Talking to the Dead

by Bonnie Grove

  I stepped back into the foyer and closed the door silently. I would have been an intrusion on the group of longtime friends. I’d only known Tim for a short time. In my car again I pulled away from the curb, the image of the group, clinging to each other, sharing their tears and hurt, swimming before my eyes. A pain, like a toothache, filled my heart. Losing Tim was tragic, but to see them huddled together, shouldering each other’s grief made me … jealous.

  26

  The following week, I walked down the hall toward the group-therapy room and saw Laura-Lea standing at the door.

  “I want to chat with you after session.” She touched my arm. “Can you stay?”

  I swallowed hard, my stomach doing a tiny flip. “Sure.” I had a pretty good idea what Laura-Lea wanted to talk to me about. Not only had I blown off the emergency appointment with Dr. Alexander, but I had skipped our regular appointment. I knew I needed his help, but I couldn’t face his quiet look, his pen and paper, his inquiries about the medication. I needed a break from the scrutiny.

  When everyone was seated, Laura-Lea looked me in the eye. “Kate, it’s your turn to begin session.”

  Apparently, not only was I to talk with her about my disappearing act of the past week, but I was also to share my story.

  But I was cornered, so I nodded.

  Laura-Lea nodded back.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, just like Laura-Lea had taught us.

  I glanced around.

  Grace shifted in her chair.

  Richard coughed in a fake way.

  Mimi adjusted the front of her V-neck top to maximum effect.

  Bobby openly stared at Laura-Lea.

  I froze, feeling the weight of their stares. I glared down at my shoes. “I’ll start next week’s session instead, okay?” I said finally.

  Laura-Lea puckered her lips in a doubtful expression. “You said that last week.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  She flicked her hands at me, like shooing a puppy out the door. “It really is your turn to begin the session, Kate.” As an afterthought she added, “Remember, this is a safe place. You can say anything here.” She said it smoothly as if explaining the return policy at Walmart. But I knew differently.

  I glanced at Malcolm, remembering the way the group had swiftly judged and convicted him after his bizarre monologue. He still came to each group therapy session, but now he said little. His opinion was never sought by anyone in the group, not even Laura-Lea. He had been, by silent majority, relegated to the fringe of the group. Safe was a crock.

  But short of bolting from the room, there was no way of out this. I cleared my throat. The image of the teenagers and Jack clinging together in their grief came to mind. Would it be so awful to share my grief? I didn’t have to tell them everything, did I? I didn’t have to tell them about hearing Kevin’s voice. I didn’t have to tell them anything I didn’t want to. They wouldn’t know the difference. “Uh, three months ago my husband died unexpectedly. I mean, he wasn’t sick or anything beforehand. And I guess I’ve had a hard time, uh, coping since then.”

  Richard rolled his eyes. “And?”

  I looked at Laura-Lea for support. True to form she nodded vigorously. I nodded back. “And, uh, it’s been hard.”

  Grace turned to me. “Hard in what way, dear?”

  I sucked on my upper lip. “Really, really hard.”

  Richard crossed his arms. “Oh for—. Talking to you is like pulling teeth.”

  Here we go … I gave him a pleading look, but he just continued.

  Richard smirked at me. “You come to group, sit slumped in your chair—your body language is very closed off, did you know that? You say almost nothing. And when you do talk, you give these one- or two-word answers.” He turned to Laura-Lea. “I find it difficult with her in the group. I wonder if she really wants to be here.”

  I sat feeling like a stick of wood.

  Laura-Lea opened her mouth, closed it, pointed to me, and then pointed at Richard, like she was playing a game of eeny-meeny-miny-moe.

  Mimi cleared her throat. “Richard, I think you’re being unfair to Kate. In my opinion—”

  “Your opinion is of no interest to me,” Richard roared. “I don’t know why you’re here either. You get all dolled up with makeup and low-cut blouses. It’s more like you’re on a man hunt than grieving.”

  Mimi clutched the neck of her blouse. “That’s unnecessarily harsh. Why are you always so harsh with people?”

  Richard leaned toward her. “It’s called tough love.”

  She crossed her arms. “You don’t love me.”

