It seemed as though they had been sitting in the car for hours. The weight of the topic, her son’s expectations, and her responsibilities bore down on her, making her feel as though she could not breathe and tempting her to simply open the car door and run as far and fast as she could in any direction so long as her feet carried her away from everyone and everything familiar to her.
Finally, she took a deep breath and turned to face her son’s insistent gaze.
“Earth to Mom, earth to Mom . . . ” He waved his hand in front of her face in an effort to get her attention.
“What, honey?” she asked as if in a daze, finally turning her attention back to him.
“Don’t you think we should get going? We’re going to be late,” he replied. “We promised Grandma that we would be there by 7:00.”
“What time is it?” She suddenly realized that she was completely disoriented, and struggled to focus on her son and his words.
“So how did you do?” Dr. Nolan asked cheerfully, but expectantly.
“Well, I didn’t write the letter.” She had decided while driving to the therapist’s office to be straightforward, direct, and honest about her progress.
“I see,” Dr. Nolan replied matter-of-factly. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“I was worried about you last night.” Her only child was a typical first-born: Responsible, organized, forthright. She was genuinely sorry that she had concerned him.
“I’m sorry, honey,” she said as she gave him a good morning hug. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just went for some coffee and lost track of time.”
“Next time, answer your cell phone,” he chided her. “What’s the house rule?”
“I know, I know . . . ” He was not making this easy for her.
“If you’re out of the house, your phone should be on and you need to answer it when you see that the call is from ‘home.'” His mocking impression of her was flawless — and stung a bit.
“O.K., I get the point, buddy,” she sighed, again hugging his broad shoulders as she stroked his stubbled cheek with the palm of her hand. “How did you get so big so fast?”
“Don’t change the subject, young lady,” he teased.
“That’s it. I’m getting in the shower,” she announced as she poured herself another cup of coffee before striding toward the bathroom.
“All right,” he laughed. “I’m going to school. See ya later!” As he ran out the door, he added, “Love ya, Mom!”
She didn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted, drained. As she looked out over the dark lake, illuminated only by the moonlight, she realized that she now understood the expression “tired to the bone” because she was convinced that her body had never felt this devoid of energy.
It was, in a surprising way, exhilarating. She knew that Dr. Nolan would label the events of this day a “breakthrough.” She could imagine the doctor smiling broadly with delight when she reported that she had spent the afternoon by herself, crying. Dr. Nolan had repeatedly encouraged her to “let go” and “process” her emotions, abandoning her normal reserve in favor of “feeling,” in the most visceral sense. Many times, listening to Dr. Nolan’s advice, she had resisted the urge to roll her eyes impatiently and attempt to change the topic of conversation. Now, however, she understood just why the doctor had been insistent that this simple exercise would be beneficial.
As relieved as she felt, however, she still had to make a decision and, of course, write the letter. Dr. Nolan’s pleasure would be short-lived . . . she would press for an update on her writing progress.
“Coffee,” she thought to herself as she shivered in the cold, dark vehicle. “And I really should get out of here. I don’t know how safe this place is these days.” After all, the nights that she had spent walking along the lakeside with him were many years ago.
She resisted the urge to drive to her favorite coffee shop, afraid that not only would the staff be concerned when they saw her red, swollen eyes, but because she did not want to encounter anyone else who would recognize her.
Rather, she drove out of the parking lot to a part of town where she was not likely to see anyone who knew her — and another place she had not visited in many years: The same quiet little coffee shop that had been their destination on so many nights as they drove out of that parking lot together. They had spent hours and hours there, talking and laughing, sharing their dreams for the future.
“Might as well give myself the benefit of the whole experience,” she thought to herself sardonically, as she again forged the route she had scrupulously avoided traveling for so many years.
How long had she been sitting on the bench overlooking the lake, crying in a way that she had, quite literally, never cried before? When she finally began to compose herself, it was dark.
“Dammit,” she muttered, as she searched her bag for a tissue. She could feel her eyelids swelling and her head was beginning to throb.
She looked out at the lake, bathed in moonlight now, and remembered the last time she sat on this very bench with him.