Lifelines: Kate's Story (21 page)

The
miracle question was designed to force a client to explore a desired reality,
based on the assumption that the first step to achieving a goal is to visualize
it clearly.

Forget
all that, Kate. You’re the client here, not a wise therapist. Imagine you’ve
got your miracle. You’ve woken and you hear David in the kitchen, making
coffee. His footsteps in the hall. You stretch and ...

She
brought David into the bedroom, imagined coffee in his hand. The coffee looked
solid enough, in the green mug she’d bought last week at the farmer’s market.
David’s hand looked odd, though, and she couldn’t seem to keep her fantasy self
in bed. These last months, lazing in bed had lost its appeal, and she’d formed
the habit of starting her own coffee and heading straight for the shower.

If
a miracle happened and David returned, he would find a different Kate in his
home. She’d changed in ways that probably weren’t reversible.

Evelyn
puffed on a cigarette as Kate delivered the coffee. “Where’s your coffee?”

“I
had one just before I came.” Damn it! Stop lying.

“You
always have coffee.”

“Yes.”
Something to wrap her hands around. “I want to talk about Dad.”

Evelyn
picked up her cup and blew waves into the surface of the cream-colored liquid.
“It’s too hot. You took it out of the fridge too soon.”

“Have
you eaten?” Why did she feel like one of those bouncing balls on the end of an
elastic string whenever she shared a room with her mother? “Have you had
lunch?”

“I
don’t know.”

“What
do you mean, you don’t know?”

Oh,
God. Alzheimer’s.

“Don’t
be so literal,” snapped Evelyn. “Stop fussing.”

“Literal?
You can’t remember if you’ve had lunch?” Evelyn’s checkbook lay on the table,
open. If Kate turned her head, she could read the balance. If she looked
farther, would she see other checks to the man next door? “Do you feel confused
today?”

“Stop
acting as if I’m losing my mind!”

“I’m
not.” She needed a rulebook for adult daughters and mothers. “I want to talk
about Dad.”

“If
that’s why you came,” muttered Evelyn, “you can leave now.” She picked up
another cigarette and fumbled with the lighter.

“You’ve
already got one lit.”

Evelyn
ignored her daughter’s comment and puffed on the new cigarette until the end
glowed red.

“Mom,
I’m sorry it makes you uncomfortable to talk about Dad, but I need to find him.
If you have any information, I need to know.”

“I
don’t know how you can be my daughter and so cruel.” Her mother’s jaw flexed
and she sucked on the cigarette. “You can’t bear me to be happy.”

“Are
you happy, mom?”

Evelyn
ground out the cigarette. “Because your father never wanted to see you again,
you take it out on me.”

“You
always say it’s my fault. Look at me, Mom. Tell me what happened, why I have no
father.”

“How
can you do this to me?” Evelyn began to sob and Kate felt a familiar sense of
guilty defeat. “You’re a cruel daughter.”

“I’m
not cruel,” she denied, wondering if she spoke the truth. “I need to
understand. Thirty-three years ago I had an accident. When I got out of
hospital, we flew to Seattle. Dad didn’t say goodbye. He never came to see us,
never wrote. What the hell happened?”

Evelyn
flicked one hand as if dispatching a pesky fly. “What’s between a man and his
wife is private. Stop being so mean. Go away.”

If
Kate left, nothing would ever change.

“Mother,
you’ve spent the last thirty-three years telling me it’s my fault. Maybe I was
careless, maybe the accident happened because of my irresponsibility...” In her
mind the two accidents blended—falling from the half-finished roof at sixteen
and losing her father, and driving her unborn child to his death at the age of
twenty-five. “I was careless and I fell, so I lost my father and your marriage
ended? Help me make sense of that!”

Evelyn’s
sobs intensified, and someone knocked on the back door. Kate forced herself to
ignore both sounds.

“I’ve
traced him to Vancouver. He was in hospital there, and he had to stop working.
He’s on a pension.”

Evelyn’s
fists ground into her eyes. “Why do you hate me?”

Whoever
was at the back door pounded again.

