The Choice Not Taken

by Jodi LaPalm

  “I wonder if it makes sense to even seed that area at all. I mean it would just be more to mow,” he sipped his beer. “But it seems so bare without anything there.”

  “Maybe we could plant a garden?” I suggested, and he looked to me with knowing eyes.

  “Court. You wouldn’t like the hassle of planting, weeding, and then waiting for something to pop up.”

  “I know. I was actually thinking a flower garden, with a little sitting bench. Like a peaceful resting spot,” I described, envisioning something much like the inn, only on a smaller scale.

  “Wouldn’t it still be work?” he argued, and I instantly knew he was thinking of the extra time he’d have to dedicate as well. Neither of us were patient enough to spend time on major home improvements or tasks other than the most basic of housekeeping and lawn-care.

  “I could plant things that grow on their own and are supposed to be bushy. I like rustic, anyway, and think it would blend nicely against the trees.”

  “Okay. Let’s get an estimate,” he agreed and swallowed the last of his bottle. Holding it to me in question, I nodded. It was nice out here, and I didn’t want this...whatever...to end quite yet.

  Alex soon came back with another round. And the pair of us sitting together in silence-listening to leaves and branches cracking as animals romped in the woods-provided the harmony I’d craved all day. Even with him by my side, I felt alone with my thoughts.

  When he went inside to check on the kids and grab another couple beers, I lounged in the hazy dusk. Slowly, the image of our home shifted with the changing light, becoming new to me all over again. And I stared at its shadowy form, frantically trying to regain the connection I experienced earlier.

  It didn’t come.

  Instead, the current Courtney–who lived in this house with her husband and children-became a complete stranger while the old Courtney was the frightening new reality. I stubbornly pushed her away, but she simply refused to leave.

  In the midst of this, I became relieved to realize Philip no longer haunted me. More disturbing, however, was that he’d been replaced with another ghost...me.

  Yet even with these relentless memories of a painful past, I failed to recognize my previous self. I’m a different person now, and I couldn’t seem to reconcile that damaged, desperate girl with who I believed I was.

  I am a better person! I screamed in inner doubt. Not only stronger but also more true-to myself and those I loved.

  But as I finally realized the impact of my selfish actions back then and attempted to alleviate the unbelievable guilt, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I was this woman now because of that time in my life.

  Could I have become Me without ever being Her?

  “Some people come into our lives at a specific time and only for a little while...and they have a purpose-often unrecognized but powerful all the same.” During our session, the words of my therapist seemed trite and patronizing. Now I saw them for their undeniable truth.

  Still, I became frustrated that Philip’s death pushed me to a place I’d let go of many years before. The intense memory of him–and us–hadn’t ever been so demanding, so real, so needful of attention.

  And yet, with absent condolences and lonesome grief, it was almost as if we never happened at all.

  Alex ambled across the lawn, and his whistling cued me to the here and now. He cheerfully handed me a third beer and by the time I finished it, I gathered the courage to acknowledge something we were both trying so hard to ignore.

  “Alex, I think there’s something we should talk about,” I said softly. And among the refuge of stately pines, I witnessed his relaxed expression disappear. Now there was wonder, hope...and fear.

  “Okay,” he eventually agreed.

  “As you know there’s a lot of things going on in my head.”

  “I know, Court. Obviously, I can’t understand everything, but I know what it’s like to lose someone I...loved,” he choked out the last word as if it was tainted meat leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

  I sighed. “We both had relationships before we met each other. This isn’t something I’m jealous about.”

  “Yeah well, my girlfriends didn’t seem to have as big of an impact as he did for you,” he scowled.

  “You know everything I went through to get here. This,” I moved my hand between our bodies to emphasize my point, “us...we wouldn’t even be if it hadn’t been for Philip.”

  “Don’t say that!” he snapped. “We could have been...”

  “No.” I argued. “I would have never even been capable-of any kind of relationship. I just couldn’t,” I cried.

