Getting Back

by Cindy Rizzo

  She rose from her chair and went to her desk. At the bottom of her file drawer, under a stack of papers was the scrapbook; her own version of the hidden National Enquirer. She sat at her desk with the unopened book before her. Would this little trip down memory lane help her sort things out or just make them worse? What she dreaded most were those first few pages. She normally skipped them when she had something to add, opening the book to the items from the last few years. She’d insert whatever new photo or article she’d found, forcing herself to focus on the present and ignore the past. But with the prospect of finally seeing Ruth, maybe it was worth reviewing the entire history from the beginning and, by facing it boldly, reduce the power it seemed to have over her.

  She glared at the closed book as if it was a bothersome underling. You’re not really a scrapbook, you know. You’re merely a photo album covered in faux light brown leather and decorated with a faux gold border. The words of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz came back to her.

  “You have no power here. Be gone, before somebody drops a house on you!”

  She smiled to herself and opened the book to the first off-white page covered in a clear plastic sheet that could be pulled away from its sticky cardboard backing. Taking a deep breath, she looked down at the blank page, deliberately left that way as a safety buffer so she could avoid being suddenly confronted with the past. The next pages contained all the old college photos. She’d debated about whether to destroy them, but found that she was unable to do so. They reflected back the happiest time in her life. If they were gone, she’d have nothing.

  Unable to trust herself not to one day rip them up in a fit of anger after a particularly bad Siberian prison dream, she’d made a full set of duplicates and gave them to Margaret, pretending they were the originals. It was far better for her friends to think she had exiled images of Ruth from her midst instead of knowing the truth: she was incapable of letting them go.

  The sherry slid down her throat with a slight burn. Tonight was the time for confronting. She grabbed on to the edge of the blank page and slowly turned it.

  And there was Ruth, standing by that oak tree behind the student union, her hand on the trunk, a big smile on her face. Her dark, curly hair was tied back in this picture, even though Elizabeth always encouraged her to wear it out draped over her shoulders, reaching down to her breasts. Her pale skin contrasted with the hair and her dark brown eyes—eyes that had immediately captured Elizabeth and later held her attention as they lay in bed for hours gazing at one another and touching, always touching.

  Then there were pictures of the two of them, among friends and on their own. She shifted her attention from Ruth to herself, dressed in baggy, faded jeans and a tight-fitting sweater with pink, green, and white horizontal stripes. Ugh, she thought, how could I have ever worn such a thing? Luckily her taste in fashion had improved over time. But even with the wretched clothing, she was able to notice with longing her formerly smooth skin and the silky texture of her light brown hair, now dulled by years of coloring and highlighting. Would Ruth even find her attractive now?

  She crossed her arms, laid them over the open book, and lowered her head onto them. Ruth had had over twenty years to contact her: twenty years of being on her own and dating women. But she had not come back. Instead, it seemed she had dismissed their intense connection, their love, as a mere college dalliance. Clearly, Ruth had moved on. Why couldn’t Elizabeth?

  After a week of very little sleep, Elizabeth was no longer able to hide the drawn look on her face and her distracted manner. Even on the nights when she’d managed to drop off for a little while, she was inevitably jolted awake by the worst of the horrible dreams.

  The young Ruth resting in her arms is abruptly transformed into the grown-up Ruth who walks away without a word, leaving behind her son and daughter who stand pointing and laughing at Elizabeth. The sudden onset of paralysis leaves her unable to use her phone to call for help as she is carted off to yet another Russian prison.

  Her appearance was betraying signs of stress, even with the drops she’d used to clear her bloodshot eyes and the makeup she’d applied to put some color in her cheeks. But she knew from the looks she was getting at the office that people had noticed a change. And that just increased tension all around.

  Because she was the CEO of Morrison Publishing, the staff was always watching her for the slightest sign that would belie her mood, assuming that any problem she was having was related to the fortunes of the company. So now, looking so haggard, she imagined that the rumors were flying. She’d have to ask Communications to prepare some kind of positive announcement to calm the waters. Publishers Weekly would soon carry reviews of the summer releases and Elizabeth knew there would be a few blockbusters among them. Joe Donovan’s new thriller was solid and the political tell-all of Ginny Lewiston, the disgraced senator’s wife, was sure to fly off the shelves. Good news was on the horizon and surely morale would rebound. She wanted to guard against any inclination of her senior staff to update their resumes.

  “Reese Stanley is here for your three o’clock.”

  Well, no point in delaying the inevitable.

  “Show her in.”

  Her executive assistant opened the door. Reese, dressed in her usual skirt and sweater set, the new uniform of the young professional woman, was shown in.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Morrison,” she said as she took the seat opposite Elizabeth’s desk.

  The greeting to “Ms. Morrison” was for the benefit of others in the office. Once the door was closed she became Elizabeth.

