Transforming the place had required structural upgrading and cosmetic work. To me it looked the same as it had twelve years ago. The 1930’s Mission Revival architecture had been preserved, its oppressive façade subdued with whitewash and flower beds.
Memories overshadowed my awareness as if I had stepped back in time.
The Bell Tower building where I had spent so much time with Dr. Pallone still housed administrative offices. Hers had no doubt been renovated, artifacts surrounding the woman who had saved my life thrown into a construction dumpster.
My eyes surveyed the scene. Instead of patients who had wandered the grounds with no place to go, students with backpacks and busy lives crisscrossed the quad. I traced the sidewalk from the adolescent ward to Griff’s office and the cafeteria, smiling at the memory of Archie with his red hair and blue helmet accosting me. Students sat kissing on the bench where Tim and I had had our final conversation.
HONK!
I jolted and checked the rear view mirror. Turning into the parking lot where the sign read Faculty Only instead of Visitors, I remembered feeling utterly alone the day my father pulled out of this parking lot and drove away.
As I went through the motions gathering my things, it was impossible to stay focused on the present.
I didn’t need help from signs directing students to the auditorium. I opened the door and stepped inside. A low hum filled the air as students chatted and shuffled into their seats. The institutional smell of confinement had been suppressed by fresh paint and wood polish. I crossed the stage to the podium, just as I had the day I chose my Christmas purse.
Cavanaugh…get off the stage!
I glanced at the class. Their faces were as fresh as mine had been when I was a patient standing here with the dream of teaching, wondering what it would feel like to be here for real. A student burst through the heavy door at the last minute. The reverberating echo of clanging metal was the same one I’d heard in the lobby where I’d sat waiting to meet Dr. Pallone.
The auditorium fell to a hush, all eyes forward. My knees buckled.
Walk up the stairs, Reese, into the light.
I stood tall, shoulders relaxed. “Welcome to Early Nineteenth Century Literature. My name is Reese Cavanaugh.”
Discussion Points
1. What was your first reaction after finishing the book?
2. How did you feel about FD before Reese discovered the affair?
3. Should Reese have confided in someone about the affair, other than Kit?
4. As a Catholic schoolgirl, how did Reese relate to a holocaust survivor in Viktor Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning?
5. Could you see any validity to Reese's parents agreeing with extended hospitalization?
6. How does Reese feel when Dr. Pallone untangles her secret? What changes?
7. Griff describes Vivienne and Walker's behavior as abuse and neglect. How does this explanation affect Reese when she hears it?
8. Reese eventually trusts Dr. Pallone. Why doesn't she tell her about the rape?
9. What does Tim's behavior lead Reese to conclude about the men in her life?
10. What role does empathy play in the story? Who shows it, and how?
11. In the 1960s divorce was uncommon and most women were housewives. What do you imagine would've happened had FD not come along?
12. The Catholic Church was relatively unscathed in the '60s. Do you think anyone would have believed Reese about FD's affair with her mom?
13. In what way is this story relevant today?
Acknowledgements
No book comes to life without the support of key individuals. Thank you to Rosemary Kind of Alfie Dog Limited in England for her support in ushering the book into print.
I am grateful to the following friends for comments on early drafts—Penny Bazant, Lisa Bigeleisen, Fran Christiansen, Dianne Kelley, Josie Martin, Tracey Miller, Frances Morrison, Kathryn Padgett, Linda Sorensen, Leslie Thompson, Peter Windsor; and to those who critiqued the final rewrite—Katharine Mallin, Nick Watts, Lawrence Sorensen, Shirley Waxman. Special thanks to my dear friend Deirdre Morse for her enduring support through multiple drafts.
Thank you to Miki Klocke for her photographic talent, and to Ann Hammond for the inspired painting on the cover.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Viktor Frankl for his psychological memoir, Man’s Search for Meaning, and to Gabriele Vesely-Frankl, Ph.D. of the Viktor Frankl Institute of Logotherapy and Existential Analysis in Vienna for her comments on the manuscript.
I am enormously grateful to my son, Michael, for his unwavering conviction that ROAD was a story worth telling, and to my daughter, Christine, for her support in my telling it. I can never adequately thank my husband, Larry, for believing I could walk the long road with him and build the life we have together.
If you have enjoyed reading this book, please share your thoughts
You might also enjoy reading
Follow us for more exciting reads
Alfie Dog Fiction
Taking your imagination for a walk
For hundreds of short stories, collections and novels visit our website at www.alfiedog.com
The Road at My Door Page 25
