Talking to the Dead

by Bonnie Grove

  Dr. Alexander had looked out the window and agreed. Ten minutes later we had entered the winding paths of a riverside park only two blocks from his office. He walked with hands clasped in front, making a V of his arms. I was surprised to note he wasn’t carrying his usual notepad and pen. A jogger passed us on the right, then a lean man on a bicycle zipped by, looking serious in black spandex. All around us were people who walked, picnicked, chatted to one another—none paying any attention to this commonplace duo: a father and daughter, or work colleagues, a mentor and his protégé.

  As usual he was silent, waiting for me to begin. The past four months since Kevin’s funeral tumbled through my mind, and as I walked beside the river, I felt like a survivor of some terrible calamity, an earthquake or fire or flood. After being released from the psychiatric center, it was as if I’d been handed my life back, and that somehow the worst was over. “Could all of this happen to me again?”

  He frowned at the swiftly moving water. “Yes.”

  I took a moment to absorb the word. I’d wanted him to smile and shake my hand, say Congratulations and send me on my way with a certificate of sanity. I wanted him to pooh-pooh my fears of relapse, assure me I’d reached my quota of mental illness. “Oh.”

  He turned to me in a quick, almost startled manner. “It probably wouldn’t happen exactly the same way, with the same symptoms. But psychosis could reoccur in the future.” As an afterthought he said, “Not that you’re completely recovered from this episode.”

  I stopped walking and watched the wide river rushing to wherever it was going. In places the water roiled and churned, making it appear white. Farther out, where the water was deepest, it looked flat, nearly motionless, as if a sheet of glass had been laid on top. I wanted to lie on the smooth surface and look up into the endless clear sky. I imagined lying on my back, spread-eagle, buoyed by still water, while the rest of the river rushed beside me, beneath me, but could not budge my clear, still island.

  “Better,” I said, but the word stuck in my throat and came out garbled, indistinct. I cleared my throat. “I’m better.”

  “Give yourself some time, Kate.” He looked at me. “Your mental state is better—improved—but give it time.”

  I started walking again. “Okay.”

  He didn’t fall into step, but stood. “You’re at an important juncture. Your symptoms, the voice, missing memories have largely dissipated. You’ve regained the bulk of your memory, if not all of it. But there’s more to recovery than an absence of symptoms.”

  I turned to look at him. We stood several feet apart, facing each other on the path, his voice raised slightly to cover the distance.

  “You must decide what to do with the truth you’ve recovered. The events of your recent past were traumatic enough to cause your mind to bury them. Now that you know your whole story, you’re going to have to do something with it.” He took slow steps until he was only a few feet in front of me.

  He motioned his head toward the path, indicating we should keep walking.

  I said, “So if something bad happens in the future, a death, or something like that, I could—” I snapped my fingers.

  “Perhaps. Or it could be something much smaller that triggers another episode. Or nothing at all.” He gave me a steady look. “The key is what I said before: You need to decide what to do with the truth of your past, Kate.”

  We walked beside a stand of trees that obscured the river, blocking it from view. The early autumn wind rustled the leaves and swirled around us. I listened for the sound of the rushing, churning river just beyond the trees. “And if I do what you say, if I deal with my past—will I be okay after that?”

  The wind rustled through the leaves. “Let’s begin by tapering you off your medication, and we’ll take it one step at a time.”

  The kitchen was filled with oven-cleaner fumes. I coughed and pushed the window above the sink wide open. I’d spent the last two days cleaning house—scrubbing it of all personal effects.

  “No personal items should be in sight in any room of the house,” Rose the realtor had said. So I threw most of my personal items in garbage bags and heaped them in the backyard.

  I hadn’t just cleaned the house—I didn’t want to simply pack my things. I needed to expunge the house, so I had walked from room to room, garbage bag in hand, sweeping framed photos, porcelain figurines, even books, into the bag and tossing them into the backyard as if everything in the house was contaminated and I was trying to scrub it clean.

