Still Missing

'I'd be honored if you'd share your recipe with me, but right now I'd like a few minutes alone with Annie, if that's okay?' He turned to me, but the thought of being alone with Luke had frozen my blood in my veins and apparently my lips, because they couldn't seem to form the words, No, it's not okay, it's really, really not okay.

I wasn't the only one caught off guard. Mom's and Wayne's heads rose up in tandem like puppets on a string. Mom's hand had been resting on Luke's arm. She pulled it back like she'd been burned.

'I guess I'll just start cleaning up the kitchen, then.' When no one moved to stop her, she pushed her chair back so fast it scraped the linoleum and she grabbed a couple of plates. Wayne got up to help, and after they were in the kitchen I heard him say something about giving the kids some privacy while he and my mom went outside for a smoke. Her muffled answer didn't sound happy, but soon I heard the kitchen door open and shut and both of their feet on the outside deck. For a quick second Mom peeked in the sliding glass door that opened from the dining area to the deck, but when I caught her she moved out of sight.

I continued to twirl my spaghetti with my fork. Then Luke bumped my foot under the table with his and cleared his throat. My fork dropped with a clang onto my plate, splashing tomato sauce on me and, worse, on his white shirt like a spray of blood.

I leapt up to grab a paper towel, but Luke leaned over and gripped both my arms.

'It's just spaghetti sauce.' I stared down at his hands wrapped around my arms, then tried to pull away. He released them instantly. 'Crap. I'm sorry, Annie.'

I rubbed my hands up and down my arms.

'Can I not touch you at all?'

My eyes blinked desperately to hold back the tears, but one broke free when I saw the answering shimmer in his own eyes. I sat back down with a thump.

'I just can't. Not yet....'

His eyes pleaded with me to explain it to him, to share my feelings as I always had, but I couldn't.

'I just want to help you through this, Annie--I feel so damn useless. Isn't there anything I can do for you?'

'No!' The word came out angry-sounding, mean- sounding, and his face flinched like I'd hit him. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do. It was that very knowledge that made me hate him in that second, and hate myself for feeling that way in the next.

His lips curled into a rueful smile. He shook his head and said, 'I'm a real dumbass, aren't I? I just thought if we talked, then I could understand--'

In my pain, I aimed to hurt. 'You can't understand. You could never understand.'

'No, you're right, I probably can't. But I want to try.'

'I just want to be left alone.' My words hung in the air between us like flies on the carcass of what used to be our relationship. With a nod of his head, he stood up. Inside I screamed, I'm sorry. I take it back. I didn't mean it. Please stay.

But he'd already opened the sliding glass door. He was thanking Mom for dinner, saying he had to get back to the restaurant and he'd be sure to get the recipe, sounding so polite. So polite. While I sat there red-faced in my shame, in my regret.

Then he was standing at the door and with his hand on the knob he turned and said, 'I'm so sorry, Annie.' The sincerity in his voice made me hurt deep inside, in places I'd thought were too full of pain to possibly feel any more, and I turned away, turned away from his beauty and kindness, and walked down the hall past him without even the grace to meet his eyes. From my bedroom, I heard the front door close and then I heard his truck pull away. Not even fast in anger like I would have, but slowly. Sadly.

Now, months later, he interrupted me on the phone and said, 'Please stop, Annie. You don't owe anyone an apology, least of all me. I screwed up. I shouldn't have just showed up like that. I rushed you. I've kicked myself over and over for that. That's why I kept calling. I knew you'd be blaming yourself.'

'I was so mean to you.'

'You had every right to be--I was an insensitive prick. That's why I've tried to keep my distance, but maybe you're still not ready to talk to me? I won't be mad if you say so. Promise.' That was always our thing--he'd say I love you, and I, not quite willing to say it back even after a year, would say, Promise?

'I do want to talk to you, but I can't talk about what happened.'

'You don't have to. What if I just call you once in a while, and if you feel like talking, pick up the phone and we'll yak about whatever you want. Does that work? I don't want to push, like before.'

'That works. I mean, I'll try, I want to try. I'm getting a little tired of only talking to my shrink and Emma.' His soft laugh broke the tension.

After that we chatted about Emma and Diesel, his black Lab, for a while. Finally he said, 'Talk to you in a few, 'kay?'

'Don't feel like you have to call.'

'I don't, and don't feel like you have to answer.'

'I won't.'

He called the next day and again earlier this week, Doc, and we just had brief casual conversations, mostly about the restaurant and our dogs, but I still don't know how I feel about it. I like it, but then sometimes I feel rage toward him. How can he still be so kind to me? I don't deserve it--the guy needs to give his head a shake. His very goodness makes me love him and hate him. I want to hate him. I'm like a wound barely sewn shut, and every time we talk the stitches break, the wound reopens, and I have to sew it back together.

On top of all that, his kindness makes me feel even stupider because my biggest fear in seeing him again is that he might try to touch me. Just thinking about it makes my armpits flood with sweat. And to react that way to Luke, of all men? Luke, who would remove spiders from the sink and carry them outside? It's beyond ridiculous. If I can't get myself to the point where I can be comfortable around a person like Luke, then I'm royally screwed. Might as well pack up my crap and move right into the pent house suite at Chez Crazy.

SESSION FIFTEEN

Thanks again for accepting that I didn't want to talk about the mountain last session, and it's been a hell of a week, so I'm still not sure if I'm ready to tackle it today--I'll see how I feel. My grief is a windstorm. Sometimes I can stand straight up in it, and when I'm angry, I can lean into it and dare it to blow me over. But other times I need to hunker down, tuck around myself, and let it pummel my back. Lately, I've been in hunker-down mode.

Hell, you probably need a break yourself--pretty damn depressing stuff, isn't it? I wish I could tell you happy stories, or make you smile at something witty I've said. When I leave here, I feel bad that you had to listen to all my crap--it makes me feel selfish. But not enough that I want to change. This shit made me selfish. I have a righteous sadness.

When I first came to you, I mentioned I had a couple of reasons for giving therapy another go, but I never told you what finally popped the I'm-doing-just-fine-on-my-own-thank-you-very-much bubble I'd been bouncing around in.

It happened in a grocery store--I only shop late at night and with a baseball hat on. I've considered Internet shopping, but God knows who they'd send to deliver the groceries, and I've had enough of reporters using any ruse to get inside my house. Anyway, a woman was bent down reaching for something on the bottom shelf. Nothing weird about that, except a few feet behind her sat her cart, unguarded, with a toddler in it.

I tried to just walk by, tried not to stare at the baby girl's little white teeth and rosy cheeks, but as I passed, one of her tiny arms waved out at me, and I stopped. Like metal to magnet, I was helpless to keep my feet from bringing me close or my hand from reaching out. I just wanted to touch that tiny hand for a second. That's all I needed, I told myself, just one second. But the baby's hand curved over my outstretched finger and she giggled as she squeezed it. Hearing her giggle, her mom said, 'That's my girl, Samantha, Mommy will be there in a sec.'

Samantha, her name was Samantha. It echoed in my head, and I wanted to tell this woman, who was kneeling down to choose jars of what I now saw was baby food, that I had a baby too, the most goddamn beautiful baby you ever saw. But then she'd ask how old my baby was, and I didn't want to say she was dead and see this