I gather up my purse, head to the foyer where my shoes wait for me. My mother makes a little cry of confusion but it’s only my father who follows me.
I sit down on their quilted leather armchair and fasten the buckles of my heels.
“It wasn’t our fault, you know,” he says, his voice soft but determined. “She simply refused to listen. A psychiatrist couldn’t have helped us with that. I tell you, there’s nothing we could have done differently. Not a damn thing that would have helped. If there was . . . I would have known. I wouldn’t just . . . I would have known. Nothing to be done.” Each word is a little meeker, a bit more desperate.
I stand up, give him a hug that’s a bit too hard and lasts a moment too long.
“Of course not,” I say. “You did everything you could.” And then I kiss him again and say good-bye.
Because I can’t change him. And because this is an illusion he wears as a life vest and I don’t have it in me to take it away just to see him drown.
CHAPTER 16
AND THE DAYS continue to pass. I go into work, do my job. Mr. Costin keeps the whispers behind closed doors. Even Asha’s stares don’t shake me now. That’s what happens when you face the truth, when you choose to live with the pain for a while. It’s so hard to hurt someone who’s already in agony.
But I can’t get too lost in my depression. There are things to be done. I just quit my job and though I can get by for a while, I will need to get another one. I know that I can go to pretty much any consulting firm I want. Mr. Costin wouldn’t dare give me anything short of a glowing reference, and let’s face it, after my current position anything else would be a step down. As my father said, this is the best global consulting firm in the country. Unless I become an expatriate I’m going to have to settle for something less.
It’s all right though. I rather like the idea of being a big fish in a small pond.
But boy, how I miss him. That’s the loss that has me opening up a new bottle of wine every night. I’ve heard people say that when they lose someone they love, they keep thinking that they see him. Like when a stranger walks by, they’ll have to do a quick double take to make sure it’s not him. They’ll hear his voice in a café only to realize that what they heard was the sound of some baritone DJ on the radio.
But I don’t have these hallucinations. Robert’s voice, his look, his everything . . . it’s too unique. I would never mistake someone else for him. And since he was driving an Alfa Romeo it’s not like I can mistake other people’s cars for his.
He’s just gone.
The realization hits me when I’m at home, alone, halfway through a bottle of 1996 cab. Too good of a wine to get drunk on and yet I’m tempted. This breakup, it doesn’t feel temporary anymore and the emptiness of the room fills my heart with a similar feeling of vacancy.
Even when I’m not with you, I’m inside of you. I can touch you with a thought.
He had told me that once and I close my eyes, try to believe in it again. I lean back into the cushions of my sofa, put my hand against my breast, pretend that it’s him.
Are you thinking of me, Robert?
And suddenly I’m enveloped with such a strong sense of sadness, I literally cry out, crumple over under the heaviness of it. I don’t know if the sadness is wholly mine or if I’m sensing his wretchedness from afar, mingling it with my own and giving it new strength. Either way it’s more than I can handle alone. My hand reaches for the phone and I dial Simone.
It doesn’t take long for her to arrive. She’s become accustomed to these last-minute calls for help. She doesn’t show up with a bottle of sin this time. “You’re in the middle of a breakup,” she explains, taking the cabernet out of my hand and closing it with a stopper. “Alcohol’s great for anxiety but it sucks for depression.”
“I’m not depressed,” I say sullenly; she laughs, sits cross-legged on the couch, and beckons me to take a seat beside her. “What happened, Kas, did you get lost?”
I nod, my eyes welling up with tears.
“Has he called since it happened?”
To this I shake my head.
She sighs, closes her eyes as if in meditation. “He misses you,” she says sagely. “He’s just scared.”
“How do you know he’s scared?” I ask, surprised.
She smiles, her eyes still closed. “Because men always are. They’ll sing about bravery, tell you they’ll keep you safe, but at the first sign of emotional conflict, they run for the hills like a bunch of frightened rabbits.”
I sigh, lean my head against my knees. “Robert isn’t a rabbit.”