  The doorbell rang, and I groaned. Who could it be? I kept scrubbing the crusty mess inside the oven that I’d been working on for over an hour. I didn’t want company.

  After a second ring I walked to the door and pulled it open.

  Blair stood on the stoop and flung an arm toward the front yard. “For sale? What does that mean?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It means the house is for sale. Interested?”

  Blair ran his hands through his hair. He took a half step toward me, expecting me to let him in the house.

  I crossed my arms. “Not interested in buying the house? Fine. Then you can go.”

  “Kate.” That’s all he said. Just that. He was unshaven. His skin looked sallow and gray, as if he’d been pouring ashes on his head. “Kate. Please, Kate.”

  I stood my ground. “Why are you here? Did you honestly believe I would want to talk to you?”

  His face flushed red. “Let me tell you how sorry I am. Let me explain.”

  Explain? There was no explanation for how he had betrayed me. Just like Heather, he’d befriended Donna. But worse, he’d been a part of their affair, a friend to their infidelity. Kevin’s relationship confidant. I was disgusted. “I’ve known you forever, Blair. You’ve always been a part of my life. I’ve trusted you for so long. And what you did—”

  “Kate—”

  “And not just you,” I cut him off. “Heather, too. I’m drowning in lies. That’s why ‘For Sale.’ That’s why I’m leaving. I can’t stand to be here anymore.”

  Tears fell down his cheeks, splotching onto his light blue T-shirt. “I loved Kevin. He was like a brother to me.” He looked miserable, like a large, hesitant child. “I wish I’d never known about the affair.”

  “You didn’t just know, you approved. “

  “I know,” he whispered over and over. He shut his eyes and tipped his head back until I was eyeing his Adam’s apple. I watched it bob as he swallowed rapidly.

  “Just leave, Blair.”

  Blair held up two hands in an I-surrender gesture. “I know what I did was wrong,” he said, voice rising with emotion. “I know it. But do you know why I did it?” He jammed his hands on his hips, defying me to guess. “Because I’m in love with you, Kate. I always have been.”

  I stared at him.

  “I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met, back in high school. But you were with Kevin, my best friend.” He gave me an imploring look, eyes wide, brows high on his forehead. “Don’t you see? I’ve had to lie to you from that moment on.”

  I wanted to scream. Throw things. I squeezed my eyes shut and spoke very slowly. “I don’t see. I’m sure you believe you’re making all kinds of sense.” I opened my eyes. “And maybe you are. But I’m done talking about this.” I waved my hand, ordering him to go. “I don’t need that kind of love, Blair.”

  He stood for a long moment, shoulders slumped, defeated. He’d said what he came to say, but it made no difference. He turned and walked, but after a few steps, stopped to pinch back a petunia. With a bolt I realized he was the one who’d been tending to my lawn and watering the flowers in the backyard. It had to have been him. Even after I threw him out, after the things I’d said to him, he was still tending to my yard. But it didn’t matter.

  I called to him. “Blair, wait.”

  He sprinte
d up the steps. “What?”

  I held my hand out. “Give me your key to my house.”

  The doorbell rang again and I rolled my eyes. I imagined myself punching Blair in the face if he returned, then realized that I should probably resign from the punching business.

  I pulled off the rubber gloves I’d been wearing while still trying to finish scrubbing the oven. On my way to the door, I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. My face was smeared with what I assumed was oven grunge. My hair was disheveled and a thin sheen of sweat clung to my brow.

  A knock. “Kate?”

  Jack.

  I pulled the door open without hesitation and stepped back to make room for him. I smiled, genuinely happy to see him.

  He entered the house, and I had to take another pace back. The foyer seemed to shrink as he filled it with his presence. I had a surreal sensation of two worlds clanging together. My city life had come to town.