  She surveyed Reese as she settled in with her usual notepad and blue pen. Under Elizabeth’s tutelage, her protégé’s career was coming along nicely. Even early on as a student intern from Fowler College, Reese had immediately shown promise, first as an acquisitions assistant and then as a junior editor. Elizabeth had personally mentored her with these weekly meetings and eventually she’d become the company’s youngest developmental editor. Now in her thirties with a Pulitzer Prize-winning author in her portfolio, Reese had been promoted to senior editor.

  With her head slightly tilted to one side, her mouth turned down, and soft brown eyes staring at Elizabeth, Reese’s face belied her worry.

  Elizabeth decided to avoid the silent questions that Reese was asking. “Where are you at with Robin Greene’s new book?”

  That might do it. While still an entry-level acquisitions assistant, Reese had discovered this talented, young writer who’d gone on to be called “the voice of her generation” by the New York Times and to write a string of best-selling and well-reviewed novels.

  They were both quiet for a moment. Clearly Reese was not going to be diverted from her agenda of concern.

  Elizabeth sighed and threw her hands up in defeat. “Out with it, Reese. You might as well say what everyone else around here is thinking.”

  Reese crossed her legs. Her voice was quiet. “What’s wrong, Elizabeth? Are you sick or did something happen?”

  “I’m not sick, unless you define it to mean exhausted and stressed.”

  Reese’s eyes were wide. “So?”

  “I’ve received some news and it’s sent me into a bit of a tailspin. It’s about the reunion in June.”

  Reese crinkled her nose. “Your thirtieth?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “You know,” said Reese, “I’m going to be there as a member of the alumni council. I volunteered to help out.” She smiled. “Of course it doesn’t hurt that I have a passing interest in this cute professor.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Reese had a perfectly nice girlfriend who she’d been with since high school: an attorney. But they had what she referred to as a semi-open relationship. Each of them could play around when they were apart for conferences or other trips, but never while they were both at home or in the same city. Upon first hearing this,
Elizabeth had quipped, “So what you’re saying, Reese, is that your relationship is not so much open as it is ajar.”

  Who knew? Maybe that kind of thing kept a long-term relationship alive. Elizabeth was far from an expert on such matters. All of her attempts at relationships had fallen short, most of them lasting less than a year, except for Gretchen, and of course, Ruth.

  “Well, if you’re helping out at the reunion in addition to your, uh,” she deliberately cleared her throat, “extracurricular activities, then you’ll be witness to it all, along with everyone else. Lucky you.”

  Again, the questioning look. “Witness to all of what?”

  “The worst part of my past coming back to haunt me. I’ve never told you about Ruth Abramson, have I?”

  Reese shook her head.

  Elizabeth usually reserved their personal discussions for lunches or dinners and kept their weekly meetings focused on what Reese needed to learn about the business aspects of the company—sales, operations, finance. Even though Reese was only sixteen years her junior, Elizabeth had come to regard her as the daughter she’d never had. And so she’d begun to groom Reese as her successor.

  “Ruth was my first love. We were together three years at Fowler. I know it sounds like it was just some college romance but you have to believe me that it was much more than that. We were everything to one another. Ruth was the only person with whom I’ve ever felt I could be with forever. But she decided she had to obey her father and marry the boy he chose for her.”

  Reese leaned forward in her chair. “Why?” she asked.

  Elizabeth picked up a pen and gestured with it. “The easy answer is rooted in her family’s story, which I’ll tell you one day. They were refugees. The more difficult answer to your question, Reese, is something I’ve never quite been able to figure out.” She sighed and slapped the pen back on the desk. “I haven’t seen her for over thirty years and now I’ve learned she’s the class speaker at our reunion.”

  Reese was wide-eyed. “Elizabeth, I—I don’t know what to say. I had no idea something like this had ever happened to you. Is that why you’ve never settled down with anybody?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God,” she whispered. “I had no right to ask that. I’m sorry.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and let it out. “I honestly have no idea why I’ve never settled down. It’s not like Ruth has been a constant issue for me. Months have gone by without a thought of her.” She pointedly did not mention the scrapbook. “I do hear things from time to time, but my friends from Fowler usually go out of their way not to talk about her. And she’s never had any interest in being an active alumna. Until now.”

  She stood and stretched to her full five-foot-seven-inch height, tired but relieved to be moving her body.

  “I wish I knew why she’s suddenly so keen to come back to Fowler. She must know I’ll be there.”

  Reese was still seated, apparently not ready to let the conversation end.

  “I don’t really care about figuring out Ruth’s motives,” she said. “I’m concerned about you and why this is affecting you so strongly. You’re just not yourself.”

  “I’m well aware. I haven’t slept but a few hours a night, and it’s never a restful sleep. There are these dreams.”

  “Dreams?”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Yes,” she said with a slight groan. She gave Reese a quick summary.

  “A prison camp in Siberia? Why?”

  “I told you her family came here as refugees. They were from Russia. Leon Abramov was her father. Do you know who he is? You may be too young.”

  Reese shook her head. “No. Who is he?”

