The Choice Not Taken by Jodi LaPalm

hearts.”
     
    “These are unrelenting! And the only way I can make them stop is to distract myself with organization. I’m even dreaming about him now, during the few hours I actually sleep at night.”
     
    “What type of dreams?” she asked.
     
    “Well, over the years I’ve often dreamed of him-sometimes we’d flirt seductively, other times it might be passionate sex. But last night, I was terribly angry, positively livid with him. I was furious he ever wanted me, and even madder I ever wanted him. And then he kept showing up at places and every time I saw him, I’d panic he’d reveal our secret.” Dr. Benson jotted something on her paper, and I instantly wanted to know its content. “When I woke up this morning, I was in such a foul mood, I took it out on Mitch and Sylvie.”
     
    “Perhaps his passing renewed the guilt you once experienced for ever being in love with him?” she suggested softly.
     
    “I suppose so. It’s like just when I’d get comfortable in life and things were great, there would be this terrifying fear he’d call one day-out of the blue–and profess his all-consuming love. Claim he couldn’t live without me kind of stuff. Insist, repeatedly, the heartache was more than he could bear,” I rambled while staring at my hands and pressing the fingers together, then apart.
     
    “But he never did?” Dr. Benson confirmed.
     
    “No. He never did.”
     
    “Deep down...did you wish he’d say those things? Would knowing he really loved you–so deeply–help erase the guilt?”
     
    “No,” I answered too quickly. “Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t ever want to be found out for being that type of person.”
     
    “Now that he’s gone, there’s little chance of that happening, isn’t there?”
     
    “I guess so.”
     
    “And so, along with your grief...do you perhaps feel a slight sense of relief he’s gone?” she probed further.
     
    “Yes,” I roughly whispered.
     
    “Then maybe you can let go of some guilt now, too,” she kindly advised.
     
    Studying the watercolor over Dr. Benson’s head, I watched a maturing sun outside squeeze through half-opened wood blinds and cast slivers of obscure light upon the aged canvas.
     
    “Courtney.” Dr. Benson’s voice brought me back. “Some people come into our lives at a specific time and only for a little while...and they have a purpose-often unrecognized but powerful all the same...” her words trailed off.
     
    Nodding absently, I glanced at my watch.
     
    Time was up.
     
    “I could free up another slot in the morning, if you’d like to come back tomorrow and talk.”
     
    Although it was totally unrealistic and from past experience I knew better, I still held a glimmer of hope this one session would magically clear everything up and return me to an ordinary existence. But the proposal to meet within twenty-four hours rather than a week from now made me wonder if I was even more far gone than originally believed.
     
    “Sure. That would be good,” I told her.
     
    ***
     
    Once home, I summoned enough will to draft two outlines of sketch ideas with only a minimal amount of intrusive desire to quit altogether and organize perfectly tidy rooms.
     
    Fully alert, I instead committed to going through the house one time after dinner when everyone was ready for bed. This technique often worked since it gave me the belief I’d be doing it soon, alleviating any compulsive need to perform the process immediately. Sometimes–if the day went exceptionally well–the delay helped me forget to carry out the ritual entirely.
     
    With less than an hour before the kids arrived, I plopped in a living room chair, beat from both a lack of decent rest and my emotional appointment. Determined to consider Dr. Benson’s words and better prepare for tomorrow, I sought to reflect on my time with Philip rather than avoid it.
     
    Breathing regularly with arms wrapped protectively around my torso, I moved onto meditation.