“No,” I say firmly, resisting the urge to correct the nickname. “This is about you and me.”
“That’s a load of crap.” Dan crosses his arms and glares at me. “You’re obsessed with your dead husband. You know that’s crazy, right? You know what you’re doing is insane?”
“This isn’t about him; it’s about knowing now that things aren’t right between me and you. I want it all, Dan, the heartaches and the pain, the ups and the downs, that feeling of being equal partners facing the world together. And I don’t think I can have that with you.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters.
“Dan—” I begin.
“Bullshit,” he repeats more loudly, looking up and meeting my eye. “This has nothing to do with me. This has to do with you finding out you’re infertile and getting scared. That’s all this is. You’ll come to your senses.”
He says it so smugly and with such certainty that my skin crawls.
“You really think of me as a child, don’t you?” I ask. “Like someone who isn’t as bright or sensible as you are.”
He shrugs, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smirk. “I don’t want to fight, Kate.”
“But you never do!” I shoot back, my voice rising. “We never fight! Don’t you see that that’s a problem? I’m just as guilty, Dan. We never really talked about anything important. We never dug any deeper than the surface. And that’s not a real relationship! That’s not healthy! You’re supposed to fight for the things that mean something to you! And neither of us cared enough to do that, because it was easier not to!”
He stares at me, and I feel terrible, because he looks like I’ve slapped him across the face.
“I’m sorry,” I say after a minute. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”
Silence falls between us for a minute. There’s a piece of me that wants to take it all back, to tell him I’m wrong, to say we can fix things. But none of that’s true.
“You know, Kate, you’re going to have to let him go sometime,” Dan says, after a moment, his eyes on mine. “If you don’t, you’ll never find happiness with anyone. And you know something? I feel sorry for you. What you’re doing, it’s pathetic.”
The words hit me hard. I open my mouth to apologize again for hurting him, but he’s already walking away. The door slams behind him, leaving only silence in his wake. I slowly slide the engagement ring onto the dining room table and let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Dan returns sometime after midnight, sleeps on the couch, and is gone—along with the ring—by the time I wake up the next morning. He’s left a note saying he’ll send movers for his things later today. I feel sad at the closing of another chapter in my life. But I’m also filled with a sense of resolve that grows as the day goes on.
I manage to push Dan to the back of my mind all morning while I work with Leo, a longtime patient named Sierra, and a new girl named Katia who has just moved here with her parents from Eastern Europe. They’re concerned she’s not picking up English quickly enough, and they’ve asked if I can work with her to help expand her vocabulary through music. It’s an interesting challenge and one that provides the perfect distraction from my personal life.
Thanks to a last-minute cancellation, I have a two-hour break between the end of Katia’s session and my first afternoon appointment, so I decide to take a walk to clear my head. Somehow, my feet carry me down Park Avenue, through bustling Union Square, and all the way to our old apartment on Chambers Street, the one I visited to no avail when I first started having the dreams.
It’s almost one o’clock by the time I get there, and I hesitate outside the front door for a moment before pressing the buzzer next to our old apartment number.
This time, someone answers. “Yes?” a woman’s voice crackles from the speakers.
“Um,” I begin. I have no idea how to explain why I’m here.
“Hello?” the woman asks.
“My name’s Kate,” I say quickly. “I used to live here. Twelve years ago.”
There’s silence for a moment, then the woman says, “Yes?”
“I . . .” I pause. I don’t know what to say. Finally, I settle on the truth. “My husband died while we were living here. It’s why I moved. I was just wondering if I could come up for a minute. I-I’m trying to put some old ghosts to rest.”
The woman is silent for a minute, then her voice crackles through the speaker. “You’re alone?”
“Yes. I’m alone.” I refrain from adding that this is true in more ways than one.
“All right.” The buzzer sounds and I pull the front door open before I can second-guess myself. I trudge up the stairs to my old front door. The hallway has been painted a somber maroon; new lights have been installed; and the broken seventh stair that Patrick and I always used to skip has been replaced. But the air feels the same—damp and musty—and the familiar smell of the stairwell—pine mixed with laundry detergent wafting from the basement—makes me feel short of breath.
The door to 5F is open when I reach the fifth landing, and a woman about my age is standing there, her hands folded over her belly, her expression somber. “You’re the one who buzzed up,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Eva Schubert.”
“Kate Waithman,” I tell her, shaking her hand.
“Ah yes, Waithman,” she says. “I remember the name. We’re the ones who moved in after you left.”
“You’ve been here for a while, then,” I say.
She nods. “You said you lost your husband? He must have been very young.”
“Twenty-nine.”
She bites her lip. “I’m very sorry. That must have been terrible for you.” She gestures into the apartment. “Would you like to come in?”
I follow her inside, my heart pounding, but my bubble of expectation bursts the moment we’re over the threshold. The apartment doesn’t look familiar at all, except for its basic structure. I realize I’d hoped that it would look the same as it had in my dreams, and that this would somehow legitimize them. Instead, every trace of Patrick and me is gone.
