by S. Walden
I hesitated before joining Ann in the chorus. Dr. Gordon followed my lead. We sang the rest of the song together, and I could only imagine what his patients in the waiting room must have thought. But then therapy comes in all sorts of forms, and today what I needed was some Heart. I was dealing with a heart matter, after all.
***
Dr. Gordon’s words slipped right out of my brain the second I left his office. I believed I could get better while I was in the safety of his warm, tobacco-rich, leather-bound world. I even made some tentative plans. But once I stepped outside into the real world, the only way I knew to cope was to count. And arrange. And tic. Tic tic tic.
Two months after my father died, Reece and I attempted to go out to eat with Noah and Erica. I’d seen little of her since the funeral, even though she called incessantly and tried repeatedly to set up lunch dates and girl time. She said she missed me. I missed her, too, but I was an emotional mess, and I didn’t want to put that on her. I already felt like a burden to Reece, and there was nothing much I could do about it. We lived together. He had to be in the mess. But Erica didn’t, and I wanted to protect her from it. So I avoided her calls until she pestered Reece and demanded we set up a dinner date.
We met at Circa 1922 Friday night. I wasn’t in the mood to be pleasant, to chat pleasantly and joke pleasantly and drink wine pleasantly. I knew I was getting worse, my spirits only buoyed when I saw Dr. Gordon. I lied to him about my progress; I didn’t want to be the patient who wasn’t getting better. That’s a lot of wasted money, after all, and more importantly, I didn’t want him to be disappointed in me. But Dr. Gordon is no fool. He knew I was struggling, sinking deeper into a dark place.
Reece laughed at the end of Erica’s story. I heard none of it, but I chuckled anyway. Like Dr. Gordon, Erica was no fool, and she knew I was only pretending.
“How’s life with your new mom, sweetie?” she asked, changing topics.
I swirled my wine glass. “It’s good. It’s . . . different. That was a lot to absorb in one night.”
Erica nodded.
“But things are actually pretty decent. I just had lunch with her the other day. Now that the walls are down, I’m seeing her for the first time.” I paused then snorted. “Only took thirty-two years.”
“Well, better late than never,” Noah said.
I chuckled.
“And how are wedding plans coming along?” Erica asked, grinning.
Reece turned to me. “Yeah, how are they coming along? I haven’t heard anything.”
I nudged him playfully. “You know I can’t start right now,” I said softly.
“I know,” he replied, and I could hear a pang of hurt underlying his words.
It’s times like these where Erica’s personality grates on my nerves. Anyone else would have dropped it, but she saw the need to press me because she was worried about me. I guess she thought I was going to drive Reece away, and she knew he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I commend her for the worry, but I did not appreciate the prying.
“Why can’t you start? I started, like, the day Noah proposed,” she said.
I dipped my sushi in soy sauce and tried to ignore her.
“Well?”
“I’m working on my dad’s boat,” I said with my mouth full.
“That model boat?” she asked.
I nodded.
“You can’t do that and plan simultaneously?” she asked.
“We’re doing one thing at a time,” Reece explained. I imagined he kicked Erica under the table. And I imagined she didn’t care.
“But Bailey’s so good at multitasking,” she said. “And I wanna be a maid of honor!” She tried to make it come out lightly petulant, but it just came out fucking petulant.
“Well, first off, it’s matron of honor since you’re married. And secondly, I’m not all that great at multitasking right now.”
“Then let me help you,” she said.
“You’re busy with your business,” I replied.
“Not really. Taylor does most of the tans right now because I’ve got administrative stuff to deal with.”
“That means you’re busy,” I pointed out.
“Not too busy for you,” she said. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Erica . . .” Noah warned softly, but she was like a dog with a bone.
“I’m working on my dad’s boat,” I said again. This time slowly so she wouldn’t miss a syllable.
“This wine is going straight through me,” she replied. “Bailey, come with me to the bathroom.”
“But I don’t have to go,” I argued.
She grabbed my hand. “Come with me to the bathroom, please.”
Ugh. Sounded like my old mom. Remember the one who tagged “please” on the end of demands as an afterthought?
Erica was gracious enough to wait until the bathroom door was fully closed before lighting into me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she hissed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shot back. “Shut the fuck up about my wedding plans.”
“Start making some fucking wedding plans!”
“I’m working on the fucking boat!”
“Fuck the fucking boat, Bailey,” she snapped. “Now I love your dad. I do. And I know you’re hurting. But you’re toeing a dangerous line, and that man out there won’t be able to take much more of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your neglect. I’m talking about you pushing him away. I know you go days without talking to him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know you!” she cried. “It’s been two months, Bailey! Two! You have to start picking up the pieces. Reece loves you to death, but he’s still just a man. He can only take so much.”
I knew Erica was right, but the hole was too deep. I couldn’t pull myself out. Reece sure as hell couldn’t. There was no one who could soothe the pain. The only emollient was my father’s boat, so I had to keep working on it. When I worked on it, I felt in control. Planning my upcoming wedding would not make me feel in control. Planning my upcoming wedding scared the shit out of me, if I’m being perfectly honest.