  Jack stood by the door, looking around. He gave me a shy look. “Nice place.” I backed up farther still, staring at him like he was a ghost. What was he doing here? He stepped into the living room, looking around. “I see a For Sale sign on the front lawn.”

  I nodded. “Yep. It’s time.” I skirted around him and closed the door. “Why are you here? I mean, I’m surprised to see you.” Surprised didn’t even cover it. He didn’t even own a car. “How did you get here?”

  “I borrowed Lester’s car. You met Lester, he stands at the back of the gym on Sunday mornings and hands out coffee.” I remembered Lester as a crumpled old man with the shakes and ragged clothing. He’d struck me more as a homeless person than a guy who owned a car.

  Jack rubbed his hands together. “Speaking of coffee, where does a guy go for a cup in this town?”

  “He goes to my kitchen,” I said, leading the way.

  He grinned. “Talk about convenient.” He followed me into the kitchen. He had to step over the cleaning supplies strewn across the floor. “Can I make an observation?”

  I fumbled with the coffeemaker. The smell of oven cleaner overpowered the aroma of the coffee grounds. “Knock yourself out.”

  “You’re a mess.” He stood at the sink, so close if I lifted my arm I’d touch him. He grinned.

  My hands moved to my hair and face. I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “I’ve been cleaning house, not preening for a beauty pageant.” I smiled back. I clicked the On button of the coffeemaker, then grabbed a paper towel and ran it across my face. I wondered if I could excuse myself long enough to have a fast shower, freshen up a bit.

  He tipped his head toward the open oven door. “I see that.” Something about Jack kept me off balance. His deep voice and boyish charm combined to make him appear both masculine and youthful. I curved my lips into a self-conscious smile.

  He peered closer at my face. “Your smile is sad.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  “I’d love to see those brown eyes of yours light up,” he said quietly.

  I dropped my gaze to the floor, unable to meet his look.

  “I’d like to see you happy, Kate. Really happy. Dancing for joy kind of happy.”

  I nodded. I tried to picture myself, arms over my head, body twisting with enjoyment, feet tapping out their pleasure. A yearning rose up in my chest. What would it take to feel that way?

  He reached up and put the flat of his hand against my cheek. “I wish I knew how to make that happen.” His voice was thick.

  His hand was a blanket over my cheek. “Me, too,” I whispered.

  His thumb ran along my jawline and back again. Without moving my head, I looked up at him. His eyes were focused on his hand. His roving thumb touched the corner of my mouth and his blue eyes met mine for a long moment. He dropped his hand suddenly and looked around the kitchen. He noticed the to-do list on the table next to the realtor’s agreement, and picked up the list. He let out a low whistle. “You’ve got a pile of work to do here. Painting, drywall repair, replace bedroom door frame, steam cleaning. Who is going to help you?”

  Who would help me? Hmm, let me think … Who hadn’t I run off, lied to, kicked out of my life? I blew out a hard breath. “Pathetically enough, I’ve got no help.”

  He glanced down at the list. “Well, that’s why I came today. When you told me you were moving, I figured you might need some manpower.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to interrupt him.

  He held up a hand. “Just with the big stuff. Things too heavy or too difficult for you to do by yourself. I’m pretty handy for a pastor. And movers don’t help with things like painting and repairs.”

  I poured him a cup of coffee. “Actually I’m not hiring movers. I’m selling the house furnished.” There was nothing in the house I wanted anymore. I handed him the cup. “You must think I’m a loser. I’ve lived in this town my whole life, and I can’t think of a single person who would come and help me.”

  He stood close to me, holding the cup. “Loser is the last thing I’d ever think about you.” He touched my shoulder, and then let his hand drop. “You’ve been through so much. It blows my mind when I think about everything you’ve been through.” He frowned deeply. “Just let me help you. Please?”

  “Yeah, of course. I want help. I need help,” I said, as if that fact weren’t perfectly obvious to both of us.

  “Great.” He sat down at the table. “Let’s make a game plan. What have you started already?”

