by Cimms, Karen
“I don’t mind, really. I mean, if you’re sick or something, it’s no big deal. If you want to sit, you can just tell me where things go.”
“I’m sorry?”
He pointed to the knit cap she’d tugged on before answering the door. “My mom had breast cancer, so . . .” He gave her a knowing smile.
Her hand flew to her head. “Oh. No, I’m not sick.” That’s a lie, Kate, and you know it. “Not like that. But thank you. I’m sorry about your mother.”
He didn’t look like he believed her but assured her that his mother was fine now.
“Are you handy, Shane?”
“Kinda.”
“I need some work done around here. I want dead bolts on all the doors, and I need more motion detectors outside too. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He drew out the words. “This is a real safe neighborhood, if you’re worried.”
“I know. It would just make me feel better.”
He tugged off his gloves. “Okay then. Tell me what you want, and I’ll pick up the stuff. I probably can’t get to it until Monday, though—oh, wait. Monday’s Christmas Eve. That probably won’t work for you.”
Christmas Eve. It might have hurt less if he’d just punched her in the stomach. She took a second to steady herself.
“That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
She led him through the house, pointing out the doors that were to get extra dead bolts. He gave her a curious look when she explained she also wanted one on her bedroom door, but he wrote everything down on the back of her grocery list.
“Are you okay?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just—all these locks. Are you afraid of something? I mean, if you’re so scared of a break-in, maybe you should just get a gun.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t want a gun in my house.”
“Hey.” He lifted his hand to touch her but pulled back when she flinched. “Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t like them either. It’s cool. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shook her head again, almost dizzy at the mere mention of a gun.
“You’re right. Let’s get these dead bolts up.” He followed her into the foyer. “You know, I can probably get this stuff at the hardware store in the morning and do the work tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
Relief washed over her like a warm hug. “Tomorrow’s good. Tomorrow would be very good.”
Shane stepped out onto the porch she’d shoveled just before he’d returned from the store. He smiled hesitantly.
“By the way, the plant was from me. I hope you feel better. Or whatever.”
* * *
Shane was back the next morning with his father. They worked for several hours, securing all the doors and setting up motion detectors outside, one on every corner of the house and on the barn.
When they had finished, she practically had to force him to take the two hundred dollars she offered. “If I called someone out of the phone book, I would’ve paid at least twice that, so please take it. I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”
He agreed, reluctantly, then dug around in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper with his home number and his cell number. “Just call if you need anything or when you want me to go to the store again.”
“Thank you.” She plucked a magnet in the shape of a lobster off the side of the refrigerator and secured the slip of paper beneath it.
“You know, Tuesday’s Christmas. I have to pick up my grandmother anyway, so if you aren’t doing anything, you’re welcome to join us. My mom said it won’t be any trouble or anything.”
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind, but I can’t. Please thank your mother, but I won’t be celebrating the holiday.”
“Oh, sorry. So you’re Jewish?”
“Something like that.”
Chapter Five
Snow fell Christmas Eve, but by morning, the air was clear and crisp. Sunlight glittered on the newly fallen crust as if great handfuls of mica had been scattered in every direction. Kate stood on the porch, wrapped in the silence. It was so quiet she could almost believe that the rest of the world was too busy making merry to pose a threat. The air was cold but intoxicating. She filled her lungs, shaking off the cobwebs of the past several weeks.
Charlie ran circles about the yard, glad to be outdoors and not tethered to a leash, while she shoveled the front steps and the short brick path to the driveway. A good eight inches of snow had fallen. She considered shoveling part of the driveway for the exercise if nothing more, but why bother? She wasn’t going anywhere, and no one was coming to visit.
Damn, it was cold. She called to Charlie, who had wandered beyond a tall copse of conifers that separated her yard from the neighbor’s.
“C’mon, boy!” A dusting of snow covered his snout. He wagged his tail, but he didn’t budge. As she moved toward him, he took off, intent on playing. She felt guilty. He needed way more exercise than he was getting. He darted behind the trees, and she ended up flailing about in nearly a foot of snow before she caught up with him near the next-door neighbor’s gazebo. The home, a two-story colonial with a wide back deck and a magnificent view of the cove, was currently unoccupied, which was fine as far as she was concerned.
She dragged Charlie home and dried him off. After a long, hot shower, she slipped into a warm pair of pajamas, and poured the container of Italian wedding soup she had defrosted earlier into a pot. While it simmered, she built a fire in the fireplace.
She eyed the rustic iron wine rack in the dining room. Nearly a dozen bottles of Joey’s favorites, hand-picked by him most likely, tempted her. She selected a bottle of his favorite shiraz, opened it, and set it on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. When her soup was ready, she filled Charlie’s bowl with dry dog food, ladled a scoop of the broth over his food, and brought it into the living room so they could eat together.
“Merry Christmas, buddy,” she said, ruffling the top of his head as he noisily dove into his holiday dinner.