“For
over thirty years I’ve respected your desire not to talk about my father, but
now I need to know what happened. One day I was his special daughter, and the
next—nothing. You’ve spent three decades blaming me for something I don’t
understand.”

Kate
had risen as she talked, and now stared down into her mother’s blurry eyes.
Blurry because of Kate’s own tears, which had slipped down her face and over
her jaw, to tickle her neck. They stared at each other.

When
the back door slammed open, the sound erupted into frozen silence.

A
man stepped inside. Kate saw stooped shoulders, frosty hair, and angry eyes.

“Evelyn?”
he said.

Kate’s
mother sniffed, and the man’s gaze swung to Kate.

“It’s
time you left,” he said. “You’re disturbing your mother.”

“You’re
the man next door? Noel Wilson?”

“I
won’t shake hands.” His voice dripped with icy formality. “You’ve disturbed
your mother enough. Leave now.”

Kate
held her ground and said, “I want to talk to you. My mother wrote you a check
for ten thousand dollars. I mean to be sure she gets that money back.”

Evelyn
began to sob and Noel Wilson’s thin face etched with anger. “You’ve upset her
again. Now get out. We’ll talk another time.”

Evelyn
threw herself into Noel Wilson’s arms.

Kate
walked out.

A
year ago, she’d had a husband, a loving daughter, and a profession she excelled
at. Now she was at war with her mother and her daughter, and her husband lay
dead in the ground. She spent her time fighting with clay, looking for a father
who didn’t want her, and helping a narcissistic client named Rachel regain a
husband who should walk away if he had any sense.

At
home, Socrates greeted her with a grunt and stood patiently while she snapped
on his leash. Although they walked to the end of the road, Mac wasn’t there.
She could have used an hour’s work with her hands, but it was too late; he must
be home with his wife.

Back
at the house, she fed Socrates and went to the garage where she took out a
fresh lump of clay. Socrates’ rough sculpture sat drying on the shelf. She
wasn’t sure she liked it, but it was the first thing she’d made that looked
like anything at all.

She
moistened a new lump of clay and began kneading and folding it to work out the
bubbles. The wheel waited.

But
when she’d kneaded the clay into readiness, she didn’t throw it on the wheel.
She’d once thought herself a strong woman, but she couldn’t handle another
failure today, even one as insignificant as a messed-up bowl.

She
closed her eyes and shoved her thumbs into the clay.

Three
hours later she had stroked, shaped and folded it into a caricature of a man’s
head. The shape bore little physical resemblance to her father, but it felt
like him. Rough around the edges ... kind ... gone.

M
ac listened
as Rachel explained their marriage to John Adams.

“We’ve
had a few problems,” she said with an innocence Mac remembered from earlier
days. “We’ve worked things out, though, so I suppose we don’t really need
counseling. But it’s a good idea to be sure, isn’t it?”

When
Rachel brushed back her hair, it rippled over her back in a shining wave. When
Adams didn’t reply, she went on, “Men and women, you know? Different
communication styles? Richard’s conservative, and I get impatient when he won’t
talk about his feelings. So I thought we could spend a couple of sessions,
maybe talk about communication and goals for our relationship. We’re both
committed to the relationship, so just sort of a tune up.”

When
Adams nodded, Rachel smiled back and Mac thought they made an attractive mutual
admiration society. Adams’s voice—John’s, corrected Mac mentally, because the
therapist had suggested first names—John’s voice sounded gentle.

“Rachel,
you said you and Richard have experienced problems. I’d like you to speak more
about those problems, but first let’s hear from Richard.” John made eye-contact
with Mac. “What brings you to family therapy, Richard?”

Mac
didn’t know what to add to Rachel’s pretty speech. Her words sounded true
enough. They’d had problems, and he was committed to the marriage. Why else
would he be here when he should be getting the Taylor Road house ready for the
drywall subcontractor?

“Richard?”

“Mac,”
he corrected. “Nobody calls me Richard.”

John
looked thoughtful, or maybe he used the expression for effect. Mac wished he’d
asked Kate more about this counseling business.

“Your
wife calls you Richard.”

Rachel
said, “It’s his name. I keep trying to convince him to use his real name,
instead of that silly nickname. He’s stubborn.”

