Counterpointe (20 page)

“I’ve tried to get her to see someone. She won’t go.”

“Do you want me to come out?”

“Please. I’ll pay your way.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’ve wanted to visit, but I didn’t want to be a bother. But if Clare needs me?”

“She does.” Although it hurt to admit he wasn’t enough.

“Clare, it’s me.” The voice was Denise’s. “How about lunch? I’m free any day this week. So call me. Bye.”

Clare deleted Denise’s message and went back to bed. She never answered the phone when it rang. Easier to ignore messages than to speak to Denise or Lynne, neither of whom would believe she was too busy to make time for them. Her only outside contact was her parents. She called them once a week in order to head off the possibility they might call her at some random time. Much easier for her to manage the conversation when she initiated it.

She tried to paint an optimistic picture for her mom and dad, but she could no longer summon the energy to move through the rest of her life. And she was hiding not only from Denise, Lynne, and her parents. She was also hiding from Rob—her thoughts, her feelings, the fact she spent most of her days sleeping. Rob made her deception easier by not expecting her to get up with him in the morning. To fool him, she had only to get up in time to heat one of the pre-packaged entrées from Star Market for dinner.

Sometimes Rob had evening meetings and didn’t get home until late enough she could justify being in bed. Those were the best days.

When she was awake, time unfolded, an endless, featureless span. Asleep, dreams, when they came, flickered out of her grasp before she could catch them, like firefly flashes caught with the corner of the eye.

“Don’t bother with dinner tonight, love. I’ll be home early. We’ll go out.”

Clare clicked the answering machine off, glad she’d thought to check for messages. She pushed the hair out of her eyes and dragged herself back to the bedroom. She’d need to take a shower, then, wash her hair. Damn Rob, anyway. It wasn’t their anniversary or either of their birthdays. Screw it. She was going back to bed. She could say she had cramps.

“Clare?”

Rob’s voice yanked her out of a deep sleep, and left her shaking.

“Love, didn’t you get my message?”

“Message?”

“About dinner.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I have cramps. I was trying to sleep them off.”

“Your period was last week.”

Damn, she didn’t think he paid that much attention. “Maybe it’s a stomach flu. All I know is, I feel lousy.” She rolled over, rubbing her eyes. “Mom? What are you doing here?” As she sat up, Rob backed out of the room, the coward.

“My, it’s so dark and fusty in here.” Her mother pulled the shades open. “Now why don’t you get dressed, hon. I’ll make chamomile tea to help settle your stomach.”

“I feel awful.”

“I can see you do, sweetie.” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and scooped her into a hug. “Oh, my, Clare, you’re so skinny. I’ll have to make chicken soup for you.”

“Oh, Mom...” Suddenly she was crying so hard, she could barely catch her breath. Through it all, her mother held her, patting gently.

After her mother’s visit, Clare was more restless. She began spending her days reading books she went to the library to pick out. Many she returned after reading a page or two, but in every batch at least one book was good enough to distract her, although it did take a toll on her limited store of energy for forays into even imaginary lives, imaginary tears.

Gradually, she began to seek out books about people who had surmounted problems. But after reading several such stories, she still had no faith in her own ability to overcome.

Her restlessness continued to increase until, abruptly, reading was no longer enough. Instead, she began to leave the apartment shortly after Rob and spend her time sitting in coffee shops or wandering the aisles of busy stores or riding a trolley to the end of the line and back. All the while, she examined those around her. Listening in on conversations, watching mothers struggling with toddlers, business men and women shuffling through briefcases, students moving in response to silent music, street people going through the trash.

One day she stumbled and, when there was no pain, she realized how much her leg had improved, something she hadn’t consciously noticed before although she now walked miles every day and climbed on and off streetcars with ease.

It no longer mattered, though. Sometime during those weeks spent sleeping, she’d let go of her goal to dance again. In its place, she had a life as the wife of the good man who’d saved her.

Dissonance

Harsh, discordant, a lack of harmony

“Sorry I’m late.” Rob kissed Clare, but with only the briefest touch of his lips. If he tried for more, she would simply pull away, and he couldn’t bear it.

“That’s okay.” She sounded calm, as if she were uninterested whether he was at home or at work.

He forced himself to smile. “Did you have a good day?”