I did the only thing I could do to appease my friend: lie.
“I’ll do better,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Really?”
“Yes. I’ll . . . I’ll allot myself a certain amount of time to work on the boat, and I’ll spend the other time with Reece.”
“And?”
“I’ll start looking at some dresses.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“I’m not trying to bully you into planning your wedding, B. I just want you to be happy, and I think you’ll discover a lot of joy in doing it. And I wanna help. I wanna share that with you.” She hugged me close. “I miss my friend.”
“I miss you, too,” I replied, and that wasn’t a lie.
When we returned to the table, Reece surprised me with tickets to Vegas. Tickets for all four of us, actually. Erica squealed.
“We knew! I was dying to tell you, but Reece threatened my life,” she said. “We’re leaving in four days!”
“Four days?” I breathed.
“Just a weekend getaway,” Reece said. “I took the time off work for you.”
“You did?”
“I’m gambling. A lot,” Noah said, finishing his wine.
“I wanna go to a burlesque show or something. One of those shows where the women are half-naked!” Erica said.
“You wanna look at half-naked women?” I asked.
“Sure. Why not?”
I forced a smile even as something clicked in my brain that very instant. It was a bad something. It was the voice, switched on, telling me that this wasn’t part of my schedule—that I couldn’t get ready in four days. That I needed more time to plan. That I needed to check my watch and leave the restaurant now. It was close to 10:00 P.M. on the dot, and I needed to be i
n the car buckled in at 10:00 P.M.
“I think this is awesome!” I lied. I was on the verge of tears, and I could feel the panic swelling like a tidal wave. It started down in my gut. It surged upward into my throat.
“Reece?” I croaked. “I think we better get going now.”
“Why?”
“Well, the bill’s paid up, and I’m tired.” I looked at Erica and Noah. “You don’t mind, do you? All that wine,” I explained.
I saw Erica glance at her cell phone.
“No, I don’t mind,” she said warily.
I hopped up from the table: 9:54 P.M. It would take at least five minutes to walk to the car. We needed to leave. Now.
“Honey, let’s stay for a second,” Reece said. “I thought we’d plan out the trip a little. Talk about the details.”
“There’s time for that,” I said. “Come on.” I threw on my coat.
“Bailey . . .”
“Reece!” I hissed. “I need to leave. Now.”
And then he understood. And he wasn’t happy about it. We said our hasty goodbyes, and then I was off, practically running to the car. I didn’t know what would happen if I missed 10:00 P.M. I imagined I’d fall to pieces, have a nervous breakdown, have to be taken to New Hanover Regional. I imagined they’d drug me into a coma, electroshock me while I was under, and maybe, by the grace of God, I’d wake up normal. Functioning. Able to go on a last-minute trip like every other goddamn person on the planet!
I checked the time: 9:59 P.M. I rounded the corner to the parking deck at full speed.
Please make it, please make it, please make it, I thought desperately.
My hand flew to the door handle. I lifted and pulled. Locked.
“Reece! Unlock the door! Why didn’t you already unlock the door?!” I cried.
“Bailey, this is fucking ridiculous!” he called, running to catch up.
“UNLOCK THE DOOR!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
He pressed the button. Relief. I yanked open the door. Relief. I clambered in. Relief. I buckled my seat belt. Relief.
I checked the time: 10:00 P.M. I made it! I made it! Relief short-lived. I burst into tears and cried all the way home.
Erica and Noah left for Vegas four days later. We didn’t.
Reece watched her from the hallway. The door was cracked just enough to give him a view of his fiancée hunched over her desk, gluing the tiny pieces on her father’s model boat. This was her fourth month into the project, and he was feeling raging jealousy and abandonment. He offered to help her several times, but she wanted to complete it by herself. He understood it was a private matter between herself and her father, but that didn’t ease the growing frustration. He missed her. He wanted her back.
He couldn’t remember the last time they had sex, and then he felt guilty for even thinking it. Her father died. But he died months ago. And anyway, couldn’t sex act as a healing agent? Maybe that was what she needed, but he was too afraid to broach the subject. He didn’t want to offend her or make her angry.
Even now, he worked tirelessly to find his place in her new world. A world filled with more tics than he could ever imagine. It was a foreign world, and it frightened him. He stumbled about blindly, never knowing if he was doing or saying the right things, just hoping he wouldn’t set off another compulsion.
Where was the Bailey he met in the office that summer day so long ago? She gazed up at him and said cheerfully, “That’s me.” He swore he could hear her voice now: “That’s me” drifting out of the stuffy office, asking him to find her again. Find the happy girl who had learned to let go.
“Bailey?” he asked, knocking on the door tentatively.
“I’m starting dinner in five minutes,” she replied.
“No, it’s not about dinner. And anyway, you don’t have to cook. We can just order in,” Reece said. “Or better yet, let me cook.”
“I’ll cook,” she said, and he knew it was because she didn’t want him dirtying the kitchen.