  “He was very active in getting Jews out of the Soviet Union where they were being persecuted. When Ruth was a teenager, her family was smuggled out of Russia and her father made it his life’s work to help those unable to escape. He was always in the papers. When he died, the president attended his funeral.”

  “Wow. So that’s where the whole Siberia thing comes from?”

  “I would imagine that’s the origin of it, yes.”

  Reese sat with her eyes closed, hands pressed together in front of her face, her thumbs locked under her chin. It was a pose Elizabeth had seen many times in meetings with authors when sticky editing situations were being discussed. She stood watching, waiting out Reese’s thought process, wondering what she could be mulling over.

  Finally, her eyes opened.

  “Elizabeth, the reunion is almost three months away. How are you going to cope from now ’til then?”

  “I honestly wish I knew. I keep hoping I’m just having a short-term reaction to the fact that not only will I see Ruth again, but it’ll be back at Fowler. I want to be able to assimilate this information and go on with my daily life. But I haven’t quite figured out how.”

  “Would you consider therapy?”

  “Psychotherapy?”

  Reese nodded. “Haven’t you ever?”

  “No, I have not,” she knew she was using the Queen Elizabeth voice, but Reese’s suggestion had unnerved her.

  A chuckle escaped from Reese. Elizabeth admitted to herself that she deserved it.

  “I’m just suggesting that you see somebody who can support you through this so you can do things like sleep and work from now until June. It might be helpful so you can be prepared to face whatever happens at the reunion.”

  “I’ve thought about not going, but I worry that it would raise too many questions.”

  “Why don’t you discuss that with someone who can get you to look at all the options you have?”

  “Oh, Reese, must all lesbians be relegated to therapy at some point?” She kept her tone light so Reese would know she was joking.

  “You wouldn’t want to lose your dyke card, would you?”

  Elizabeth grimaced. “Such a distasteful word. Must you use it?”

  “If you decide to see someone, I have a name. Here, I’ll get it and leave it with you.”

  Reese stood, reached in her purse for her cell phone, and appeared to be looking up the name. “Here it is,” she said and wrote the information down on the note pad Elizabeth kept on her desk. “Everyone I know who’s seen her has nothing but good things to say. But if she’s not right for you for whatever reason,” she hesitated for a second, “I’m sure she can refer you to someone else who is.”

  “The last thing I want to do is go therapist shopping. If I decide to see her and it doesn’t pan out, that’s it.”

  “She works with a lot of writers and creative types, by the way.”

  “I’m not a creative type, I’m an executive.”

  “Not true. I’ve read old copies of the Fowler Literary Journal. Elizabeth Morrison wrote some kick-ass short stories.”

  Elizabeth reached for the paper.

  “That word ‘old’ is the perfect descriptor in this case. I haven’t written a thing since college.” She paused. “Actually, since things ended with Ruth.”

  Why did she use that passive construction? Things ended! Ruth left her. She read the name on the paper.

  “She’s a doctor?”

  “A PhD psychologist. She even teaches part-time at Columbia. She’s smart. You like smart people.”

  “And you’ve been to see her?”

  Reese shook her head. “No, she’s someone I know socially. Do you think I’d refer you to my therapist?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes and waved her hand at the door. “Get out of here, young lady, before I call the Fowler alumni office and tell them about your plan to seduce a professor.”

  But instead of heading toward the door, Reese came over to her.

  “I’m unsure of the protocol here, but Elizabeth, can I give you a hug?”

  Elizabeth drew her head back
automatically, but then relaxed.

  “I suppose, under the circumstances.”

  Reese threw her arms around Elizabeth’s waist. They felt comforting and sweet but also a little strange. Was Reese merely her employee or was she something more? Could Elizabeth claim her as family?

  As they both drew away from one another, neither spoke. Reese collected her things and left.

  Once again, Elizabeth gazed at the small white sheet of paper.

  “Dr. Tracy Patterson,” she said aloud, addressing Reese’s loopy script. She couldn’t care less about holding on to some horrible thing called a dyke card, but if this woman could help keep the dreams at bay so she could get a good night’s sleep, she might be worth a try.

  Chapter 2

  March 2008

  It was a small waiting room, large enough to fit five chairs plus end tables that held the requisite outdated magazines. Elizabeth glanced down at the covers but couldn’t bear to pass the time reading what was likely a very mundane selection. A faint shushing sound filled the air. She traced its origin to a small plastic contraption on the floor in one corner. One of those white noise machines designed to block out sound from the three rooms whose doors lined the walls. Which one was hers? she wondered.

  She glanced at her watch as she took a seat in one of the cushioned wooden chairs. Three minutes before the hour. In the next few seconds, would she suddenly be faced with another patient when one of those doors opened? Patient—is that what she was signing up for here? And what about when she exited her session with Dr. Patterson? Would some other person waiting in this very chair look up and see her? What if it was one of her authors? Reese had mentioned that Tracy Patterson worked with a lot of creative types.

  Oh, this had been a terrible idea. Maybe it was best that she leave now before somebody recognized her.