?”
“Huh? Oh.” Pam knew she was blushing furiously as she finally grasped the underlying meaning of Connie’s question.
Connie popped an olive in her mouth and began sucking on it in a way that Pam guessed was supposed to be sexy. The truth was, it made her want to throw up.
“You know,” Connie said around the olive she was now munching, “we could skip dinner and make our breakfast plans. For tomorrow morning.”
Oh God, what am I doing here? Pam asked herself for about the ninth time tonight. Connie was cute with her twinkling blue eyes and trim little figure and her come-on smile. But Pam didn’t want to sleep with her. Didn’t want to
keep making benign conversation with her that should have been easy but was as hard as pulling roots from dry ground. This is painful, Pam thought. She did not want to be here.
Reflexively Pam began rubbing her temple. “I hate to do this, Connie, but I feel a terrible headache coming on.”
“Oh, no. Look, our food will be here any minute. I’m sure that’s all it is.”
“No, I don’t think so. It feels more like a migraine starting.”
“I’m sorry. I hope it’s not anything I said?”
“No, no, not at all,” Pam lied. “I just…don’t think I can do this right now.”
Connie reached across the table and lightly touched Pam’s fingers, and Pam resisted the urge to pull her hand away. “Is it because of your sister’s death?”
Oh, God, Pam thought. Not this again. Connie had been trying to engage her in conversation about Laura for days, either on the phone or by email. Trying to do her social worker bit on her. The only person Pam wanted to talk with about Laura was Trish.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Pam said impatiently, rising so quickly from her chair that it wobbled precariously. “I think I need to go.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
Thankfully they’d driven their own cars to the restaurant, since Connie had been coming directly from work while Pam had had the day off.
Connie deftly maneuvered herself between Pam and her car. “Please give me a chance, Pam. We could be good together. Or at least have a good time together.” Her eyes left no question about her intentions.
“Connie, really, it’s not you, okay? I’m just…I’m still having a hard time, you know?”
“I know. And I want to help.”
You can help by letting me get in my car, Pam wanted to say.
“Maybe…” Connie continued, suddenly flinging her arms around Pam’s neck and clutching her in a death grip. “Maybe we could talk sometime at my place. Do some hug therapy. What do you think?”
Now that’s a new one! Hug therapy? Seriously? She almost laughed out loud. “I’m not really the huggy type.”
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