  He stared at her. “I do. In an existential way.”

  She gave a snort and turned away. At the same time, she tossed a get-a-load-of-him look at Janice. Janice glared back at Mimi.

  Grace lowered her eyes and folded her hands on her lap like she was about to break into prayer.

  “We’re here to help each other,” Laura-Lea mumbled to no one in particular.

  I nodded vigorously, overcome by a sudden desire to comfort Mimi. “Th—that’s true. And we are helping each other.” There was a hint of desperation in my voice. I wanted this group to get along. I wasn’t sure any of this was helping anyone, but I had a tremendous need to be here. With them. Week after week. Like a TV show, a vitamin pill, a full-time job, I wanted us to always be here. To stay the same. I needed the steady knowledge of Wednesday night.

  I turned to Richard. “I want to be here.” I closed my eyes and tried to think what Laura-Lea would say. “I hear what you’ve said, and I promise to be sensitive to your ideas.”

  Richard gave me a curt nod. “Good.”

  Mimi pounced. “Yes, it’s good that she listens to you, isn’t it, Richard? That’s what you want from women. For them to listen and obey.”

  Richard turned an alarming shade of purple. He crushed out his words between his teeth. “Mimi, stop. I’m not having this discussion with you.”

  She threw an arm over the back of her chair, ready for anything. She resembled Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce. “Oh, yes you are. You just accused me of being on a man hunt. Well, who asked who out to dinner? You. Remember? You asked me. I didn’t chase you. You did the chasing, mister.”

  My eyes bulged from their sockets. They were dating?

  Grace slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Malcolm tittered.

  Janice rolled her eyes.

  Richard was on his feet. “Shut up, Mimi.”

  Mimi, undaunted, leaped off her chair. “You can’t bully me. That’s what you are—a bully. Why don’t you tell the group about your dear wife, Richard? Tell them how you miss having her clean your house, cook your food, and wash your clothes. Tell them how you needed to slap her around sometimes.”

  The rest of us sat, risking tennis neck looking from Mimi to Richard, to Janice.

  Laura-Lea shot to her feet and stood in the center of the circle. “I’m going to lead the group in a cleansing exercise. Everyone sit down and close your eyes. You, too, Richard. Breathe deeply through your nose.”

  I closed my eyes and filled my lungs to bursting.

  At the end of the session, Mimi, who was supposed to have been calmed by twenty minutes of deep breathing, slammed out of the room. Richard sighed and then slowly made his way out, carefully holding the door for Janice, who was refusing to look at him.

  I added my chair to the stack by the far wall and Laura-Lea tossed me a weary look. “Got a second?”

  I nodded.

  She leaned against a stack of chairs. I wondered if they were the same ones Jack used on Sundays. “Dr. Alexander asked me to speak to you if you came to group tonight.”

  I sucked my lower lip in. “If?”

  “Seems you were a no-show for an a
ppointment with him last week and then again for your regular appointment on Monday. Can you tell me what happened?”

  My head jerked. “It wasn’t really an appointment. He had asked me to call him if … if I wanted to. I had called him and he asked me to come see him if I could. But I was feeling better, so I decided not to bother him further.” I shrugged to prove how trivial it all was, but my eyes filled with tears.

  Laura-Lea put her hand on my arm, the casual touch of a caregiver. “What about Monday?”

  I frowned at the floor.

  “There’s more that you aren’t telling me.”

  “I’m not crazy,” I said, inching away from her.

  Laura-Lea’s eyebrows snapped together in a look of confusion. “No one is saying you are.”

  I took a few more steps backward, creeping toward the door. “I’m not. No matter what Dr. Alexander told you. I have this under control.”

  “Dr. Alexander is concerned. He cares what happens to you.”

  “That’s good to know. Thanks for telling me.” I shook my head, still edging toward the door. She made no effort to stop me.

  She sighed. “He asked me to tell you that he would like to see you tomorrow morning.”

  I stopped in the middle of the open doorway. “I can’t tomorrow. I have an appointment at the bank.” Another lie.

  “Fine. I’ll tell Dr. Alexander you’ll be at his office late morning, after you’re finished at the bank.” She turned her back and began collecting her things.