She settled onto the couch and pulled a quilt she’d made for Joey several years earlier around her like a hug. Although she wasn’t hungry, she forced herself to finish half the soup. She set the bowl on the floor for Charlie and picked up her wine glass.
The logs crackled. The clock above the mantel struck three. She’d successfully spent the day not thinking about her family, but the chime tore away the veil. The awful fight she and Rhiannon had at Thanksgiving, when she’d asked her daughter to hold Christmas at her house, came tumbling back. Like it or not, Rhiannon was probably hosting everyone right now. Of course, they could have gone to her in-laws, and Devin might have spent the day with his new girlfriend, Danielle, and her family. It had only been a few weeks and already they were scattered to the winds, no longer a family. In her mind, at least.
The shiraz dulled her senses as forty years of watery Christmas memories washed over her like a slideshow. Like a stake of holly through her heart, recalling how happy she’d been last year was painful.
She pulled the quilt around her tighter.
Her marriage in shambles, her best friend dead, and here she was, holding onto her sanity by the thinnest thread, hiding away, trying to figure out how to survive.
How could her life have changed so much over the course of just one year?
When the memories threatened to overwhelm her, and the fire was little more than embers in a bed of black ash, Kate tossed back the dregs in her glass and headed for bed as the last of the day’s light faded in the west.
Tomorrow, Christmas would be over. Then maybe, hopefully, the darkness surrounding her might fade as well.
Chapter Six
Days passed in a haze made foggier by medication and amplified by nightly glasses of wine. When her supply began to dwindle, Kate cut herself back to a glass a day. Besides, one glass was plenty. Combined with the antidepressants she was taking, it doubled or tripled its potency. She wasn’t less depressed, but at least she was sleeping.
B
ut a promise was a promise, so although she hadn’t wanted to, she followed up with the psychiatrist. It turned out she wasn’t available over the holidays, and then she wasn’t available because she was going away for a week after her son went back to college.
They scheduled an appointment for the third week in January, but Kate canceled after another heavy snowfall. She didn’t need much in the way of excuses, anyway. It had been almost two months since her incident. She wasn’t suicidal. She just didn’t want to be bothered. Besides, she’d never believed a psychiatrist would help.
“How’s it going?” Tom tried to sound chipper during his daily phone calls.
“Fine.”
“What’s new?”
“Clint Bunsen just put up his storm windows, and the Tollefson boy is miffed because his father thinks they should put theirs up too, since the mayor did.”
Several beats of silence followed.
“What?” he asked.
“And although Father Emil’s hay fever is winding down, he’s still hoping to avoid the blessing of the animals this year . . .”
More silence.
“And Charlie says to say hello.”
“Who the hell is Clint Bunsen?” Tom demanded. “Wait a minute. Are you reading Lake Wobegon Days?”
She laughed.
“Jeez, Kate. You had me worried there for a minute.”
“Sorry. There’s nothing going on around here. I sleep. I eat. It snows. And I let Charlie in and out several times a day.”
“Did you see Dr. Marsh?”
“Not yet. The weather’s been bad.”
“Kate—”
“I have to run. I have something on the stove, and Charlie’s dancing around by the door. I’ll talk to you soon. I’ll see her this week, promise. Love you! Bye!”
At the sound of his name, Charlie opened his eyes and swished his tail, but he didn’t bother getting up. Kate stood at the window, looking out over the cove. It was cold and gray. The icy rain that had begun to fall earlier had turned to sleet. Ice pellets pinged against the windows and accumulated on the deck. A fire would be nice, but she didn’t have the energy. She pulled on another sweater, put the kettle on for tea, and made cinnamon toast for dinner.
* * *
Tom called the next day, and she let it go to voice mail. She did the same the next day, and the day after that. On the third day, when he sounded frantic, she called him right back.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized as soon as he answered. “I was outside with Charlie.”
Hearing the word outside, Charlie moved to the door, looking hopeful.
“Kate.” Tom sounded relieved but frustrated. “You can’t do this. I promised I’d make sure you were okay, and if you don’t answer the phone . . .”
Who had he promised? Her children? Billy? No, not Billy. The man who had captured her heart had broken it into pieces so small it might never be put back together.
Don’t think about it, Kate. Let it go.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m fine. I met with Dr. Marsh. I think we’re off to a good start.”
“Thank goodness.”
“I don’t want you to worry.”
“Too bad. I fully intend to worry. So what else is new?”
“Johnny Tollefson just published two poems in a literary magazine, but while home from college, he drove over old Mrs. Mueller’s rock garden and took out her ornamental windmill.”
“Funny,” he said dryly.
“Mrs. Mueller didn’t think so.”
* * *
After a while, it was easier not to answer the phone. She told Tom she was seeing the psychiatrist. And she would.
Eventually.
Maybe.
She had her reasons for not going. For one, she didn’t feel like it. And the weather was always so iffy. But she knew she wasn’t getting any better sitting alone day after day or locked in her room night after night. With no medication and no wine, she hardly slept. And when she did, she dreamed. That was the worst part.