  I sat across from him. “Decluttering, mostly. I’ve just started cleaning. But most of these repairs are beyond me. I’ve never been very handy.”

  He took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and then poured an outrageous amount of sugar into it from the bowl on the table. He took another sip, seemingly satisfied. “What about the exterior?”

  I stared dumbly at the list. I hadn’t given the exterior much thought aside from the lawn and gardens. “It’s in pretty good shape, I think.”

  Jack nodded. “From what I saw when I came in, I agree, but when you start looking close, it’s amazing how many little things can show up.” He stood and moved to the back door. “Leaking eaves, cracked downspouts, loose bricks.” He looked like a boy listing his favorite toys. “I could have a look around out there—see what’s what.” His hand was on the doorknob.

  “Yes, thank you, Jack,” I said, but he was already out the door.

  I snapped the rubber gloves on and resumed scrubbing the oven. Most of the fumes from the cleaner had dissipated through the open window. I stuck my head in the oven and scrubbed out the last of the crud on the bottom. Knowing Jack was outside tackling the jobs I couldn’t do myself made my task feel lighter. I had help, a friend. I hummed as I worked.

  Afterward I filled the sink with warm, soapy water in order to wash the racks. I glanced at the fridge. Might as well clean the refrigerator shelves at the same time, I thought. The act of cleaning brought me great satisfaction, as if I were accomplishing more than just squeaky-clean surfaces. I was setting the stage for a new phase in my life. I began emptying the contents of the fridge, tossing expired bottles of salad dressing and humming to myself. I sniffed a dubious-looking tub of strawberry yogurt.

  “Kate?” Kevin’s voice called. It sounded muffled, as if from far away.

  I dropped the yogurt, blots of thick pink sprayed across the floor. My heart hammered in my chest. Kevin’s calling me. The kitchen slanted left like an amusement park ride, then righted itself again. For a moment I thought I would be sick.

  The rubber gloves suddenly felt hot and smothering against my skin. I stripped them off and dropped them on the floor. I took a step, then another until I was in the living room. I heard nothing.

  I moved to the stairs and climbed, my throat so dry I couldn’t swallow. Upstairs I leaned hard on the wall and listened, but heard nothing. The bedroom. I walked t
o the doorway.

  Inside the room Kevin stood looking out the window, his back to me. He wore faded jeans, like the ones he wore around the house when we were first married, before the designer suits. His simple, black cotton shirt rippled and stretched over his broad shoulders as he raised both hands and placed them on the frame of the window. His dark hair looked slightly shaggy, long enough to brush his collar. A painful yearning pierced my stomach. He was beautiful.

  He touched the wall at the bottom of the window, running a finger along a long gouge in the drywall made when I had hoisted the chest of drawers out the window. I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers across the cliffs and valleys of his face and body. He studied the marks on the wall. “Kate?” he called again.

  A million pinpricks ran across my scalp and down my spine. Nearly breathless I said, “I’m here.”

  He turned slowly, fingering the marks on the wall as if they were braille. My heart roared in my ears, the room swam, his profile blurred. Then he faced me.

  Jack.

  The tension flooded from my body and I leaned against the doorjamb for support. “I thought you were outside,” I said, panting as if I’d just run the hundred-yard dash.

  Jack said, “I was. I noticed this window looked different from the rest, so I came in through the front door and up here—are you all right? You look very pale.”

  I pressed my hand to my collarbone. “Breathed in too many oven cleaner fumes, I guess.”

  He frowned. “Maybe you should take a break.”

  I turned and walked back down the stairs, mumbling, “Yes, I need a break.”

  44

  At six thirty that evening the doorbell rang. I opened the door and there stood Maggie wearing a purple pantsuit the exact shade of her new PT Cruiser parked on the street, and a pink Doris Day hat that sat slightly too far forward on her head and wobbled when she spoke. “I’m just bursting in uninvited, dearest.”