  I watched her for a moment, and then headed for the door.

  The sounds of basketball filled the foyer. The crew was back, meeting again. I listened to the sound of the bouncing ball, the squeak of sneakers against the peeling wax on the floor. The image of these teenagers, just last week, huddled, hugging, grieving, filled my mind. I pushed the door open. The group was smaller than usual, but playing hard. Jack blew the whistle on a foul and pointed to the top of the key for the teams to assemble for the two-shot. He spotted me and jogged over. “Good to see you, Kate.”

  “You too, but I’m not going to stay tonight,” I said. “I just wanted to say hi. But I’ll stay next time, okay?”

  He squinted. “Everything all right?”

  I squared my shoulders. “Yes. I’ve figured some things out, I think.” Even if my own doctor doesn’t believe me.

  He patted my arm. “Sounds like good news.”

  “You know what? It just might be.” I smiled. “I think things will work out.”

  27

  Early the next morning I walked into the bank and was slapped by a blast of cold air. It bounced off the bare walls and the polished tile floor, searching out a soft, receptive surface to absorb its chill. I had told Laura-Lea I had an appointment at the bank, and while that wasn’t strictly true, it was a good idea. If I was going to take control over my life, I needed to begin immediately. Kevin’s safe-deposit box was a good place to start.

  I took a few steps and then hesitated, uncertain where to go. I eyed the line of silent customers waiting for the next available teller, and then the massive desk behind which a woman sporting a tight bun looked firmly down at whatever task was before her. The sign hanging directly above her head like the sword of Damocles, read Reception. Beyond her desk were rows of other desks, occupied by slow-moving, silent bankers. There was no sign reading Safe-Deposit Boxes.

  A woman breezed past me and joined the long line for a teller. I decided on the receptionist.

  I walked over and peered down at her scalp, visible due to her severe part. The bun-headed woman didn’t look up. I cleared my throat, surprised at how loud it was as it ricocheted off the bare walls. Bunhead, still looking down, held up a finger, indicating she would be with me in “one.” One what, I couldn’t say. Finally she looked up. I expected her to speak. To say hello or “Can I help you?” She only raised her eyebrows, making a What is it? face.

  I leaned toward her. “Good morning. I’m here for a safe-deposit box.”

  Bunhead looked at me with eyes half closed. “What size?” She pulled out a form and placed it in front of me.

  “Sorry, I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”

  She glared up at me for a moment, and then sighed. “Are you here to acquire a box, or to visit your box?”

  I nodded like an eager child. “To visit. I’m Kate Davis. Kevin Davis’s wife.”

  Bunhead stood at attention. She held her palms up in a don’t-go-anywhere gesture as she began to walk. “I’ll be right back.”

  Moments later I saw her walking toward me, Donna Walsh right behind her.

  Donna’s face was a sea of glass, calm and unreadable, but she walked at a quick pace, brushing past Bunhead. I was surprised she wasn’t winded by the time she reached me. She did look tired, though. Dark circles framed her gray-green eyes (contacts?). She appeared to be wearing too much makeup. Her skin looked sallow under the sheen of her blusher. She looked both regal and haggard, a queen with insomnia. She stopped directly in front of me and bent her head until we were nearly touching foreheads, like she was going to suggest a handoff and call “Hut!” She put a light hand on my shoulder. “Linda tells me you’re here about Kevin’s safe-deposit box.” She jerked a thumb toward Bunhead.

  Donna’s perfume was oddly familiar. I wondered if it was the one my mom had recently switched to. I held up Kevin’s gold-colored key.

  “Come this way,” she said. She turned sharply on her heel and walked back the way she had come. Bunhead resumed her position at her desk, reunited with her absorbing task, and I scurried after Donna.

  We walked past the rows of desks and then turned left into a corridor. Donna opened the second door to the right, switching on the lights as she entered.

  She turned to face me. “There are a few things to sign. I wish we could skip it, but the bank has to have all its i’s dotted and its t’s crossed.” She rolled her eyes at me in a conspiratorial way. I found myself nodding and rolling my eyes too. “No problem,” I said. We were like sorority sisters sharing a mutual dislike for the college dean.