John
asked Mac, “How do you feel about it? Would you prefer Rachel call you Mac ... or
Richard?”

How
the hell did a man answer a question like that?

“Mac?”

“It’s
just a name.”

“You
sound irritated.”

“He’s
tired.” Rachel leaned forward. “When he’s tired, he gets irritated. If he
didn’t work overtime, if he spent more time at home, everything would be fine.”

“Mac?”
John’s eyes held on his face with quiet intensity. “Do you like it that Rachel
calls you by a different name than everyone else, or does it irritate you?”

“Of
course it doesn’t irritate him,” said Rachel.

Mac
wasn’t about to contradict her. They had enough problems without looking for
new ones.

“Mac?”

“Is
this how you plan to help us, asking questions about my name?”

“What
would you like me to do to help you?”

Maybe
Rachel was right, they didn’t need counseling. Mac was the one who’d walked
out, but he was back now.

“Mac?”

“If
I knew how you could help, I’d do whatever it is myself, and we wouldn’t need
to be here.”

Amusement
filled John’s eyes. “So why are you here?”

“Rachel
already told you.”

“It’s
rare for two people to have the same beliefs about problems in their
relationship.” John leaned forward. “Part of the counseling process is to look
at those differences, to help each partner understand the other.”

Wasn’t
that what he wanted? To understand why Rachel hadn’t told him about the baby?
He’d forgiven her, but he wasn’t sure he could forget, or that he could trust
again. But if he could understand why she’d needed to hide the baby’s existence
from him, and why she’d ended its life before it began ...

John
said, “Mac, you seem to find it difficult to explain why you’ve come here.”

Rachel
looked ... nervous? She didn’t want him to talk about the pregnancy, but what was
the point of counseling if you didn’t talk about the problems?

Kate
had said counseling would help, but she hadn’t said it would be so damned
difficult to know what to say, what not to say.

Rachel
said, “I’ve explained why we’re here. Like I said, we don’t actually need
counseling.”

“Yes,
we do,” said Mac. His words fell like a stone in the room and Rachel’s wounded
eyes punished him for his betrayal.

John
leaned back in his chair.

“Can
you tell us more, Mac?”

“Don’t
call him Mac! He’s Richard.”

“Mac?”

“We’ve
been separated since—”

“We
didn’t separate,” said Rachel shrilly. “Richard walked out on me, but it’s over
now. He’s back, and he promised—Richard, you promised me it was over now.”

He
didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his eyes. He stared at John’s desk.
“It’s not so simple. We don’t feel the same about each other as we did before;
we don’t act the same.”

Rachel
burst into tears.

Mac
wished he’d never started the whole damned thing.

A
lain told
Jennifer to dress casually, but she wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to
remind him of how much he wanted her. She wore skin-tight designer jeans with a
lacy flesh-colored camisole under a crocheted ivory shell designed to stimulate
a man’s imagination. She slipped small pearl studs in her ears, because Alain
loved tiny earrings. Then she sprayed herself with perfume she’d just bought
with a hundred dollars of her April grocery money. After all, today was March
thirtieth, exams were over, and she was entitled to a celebration.

Alain
would make certain of that.

She
would run out of grocery money before April was half-done, though, and the
summer job she’d found had fallen through. It was getting harder to get money
from her mother, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it. For now,
the only thing that mattered was this weekend, and Alain.

She
packed the new black nightgown in her overnight bag. She and Alain hadn’t been
together in almost a month, so she didn’t expect to wear the nightgown for more
than five minutes at a time. Next she carefully folded a low-necked, swirling
dress and placed it on top of the nightgown, in case they danced. Finally, the
bottle of sumptuous perfume.

She
was fertile again this weekend, and she vowed nothing would mess it up this
time. Soon, when she sheltered his baby in her womb, Alain would do what needed
to be done. She loved the way he remained loyal to his wife, even without love.
When he married Jennifer, it would be forever, because he truly loved her.

She
couldn’t bear to wait upstairs in her room, worrying that he’d be late and
she’d be abandoned and unloved, tempted to call her mother and cry. She wasn’t
sure she liked her mother any more, and she certainly wasn’t going to cry as if
she’d lost Alain.