“I know why you were in demand, why your phone never stopped. You’re a truly caring human being, Dirk. And you passed that on to your children.”
He shrugs, turns the conversation back to me.
“Are you still in touch?” he asks.
“She never returns my messages, blocks my calls. She’s in college. I guess she’s busy.”
He nods at me, ready for more.
“It’s so hard, Dirk. Nobody wants to be in the firing line of rage. I’ve endured enough suffering lately. I only want to focus on joy, because these days Phoebe brings me everything but. I don’t know what to do. I gave her my new address, to invite her over and offer her a drink or a meal. She ignores me. I try to stay in touch, but it’s so hard.
“If that’s a question, it’s not my place to tell anyone what to do, but I can say from experience that anger is a symptom of grief, and that it dissipates.”
“How long does it take?”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you. Everyone’s different, Lucy. We’re complex creatures. You’ve heard of the five stages of grief? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.”
“She has to go through all of that before she’ll see me?”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me some good news stories, Dirk. You must have seen plenty of patients go through things like this.”
“Confidential.”
“I’m not interested in the details of who they are. Help me, Dirk.” It’s out there on the table between us, the black cloud that settles on me too often, that sucks the joy out of everything.
“Maybe I’m just selfish, like she is,” I say. “Maybe I passed that on. You were right about me the first time you met me. I’m divorced, but it wasn’t my fault. I guess every divorcee says that. I don’t think it was my fault. Maybe I was too selfish, maybe I crowded Phoebe, was too doting, and ignored Bart and his needs. And then I started my shabby chic business, and then the lamps. It kept me busy, scouring places for old lamp bases and material for recovering, and then giving workshops. People love to be creative.”
He just nods at me, so I take another sip of wine and continue.
“I thought Phoebe would want more space in middle school and high school, more time with her friends like most teens. And I was there for her, after school and on weekends. I went to all her school concerts, so proud of her. I drove her places, gave her opportunities, hosted parties for her and her friends, baked healthy food for her playdates. I thought I did everything right. I certainly tried. And we were so close; closer than sisters. And now there’s nothing.”
“They’re beautiful memories, Lucy.”
I nod. I reach across the table and place my fingers beneath his hand, and he squeezes them. The words of the Beatles’ song run through my brain, and I slip out of my side of the booth and into his, and I nestle beside him, so I can hold his hand properly, and be comforted.
He lets me rest my head against his arm, and he brings his own arm up and around my shoulders, until I’m safe as a cherished baby. I could get used to this.
A little warning bell sounds, deep inside me – that Dirk is a professional carer, that he really would do the same for anyone, that it isn’t safe to fall in love, because I’ve just explained how much it hurts to lose somebody you love. And I never, ever, want to go there again. I’d be safer falling in love with my diamonds – my tiny beacons, so permanent in this changing world, so constant, so reliably brilliant.
Dirk walks me to my door. No kiss this time, but he’s respectful. Attentive. I lean in and give him a hug and he hugs me in return, then springs back, and we smile at each other. He actually dips his head to his hand in a kind of salute as he backs away, still smiling.
I let myself in. I hang my coat on the hook, place my keys in the bowl on the hall table, and wander into the living room to gaze out at the city lights. It’s peaceful in here.
Beyond the joy of getting to know my neighbors a little better, I love my apartment. I want to stay here forever.
Speaking with Dirk about Phoebe has calmed me.