There were two different kinds of dreams now. The first had started soon after the shooting last August and was usually variations of the same theme: She was being hunted by a man with a gun. He would find her and take aim. But she would always wake at the click of the trigger, sweating, her heart beating as if it were trying to escape her chest.
The second type of dream started soon after she’d arrived in Maine. These were even more realistic and sometimes almost as upsetting, but for a different reason. These dreams felt dark and warm, womb-like. She was alone, moving as if looking for someone. She would feel him before she could see him. From behind, he’d wrap his arms around her, and the scent of lemongrass would fill her nostrils. Billy. He’d press his lips to the curve of her neck. The touch and feel of those kisses burned in her memory. He would lift her up, then carry her to bed, where their lovemaking was slow and tender. They never spoke. When it was over, he would kiss her eyelids and the tip of her nose like he always did, and finally her lips, where he would linger. He would draw a finger along the side of her face and look into her eyes, searching. When she blinked, he was gone.
And just like after the other dreams, she woke up sweating, her heart pounding. Only instead of fear, she was awash in grief.
Chapter Seven
The pounding woke her. Kate jerked upright, her book crashing to the floor. Charlie scrambled from his spot beside the sofa. He barked and skidded his way across the hardwood floors, down the hall, and into the foyer.
It was midday; sunlight streamed through the windows; but her heart pounded almost as loudly as the incessant knocking. Gathering the quilt around her, she made her way to the kitchen and peeked out the front window. She couldn’t see who stood on her steps, nor did she recognize the car.
“Kate!” The muffled voice on the other side of the door was definitely male. “I’m going to use my key!”
She scooted into the foyer. The dead bolt was on. No one could get in, even with a key.
“Who is it?” Her voice grated from lack of use.
“Me. Tommy!”
She turned the knobs, unlocked the dead bolts, and opened the door. He stood in more than a foot of snow on her unshoveled porch. The tips of his ears were bright pink, and the jacket he wore seemed ill-equipped to ward off the bitter cold wind sweeping off the water.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, stunned.
His eyes were wild. “What am I doing here? What the hell are you doing here?”
She didn’t like being scolded, even though she probably deserved it. She stepped back to let him enter, but he didn’t. He was too set on reprimanding her.
“We had an agreement,” he shouted. “You promised you’d go to therapy, and you haven’t. You promised you’d work on getting better, and you haven’t. You aren’t even answering my phone calls.”
There was nothing she could say to defend herself, so she didn’t.
“Kate, I made a promise to make sure you were okay, and I don’t feel like I’m keeping up my end of the bargain. And you promised me—and clearly, you’re not keeping up your end of the bargain either.”
The look he gave her made her cringe.
“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed for worrying him. “Would you like to come in and yell at me, or would you prefer to stand out there and do it?”
He stomped snow from his feet and stepped into the foyer.
“How long are you staying?” she asked, eyeing the large suitcase he’d carried in.
“As long as I have to,” he answered, untying his boots. “You have an appointment with a new therapist Friday. I’ll be driving you myself.”
When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand. “Don’t even start. I’m in charge now.”
His face was the color of a hothouse tomato, and when he tore off his hat, static caused his hair to stand on end. He tossed his hat and scarf over the jacket he had just hung in the laundry room, then spun around and glared at her.
He was so uncharacteristically disheveled and irritated, she couldn’t help but laugh and hug him.
“I’m sorry I scared you, but I’m happy to see you.”
His chest gave way as he exhaled. He returned the hug, tentatively, and then with more feeling.
“You are an exasperating woman.”
She tightened her squeeze. “So I’ve been told.”
* * *
Dr. Elizabeth Crane—or Liz, as she insisted on being called—saw patients in her home, a large Victorian near Fogg Point with expansive views of the cove from her first-floor office. She was a pretty woman, maybe ten or fifteen years older than Kate, with dark, gentle eyes, and a deep dimple when she smiled, which was often. She wore a heavy sweater over a denim skirt, tights and clogs. Long silver earrings tinkled when she tilted her head.
The office was more like a den or sitting room, with deep, cushy chairs and a sofa, and a fire crackling cheerfully in a large stone fireplace. It felt more like visiting an old friend than a mental health professional, and despite her earlier misgivings, Kate could feel some of her nervousness slipping away.
“Tom’s told me a little about what you’ve been through.” Liz tucked a strand of silver-streaked chestnut hair behind her ear. Her nails, Kate noticed, were painted a dark, navy blue, an edgy contradiction to her earth-mother characteristics.
“Just a little?” Kate didn’t mean to be confrontational, but she was sure Tom had said more than a little.
“I’d like to hear what you have say.”
How was this supposed to work? There was everything to talk about and nothing. And dragging it all out into the open would just make everything worse.
“I don’t really know what to say.” At least she was being honest.
Liz nodded thoughtfully. “I think in this case, we shouldn’t start at the beginning but with some of the most recent events.”
Recent? For the past few weeks, Kate had done little more than lie in a ball on the couch every day, then get up and go to bed to sleep for a few more hours, after which she would wake up shaking or in tears.