  “I’ll bring the forms in to you. You need to read and sign them before we can open the box.”

  “Sounds good. Thank you,” I said. She turned to leave.

  She took a step out of the room and then spun around to face me. “By the way, do you have the forms we require?” I pulled out Kevin’s death certificate and a copy of his will from my purse and handed them to her. She took them without looking at them and then left me alone in the room.

  The room was stark white. Fluorescent lighting glared down from above. Two large, framed watercolors, painted in forgettable pastels, hung on two of the walls. A desk and chair sat against the far wall. A small photocopier stood in the corner, a wastebasket beside it.

  I sat in a chair and waited.

  I heard a soft knock, and Donna entered holding a file folder. “Take your time going through these, and sign at the bottom of page four.” She handed me the folder. “Normally we require all kinds of additional ID, but we’ll just make a copy of your driver’s license. I’ll vouch for the rest. When you’re done looking over the papers and have signed, dial 232 on the phone. That’s my extension.”

  Four pages of legalese. Who would read through four pages just to open a safe-deposit box? “Wait,” I said. I took the file and turned to page four. I signed my name and handed the file back to Donna. “Done.”

  Donna took the file, frowning at it like she was no longer sure what it contained. “All right. Follow me.”

  She led the way into a vault containing row upon row of tiny numbered doors that covered three full walls from floor to ceiling. It appeared the boxes came in at least three sizes. The smallest doors were rectangles, three or four inches high and eight or so inches long. Others were large squares, the size of an award plaque. The
largest ones were the size of a desk drawer.

  Donna pointed at number 123. It was one of the midsized ones, which surprised me. I was expecting a small box where he would have kept a copy of the mortgage, insurance, a few investment papers, and not much more.

  Donna pointed to the keyhole. “It’s a two-key system. I insert and turn my master key first. Then you use your key to open the door. I’ll remove the box for you and take you back to the room we were in before. Your key will also open the box.” She inserted her key, turned, and then withdrew it. Then I stepped up, inserted my key and turned, and opened the door. The box itself was set into the wall like a drawer. Donna grabbed the handle and pulled it out of the wall. “Follow me,” she said again as she marched out of the vault.

  Back in the room Donna set the safe-deposit box down on the desk. “Take as long as you like.” She indicated the phone. “And remember, when you are done, call extension 232.”

  I waited several beats after Donna left before I lifted my key to the lock. The hinge was on top of the box, so it opened like a chest. I flipped the lid open and peered inside. The box wasn’t even half full. Various papers, envelopes, and official-looking documents were spread around at the bottom of the box in no apparent order. Why did Kevin have such a big box? I reached in and lifted out an envelope with the name of the bank on it. Inside were the mortgage papers with details of the insurance. I put the documents in my purse. The mortgage was paid in full now, through Kevin’s insurance policy, but it brought me no joy to know this.

  I sat on the chair and reached into the box again, grabbing the next document on the pile. I moved slowly, methodically. I examined each item in its turn. I didn’t bother looking into the box as I reached in for the next paper, then the next. Which is why I didn’t see it until I had gone through over half of the contents.

  Something sparkled from the far corner of the box. Something metal, stainless steel maybe. I reached in and pulled out a skinny digital camera.

  I wouldn’t have been more surprised if I had pulled out a hissing cobra. The front of the camera told me it was 8.1 megapixels and came equipped with optical zoom. I turned it over. Most of the back was made up of a viewing screen. There were two small buttons above the screen, one with a green arrow, the other a red picture the shape of a camera. There were other dials and buttons on the camera, with markings that meant nothing to me. I found the On/Off button on the top of the camera and pushed it. I was treated to a view of my feet on the viewer screen. I pushed another button and took a picture of my feet. I turned one of the dials. Nothing special happened. I pushed on the button with the green arrow and a picture appeared on the screen. This one didn’t look like the one I had taken of my feet. It was framed by what looked like a reel of film, giving it the appearance of a scene from a movie. Maybe it was a movie. The picture inside the film reel was of a room I didn’t recognize. A chair, in front of beige curtains. I pushed another button and the screen went blank.