Butokayquickly becamenot enough.
Chris never understood my strange idiosyncrasies. He had no patience for my hoarding tendencies or my need to settle and not move. He knew some of the parts of my history. I had explained my strained relationship with my mother. How I never felt wanted or important. I had even told him about my time as a homeless teenager, sleeping at The Pit and digging in the trash for food.
But I never told him about Yoss.
Why had I felt the need to hide such an important person from my husband?
Was it guilt? Was it regret? Was it the fact that I had never quite gotten over my first love?
Chris never knew that every few months I would walk down by the river at sunset. I’d follow the railroad tracks to the Seventh Street Bridge. I’d hang back by the trees and wait for the fires to be lit. I’d watch and I’d look.
I never stayed there long. Just a few minutes. An hour at most. I hadn’t wanted to linger in case someone recognized me.
Sometimes I’d see Karla and Shane. The years hadn’t been kind to either of them.
But I wasn’t there for them.
Years had passed; I should have long since let go. But how did you let go of something that never really felt over? How did you let go of someone that had changed you from the inside out?
I turned on the television, feeling myself relax as I raised the volume to fill the silence. I took off my coat and threw it over the back of the couch. I kicked off my shoes and slid my feet into the waiting pair of slippers shaped like cartoon elephants that I bought on a whim during one of my many random shopping sprees.
There was a knock on my door. I didn’t bother going to open it, knowing that the person on the other side would walk in anyway.
“Hey! I saw your car out front!”
Out of control blond curls, too much facial hair, and a bright orange T-Shirt came in like a whirlwind.
“Close the door! The heat’s on!” I called out.
“Okay,Mom,” Lee chuckled, quickly shutting the door behind him. “Nice footwear. I see someone has decided to embrace their inner six-year-old.” He pointed at my slippers and I gave one a little shake.
“I can get you a pair,” I offered with a toothy grin.
“I’ll pass,” Lee remarked mildly.
Lee Cutler, my neighbor and friend, handed me an envelope with a sour look on his face.
“What’s this?” I asked, noticing my name in big block letters on the front, but no mailing address. Whatever it was, it had been hand delivered.
“Chris dropped it by earlier. Said he wanted to make sure you got it so it wasn’t lost ‘in the pile of junk you keep on the table.’” He used quotey fingers and an overly dramatic masculine voice.
“Must be the final divorce papers,” I said, tossing it on the pile that Chris was so worried it would get lost in.
Lee peered at me speculatively. “No signs of meltdown. No justifiable curse words. You’re handling all of this remarkably well.”
“What’s there to be upset about?” I sidestepped the overly ornate footstool I found at the flea market two weekends ago as I made my way to the kitchen. Most of my house was decorated from the flea market. I could afford better, but call it sentimental attachment. Chris had hated every single piece I’d brought home. He had no way of understanding the reasons I kept going back to buy useless junk.
Wine. That’s what I needed. After the day I had, alcohol was definitely in order.
I pulled down two glasses and filled both before handing one to Lee who was looking at me as though I had sprouted a second head. “Oh, I don’t know, you’re getting divorced. That’s something that would make most normal people at least a little upset.” Lee had spent the better part of our friendship trying to analyze me. He was one of the most sensitive and empathetic people I had ever met.
Which made sense considering he made his living as a counselor. We had met when I had referred a client to him for support services. He specialized in end of life grief management and was the perfect combination of compassionate and no nonsense.
We were only a week into our acquaintance when we had discovered that we lived down the street from one another. He had been a constant in my life ever since.
Lee had latched on to my lack of emotional unavailability like a leech and hadn’t let go. He was tenacious in his love for people. Unwavering in his desire to make everyone feel better. It’s why he made such a wonderful therapist.
“Don’t start psychoanalyzing me, Lee, I can do that myself,” I warned, downing half of my wine.