In the living room, where our slate gray loveseat and sofa were the perfect pairing for white walls covered in black-and-white photographs of the city, the Schuberts have placed a maroon sofa and two brown leather chairs. The walls are now a pale yellow, and the floor, which was once beautiful old hardwood, is now tiled. Colorful family pictures are propped on every available surface. The kitchen looks completely different too; the breakfast bar has been scrapped to make the nook into more of a dining room, and even our trusty old white appliances are gone, replaced by stainless steel.
“It’s not ours anymore,” I whisper, more to myself than to Eva. I already feel like a stranger in this place. But what did I expect? That it would look just like it used to? That it would look like it does in my dreams? That Patrick would actually be here, waiting for me?
“Is there something you need, Kate?” Eva asks a moment later. “Something I can do to help?”
“No,” I say, collecting myself and forcing a smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
Eva pats my shoulder. “It’s no bother,” she says. “I’m very sorry for what you’ve lost. I can’t even imagine. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
After we’ve said our good-byes and she’s closed the door behind me, I linger in the hallway for a moment. I close my eyes and try to remember exactly what it used to feel like to stand here, to know I shared this home with the love of my life, to know he was just over the threshold, waiting for me.
But he’s gone. And it’s about time I close the door to the past.
For the next couple of days, I feel hollow, and there’s a small part of me that’s already doubting my decision. After all, even if Dan wasn’t right for me, he wasn’t a bad guy. And with
out him, the loneliness is palpable. I hoped I’d get to spend more time in the world with Patrick and Hannah once I was free of Dan, but I’ve had trouble falling asleep since Monday, and when I finally drift off, my dreams are empty and dark.
“You okay?” Andrew asks, looking up from his paperwork as I round the corner into his office just before four on Thursday.
“Just fine,” I say, forcing a smile.
“It’s just that you look kind of . . . sad.”
I’m surprised that he can tell, but I just shake my head and mumble something about being overtired. I haven’t told anyone about the breakup yet; I’m not ready for it to be picked apart and analyzed and discussed. So I merely tell him, “I’m having trouble sleeping.”
“Bad dreams?” he asks.
“Not exactly.” I clear my throat. “So is Riajah here?”
He puts his pen down and leans back in his chair. “She’s actually come down with a bad cold, so Sheila’s keeping her home. I didn’t call because I figured you’d be coming out for Allie anyhow. And I thought maybe she could use a little extra time with you today, if you’re up for it. Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
He smiles. “I’ll walk you over.”
As we make our way down Thirty-Fifth Street, we make small talk, and I have the feeling Andrew knows something is wrong but is kind enough not to be pressing me about what it is. He tells me about his day, and I find myself laughing as he explains how frightened he is of the ever-growing pile of paperwork in his office.
“How did you get here, anyhow?” I ask him, thinking of how in the dream world, he had ended up miles away, in a different life. When he looks startled by the abrupt change in topic, I smile and add, “To this job, I mean. You told me about your brother and why you know ASL. But how did you wind up at St. Anne’s?”
“I came to New York for college and never left,” he says. “I wanted to open a restaurant, so I studied business and management, but after working in the restaurant industry for a few years, I just wasn’t that happy. I liked cooking, but I didn’t love it. I didn’t feel fulfilled. So I went back to school for social work.”
“That’s a big deal to switch tracks like that,” I say, my heart thudding. I couldn’t have possibly known that his first career path was in the restaurant business, could I?
He shrugs. “Maybe. It was a leap of faith, but looking back at it, I can’t imagine my life going any other way. Sometimes, you have to take the risks in order to wind up in the right place. In my case, it was about choosing happiness. You know what I mean?”
I feel a lump in my throat. “I do,” I say. I pause. “So you’re from Georgia?”
He looks startled. “Geez, I thought I’d lost the accent. You can still tell?”
I shake my head in disbelief. The dreams just keep proving to be something more than that.
“How about you?” he asks a minute later. “How did the music therapy thing come about?”
I glance at him. “I guess you could say I chose happiness too. I always loved music, and I always saw myself working with kids someday, but my parents were pretty set on the fact that I was supposed to go into business or finance or law, something where I could make a lot of money. But then I met Patrick and he was so firm about the idea that I should do what I loved that I finally got the courage to quit my job and apply to graduate school for music therapy. He always used to remind me that it was okay to choose happiness. That’s what life is supposed to be about. I’ve only realized recently that I kind of forgot his advice over the years.”
“About being happy?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Are you happy now?”
I consider this. “I’m getting there,” I say finally.
Andrew gives me a friendly hug good-bye at Allie’s front door, saying that he has a few more hours of paperwork to do before he’s able to go home.
“Stop by after your session with her if you need to talk or anything,” he says. “I’ll still be at the office.” He looks concerned.