  “I’m sorry,” he soothed. “And I know you’ve always been honest about him. And for that, at least, I’m grateful.”

  Alex’s mention of honesty created an entirely new layer of tension to glaze over me. I hadn’t really been truthful, but I vowed to be now.

  “Alex. There is one thing you don’t know about Philip. When I dated him, he was still married.” Completely dark now, I offered my confession to the bleak air rather than his face.

  “What?” he asked, bewildered.

  “He was technically separated when I met him. I mean he lived in a different house, preparing for divorce,” I scrambled to explain. “And the only reason he tried to reconcile with his wife was because of the kids...”

  “There were kids!” he screamed, and I instinctively shushed him, knowing how the softest of sounds reverberated through our neighborhood.

  “He wasn’t in love with her,” I responded meekly, hoping to convince Alex of Philip’s innocence, for once more bothered about his reputation rather than mine. “His wife drew up divorce papers, and they shared custody of the children...” my voice trailed off.

  Alex silently stood, walked back into the house, and left me there. And there I’d remain-alone in the consoling black of a cool night-until I was absolutely positive the bedroom lights weren’t coming back on.

  Once I finally ventured inside, the house appeared eerily quiet and impossibly dark. Alex turned off every light, almost as if I became an after-thought. And yet I really knew it was just his passive way of displaying anger. It was his proverbial finger in the air to me, and in the kitchen I motioned toward the bedroom with a literal one of my own.

  How dare he treat me this way? I fumed. After all he saw me go through, couldn’t he have a little more sensitivity? Then of course it dawned on me: he’d been nothing but sensitive–and supportive–of my needs all along.

  Maybe I asked too much of him? I debated. But while I should have waited to tell him about Philip’s marriage somewhere down the road, when the dust of my grief had settled, I didn’t regret telling him now.

  I was ready, whether he was or not.

  After tossing caps in the garbage, rinsing bottles, and filling the recycle bin, I noticed a small note by the telephone. My eyes blurred upon the realization it was a message, scribbled in Mitch’s hand, to call the Chief of Police from the very same university town in which I’d been raped. Wholly unprepared for any such thing, I reflexively crumpled the note and left it to rest upon abandoned bottle caps in the trash.

  Staggering upstairs to check on the kids, I wondered how Alex explained why I hadn’t come in to say goodnight. Next, I began to worry what he told them while I was gone.

  Okay, snap out of the paranoia, I silently scolded, leaning over Mitch to kiss his forehead. He was in those years, between child and teen, and as I gazed upon his sturdy features, I got the distinct impression he was growing-and changing-right before my very eyes. His too-long hair curled around his ears the way the kids wore it now, and his ruddy skin from hours of soccer in the sun erased any signs of a baby-face.

  I missed two whole days of his life, and it felt like so much more. Hoping he needed me for awhile, I gave him another kiss, and he turned onto his back with a smile which reminded he was still my little boy.

  In Sylvie’s room, I did the same thing, staring over her while she sle
pt. In the throes of deep rest, thick lashes fluttered, and I admired their perfection. Her skin was yet unmarred from harsh rays of the sun as she preferred to spend her time indoors, away from the allergens which made it difficult to breathe.

  She was delicate, and my brow furrowed with worry she might be too much so. Hoping she never needed to dig as deep as I did, I prayed she’d find her own confidence to be strong if necessary, yet admit when she was too weak to do it on her own.

  Creeping on tip-toes into the master bedroom, I stealthily avoided any chance of making the slightest noise by skipping my usual bathroom routine. I wanted no night-time confessions.

  Thanks to the beer, Alex snored and barely moved once the weight of my body hit the bed. Laying far from him as I possibly could, I clutched the side and stared at a wall I couldn’t see in the dark, yet still knew existed.

  It was still there. Even if I didn’t see it. It was still there. Much like Philip had been out there–somewhere-when I didn’t see him.

  Now he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. And I’d never see him, hear him, touch him, taste him, or smell him.