“It was fine.” No smile in return.

After her mother’s visit, she’d seemed better, and he’d felt hopeful, but now she’d returned to shutting him out. While he changed clothes, Clare heated the food, and after they ate, she would spend the rest of the evening reading. He’d begun to hate the sight of the books piled beside the bed.

He took his seat at the table. “What did you do today?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” She set a microwave-heated entrée down and walked over to turn on the television, another unwelcome alteration to their dinner routine.

He stood and turned the television off. Clare blinked in surprise.

“Tell me, Clare. What you did today.” He spoke softly but firmly.

She chewed her lip, staring at him with wary eyes.

“Please, Clare.”

“Well, I got up and showered. Dressed. Ate breakfast. Then I did my exercises, went to the grocery store. After that I…ate lunch, went to the library, read a little bit, cooked dinner.”

Lots of busyness, but nothing of substance. And the cooking of dinner involved only setting the timer on the microwave.

“Are you sorry you married me, Clare?”

“What a thing to ask, Rob.”

He waited, but she didn’t add to her response. An answer in itself that hurt more than a physical beating.

“You know, we haven’t done something, just the two of us, for a while. What would you like to do? If you could do anything you wanted.”

She bent her head, but not before he’d seen the expression on her face.
Okay, dammit. Besides dance
. When was she finally going to accept the ballet was part of her past, not her future? Her future was with him.

“We could visit the arboretum. The lilacs are starting to bloom.”

She shook her head with a sharp movement without speaking.

“Please talk to me, Clare. It’s...I’m lonely. I miss you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Go to the shelter. Get another dog. See a therapist.”

She shook her head without looking at him.

“Dammit, Clare.” He threw his napkin on the table and stood, shaking.

Her head jerked and her eyes widened in alarm.

“I need...you need...to tell me what I can do to help you.” Didn’t she see he was hurting, too? She wasn’t the only one who’d lost something essential. He struggled every day with the fear he’d lost her.

“I can’t, Rob.”

“Please, Clare. Please try.”

Blinking, she raised her face to his, her eyes wet. Abruptly he sat and reached out to touch her. “Tell me. How can I help.”

She shook her head. “I...don’t think there’s anything you can do.” She bent over sobbing.

He lifted her into his arms, holding her as he had after she lost the baby and again the morning Mona died.

For a while things were better between them. Until he noticed how much the effort was costing her.

His professional life, with his promotion to full professor and another grant funded, was on a roll. But his personal life was a shambles. No longer could he convince himself everything would be okay if he just gave Clare enough time.

He’d suspected he was taking a chance, asking her to marry him before she’d come to terms with her injury. But he’d wanted to be the prince riding in on the white horse, making everything right. And at first, he thought he’d succeeded, but now it was clear that even in the beginning there had been cracks—hairline fissures that over the months lengthened and deepened until nothing whole and complete was left.

He loved her so much, but he no longer believed she loved him at all.

“I thought we might go to the Cape today.”

For once, Rob’s suggestion appealed to Clare, perhaps because with the onset of spring, the days were longer. “How about I pack a picnic?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” She felt so guilty sometimes. She’d done nothing but let him down, let herself down. It was all she could muster the energy for, to acknowledge it. Doing something about it was still beyond her.

Rob drove by the turnoff to Falmouth, and a flash of disappointment darkened the day. So they weren’t going sailing, after all. She waited with little enthusiasm to see where they were going as Rob followed the south coast road for several miles before turning into a narrow lane. At the end, he stopped the car.

“Are we there yet?” she teased him.

“Not quite.” He came around to help her out of the car. Expression solemn, he took her by the hand and led her along a path through the scrub and stunted trees until they came out on the beach.

The ocean lay glittering before them. Shivering, she stared at that wind-whipped expanse. Rob tugged on her hand, turning her to face a small house crouched on the edge of the sand far enough from the water for safety in a storm. It was one story, except for a tower, reminiscent of a lighthouse, attached to one corner.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About?”

“About living in that cottage for the summer?”

Dread clenched her stomach. He couldn’t have. Please, let it be just an idea he had. A possibility she could modify, change. This wasn’t any sort of solution. Didn’t he see that? Isolating her out here with an empty sea.