I smile. “I’ll be fine. But thanks.”
Rodney greets me with a handshake, then walks me down to Allie’s room. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, and she looks up when I get there. Hello, Allie, I sign.
“You know, you sign like a three-year-old,” she says, but she’s smiling.
I know this is the part where I’m supposed to joke back with her, to tease her in return, but I can’t quite muster the humor, so I just shrug and say, “Yeah, well, I’m learning.”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Rodney says before disappearing down the hall.
When I look back at Allie, she’s frowning at me. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fine. Lie to me like everyone else. That’s cool.” She crosses her arms and turns away.
I’m startled to realize she thinks I’m upset at her. “This has nothing to do with you,” I say, and she snorts in reply. I wait for her to look at me before adding, “Just some problems in my personal life. I’m just a little sad, that’s all.”
She stares at me. “What, did you get dumped by some guy you like or something?”
I blink at her a few times, startled.
“Wait, seriously?” she asks when I don’t answer. “I’m right? You got dumped by some dude?”
“Allie, this isn’t really appropriate for us to be discussing. These sessions are about you, not me.”
“How long were you dating him, anyways? How did he dump you?” She pauses. “Wait, or did you dump him?”
“Allie—” I begin, trying to sound stern.
“Whatever.” She’s back to glaring at me. “That doesn’t exactly seem fair, you know? I’m supposed to pour out my heart and you don’t say anything about yourself?”
“I’d love to tell you about my life. But it’s not what we’re supposed to be doing in here. We’re supposed to be talking about the things bothering you.”
She stares at me for a minute. “Like the fact that my mom is probably going to dump me someday the way this mystery dude dumped you?”
“Allie, no one dumped me,” I reply. “Yes, I had a guy. And yes, we broke up. But it was just because we weren’t right for each other. I promise you, it has nothing to do with what’s going on with you and your mom.”
“Why, because my life couldn’t possibly be as interesting as yours?” she snaps. “Anyways, if I’m so important to my mom, she’d work harder.”
“Maybe she’s working as hard as she can,” I say. “Maybe she’s made a lot of mistakes and is trying to climb her way back out of the hole she dug for herself. Chances are, some of the things that are wrong with your mom are actually an illness.”
Allie snorts. “Yeah. And the medicine she’s taking is meth. Or crack. Or whatever she’s into right now.”
“We don’t know for sure that she was smoking anything, Allie. But from what you’ve said, she’s an addict,” I say. “It’s not always that easy to stop.”
“I would stop if I had a kid.”
“I would too,” I say. “But we’re not your mom. And your mom’s not us. She’s a different person with her own demons to fight. Is she doing the wrong thing? Yeah, absolutely. But it’s really important that you know it has nothing to do with you.”
Allie picks at a stray thread in her bedspread. “Yeah, well, I’ve never been able to rely on anyone, okay?” Her voice trembles a little.
“Allie,” I say. I wait until she looks up and meets my gaze. “You can rely on me.”
She stares at me for a long moment before looking down again. “I know,” she says. Then she looks me right in the eye and repeats, “I know.”
“Now, should we play some music?” I ask, smiling at her as I change the subject. I’ve already gotten way too personal
with her, treated her like a child I love instead of a client. I need to pull myself together.
She shrugs. “Whatever.” But she gets up from the bed and crosses over to her keyboard. “What do you want to play, anyways?”
“It’s up to you. Why don’t you choose something with lyrics that talk about how you’re feeling about your mom?”
“That’s dumb,” she mutters. But after a minute she says, “Fine. What about ‘Because of You’?”
“Kelly Clarkson?”
She nods. “Not all the words are how I’m feeling, but some are. And I don’t know the whole thing.”
“Want to listen to the song first?”
She nods, and I download it from iTunes then play it for us. As we listen to Kelly Clarkson belt out the lyrics about someone who let her down, my eyes fill with tears for Allie. I quickly blink them away as the song ends.
“In the song, she says it’s hard for her to trust people,” I say. “Do you feel like that?”
Allie looks down. “Can we just play the song?”
I nod. “On one condition. Whenever you don’t know the words, you have to make up your own. And they have to be about how you’re feeling.”
She looks at me for a minute. “Yeah. Okay.”
We launch into the song, with me playing harmony and helping her with her articulation and listening closely as she makes up her own lyrics about being let down. I stay for an hour and a half, because really, I have nowhere else to be. As I pack my guitar up and get ready to leave, Allie stands up from her seat behind the keyboard and surprises me with a hug. “You’re not going to walk out of my life someday, are you?” she asks. “Like everyone else?”
“Never,” I promise. “And I’m pretty sure Andrew’s not going anywhere, either.”
On the walk back to the subway, I take a deep breath and dial my sister’s number. It’s time to start facing the music. I need to tell her what’s happened with Dan.
“Hey,” I say when she answers. “Do you have a minute?”
Life Intended (9781476754178) Page 24