“Bailey?”
She whipped her head around. “Reece, I told you I’d be finished in five minutes.”
He bristled. “Until when?”
“What?”
“Until the next time, which is when? How long will you be working on that boat?”
“Until I finish it,” she replied.
“Which is when?” he insisted.
“I don’t know!” Bailey snapped. She turned around and resumed her work.
Suddenly, Reece had the nagging suspicion that there wasn’t much work going on. She holed herself up for four months. Surely the boat would have been completed in that time. He walked across the room and hovered over her, glimpsing the lined up wooden pieces before she covered them with her arms and hands.
“Go away!” she screeched.
“What is that, Bailey?” he asked carefully, but he already knew. He hadn’t bothered to walk in this office space for weeks. Hadn’t bothered to see that there was no progress made on the boat. Hadn’t noticed all the pieces spread out on the table grouped and sorted and lined up.
“Go away!” she shouted again.
She fought him as he peeled her arms away, revealing what had been a perfect arrangement of short and long wood pieces. They filled the table from corner to corner, alternating in lines of three short, two long, three short, two long.
“What the fuck . . .” he breathed.
She hopped out of the chair and backed into the corner of the office like a trapped rabbit.
“What?” she said. “Why are you saying that?”
“You haven’t been doing a fucking thing,” Reece replied. “You’ve been doing nothing but sitting in this fucking office for months on end sorting and lining up little fucking wood pieces!”
She winced. He glanced at the boat. Nothing had been added to it since she brought it home from her mother’s house.
“What the fuck, Bailey?!” he roared.
And then his temper flared, turning the understanding, patient Reece into a monster. He whipped his arm out and slid it across the desk, flinging all the numerous tiny pieces across the room and sending the unfinished boat crashing to the floor.
Bailey gasped and dropped to her knees. “No, Reece!” she screamed.
“I can’t live like this anymore!” he shouted. “I can’t! I don’t know where you are! I don’t know how to bring you back! But you’re not the woman I fell in love with! You’re some imposter!”
She wept as she gathered the pieces in her hand, fingering the splintered boat that slapped against the wall before it hit the hardwoods in a crunching smack. It lay broken, irreparable. The only way to fix it was to start anew.
“Daddy,” she whispered, tears stinging and blinding. She dropped the pieces and grabbed the boat, cradling it against her chest as she rocked side to side. “Daddy.”
Reece sank to the floor. It took only a moment for his old self to return, and when it did, he looked on, horrified at the mess he made—the disregard for her father’s memory that lay crushed against Bailey’s chest on its starboard side.
“Bailey,” he pleaded, feeling the sting in his eyes. He’d never done anything like that, never let his anger consume him so completely, and it frightened him. It frightened her. “I’m sorry, Bailey. I’m so sorry.”
She shook her head and hugged the boat tighter.
“We’ll make it right. I promise, we’ll make it right.”
“No, Reece,” she whispered. “We won’t.”
***
Bailey, why are you holding on? the voice whispered in my ear.
“I can’t let him go,” I cried softly into my pillow. I didn’t want Reece to hear.
But you’re no good for him. You know it’s true. Your needs, your urges will always come before him, the voice replied.
“What?” I was momentarily confused. I thought the voice was talking about my father.
Reece. Why are you holding on to him? Why are you making him suffer? Don’t you know he des
erves someone better?
“No,” I whispered.
Bailey, stop fooling yourself. You know you can’t love him. Not the way he deserves to be loved. You don’t know how. You never learned.
“I know how to love,” I argued. I didn’t believe it.
No, you don’t. You know how to alleviate your anxiety. You know how to live an orderly life. You know how to put everything in its right place. You know how to count and arrange and organize—
“I know how to love,” I interrupted.
Pause.
You’re not doing it now, the voice pointed out.
“Because I hurt.”
You won’t do it tomorrow or the next day or the next day or the next day . . .
I listened as the record stuck—needle jumping the band, then back again—and I knew she was right. I didn’t need to be browbeaten into making the decision. I already made the decision hunched over on the floor, cradling my father’s boat in my hands. I was never good for Reece. I have a mental illness; I’m not good for anyone. I’m a burden—a heavy yolk around my lover’s neck, weighing him down down down. I didn’t want us to hit bottom. I wanted to save him the heartache. So I dried my eyes and took a deep breath.
“I love you, Reece,” I whispered. And then I went to him.
***
She emerged from the bedroom. He’d spent several hours earlier cleaning up the office floor, arranging her tiny wood pieces and trying to figure out what could be salvaged on the boat. He made a list of new pieces to order—ones to replace those that were splintered beyond repair. He promised her he’d make it right, and he went to work immediately to fulfill that promise.
He sat on the couch staring at the TV. He wasn’t really watching. It simply provided background noise and a moving picture to distract himself from thinking about earlier. He was so ashamed, feeling his face burn every time the memory resurfaced—his hand swiping the desk clean, damaging her psyche, her father’s boat, her father.
He looked up and saw her standing, staring at him. He turned off the TV and sat up.