  Ever again.

  Unlike my time at the inn, I no longer remembered Philip clearly. Of course, I recalled parts of him, but I was unable to go back and relive the moments like a few days before. Instead, I chose to imagine what the future might have been–if we’d been cowards.

  Performing a quick calculation, I gravely realized we wouldn’t have had many good years before he became sick. Rather than riding off into the sunset with my white knight on a sturdy steed, I’d become caretaker to a frail man.

  Many of my prime years would have been spent with him. And once he was gone, I’d have to play catch up, not only in the dating scene but in the child scene as well. I couldn’t imagine, with my history that I’d ever be so fortunate to find someone like Alex in another time or place.

  I would have been all alone.

  Yet all these years I’d been, according to Dr. Benson anyway, comforted by the knowledge Philip was still there somewhere, guiding and protecting me from the things I feared most. But it just never occurred to me that while he never contacted me...I also never contacted him. Even during my long friendship with Marnie, the topic never came up.

  Because in reality, I didn’t want to know if he reunited with his wife, and I also didn’t want to know if he divorced her.

  I just didn’t want to know.

  Instead, in the later years after I found Alex, I preferred to imagine them reconciled, happily raising their children, and finding some peace amongst the balance of work and home.

  And now upon hearing of his illness, I envisioned Philip’s wife at his side. After their decades together, I silently prayed he became encouraged by her loyalty and love and patience. She was the one who should have been there to help him through it.

  Not me.

  “Philip is no longer here, Courtney,” I whispered, and Alex shuffled his body toward the sound. My body stiffened and subsequently relaxed once his heavy snoring resumed.

  Then I heard another whisper, only this time it was Alex. And not this Alex who slept loudly beside me, but Alex from the other night declaring, “I’m here for you, Courtney. Yesterday, today, and always. Just don’t forget I’m here.”

  And as I once committed to selecting the right choice in my past, I became equally determined to make the right one now.

  Turning over on my side, I softly nudged Alex and woke him up.

  ###

  Acknowledgments

  …to my Husband and Son, who patiently endure sub-par meals and lackluster housekeeping so I may concentrate on my dream...Thank You for still being there even when I’m not.

  …to my Sister and Sister-in-law (aka “test readers”), who trudge through rough-I mean rough-drafts, bad grammar, and typos...Thank You for letting me know when I have a story worth telling.

  …to my extended Family (parents, brothers, sisters, in-laws, uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews)...Thank You for cheering me on when I’m not entirely sure I can cross the finish line.

  …and to my Moms–the girlfriends who listen to me whine, vent, and gloat...Thank You for continually asking me to come out and play even when I’m otherwise preoccupied.

  Cover Art: Georghious, Christos. Phoenix. Photograph. Web image. Dreamstime. 29 July 2010. http://www.dreamstime.com. Works Cited: Claudian (Roman author). Poem translated by Henry Vaughan. “The Phoenix”. http://www.phoenixarises.com/phoenix/legends/greek.htm. n.p., n.d. Web. 15 July 2010.

  About the Author

  JODI LAPALM is a stay-at-home mother by day and an author of fiction by night.

  Following a decade of administrative work, she fled the Real World to acquire a degree in her first love English. To appease her other crush, Jodi minored in Human Development which might possibly explain why she often explores psychological turmoil within her main characters. Her stories highlight contemporary women faced with overwhelming hurdles and follow their struggles to overcome the complexities of self, family, love, and daily life.

  Somewhere in the craze of volunteering, sick days, school events, play-dates, household duties, social networking, and the many joys that come with being wife and mother, she continues to find time to write. In her carefree moments, Jodi attempts to teach herself new things, organize a too-tidy home, travel with her boys, and savor the rare, kid-free night out with fellow moms.

  She currently lives in the Midwest with her husband and son.

  Other Works available on Amazon

  Still Life

  Muse: a Still Life companion

  Author Website

  http://www.lapalmbooks.blogspot.com