Although her face was impassive, deadened by strokes, her voice became increasingly animated. “Suddenly,” she said, “I found myself outside of my body. I could see myself as if from above, lying there on the kitchen floor. I kept rising higher and higher until everything sort of collapsed into a tunnel, a long, spiraling tunnel. And at the end of this tunnel, there was a beautiful, pure, bright white light. It was very bright, but it didn’t hurt at all to look at it. This feeling of calm, of peace, came over me. It was absolutely wonderful, an unconditional acceptance, a feeling of love. I found myself moving toward the light.”
Peter tilted his head. He didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Fennell went on. “From out of the edges of the light a figure appeared. I didn’t recognize it at first, but then suddenly I saw that it was me. Except it wasn’t me; it was someone who looked a lot like me, but wasn’t me. I’d been born a twin, but my twin sister Mary had died a few days after we were born. I realized that this was Mary, come to greet me. She floated closer and took my hand, and we drifted down the tunnel together, toward that light.
“And then I started seeing images from my life, as though they were on movie film, pictures of me and my parents, me and my husband, me at work, at play. And Mary and I were reviewing each of these scenes, where I’d done right and where I’d done wrong. There was no sense that I was being judged, but it seemed important that I understand everything, realize the effect my actions had on others. I saw myself playing in a schoolyard, and cheating on an exam, and working as a candy striper in a hospital, and oh so many other things, vividly, with unbelievable clarity. And all the while we were growing closer to that beautiful, beautiful light.
“Then, suddenly, it was over. I felt myself being pulled backward and downward. I didn’t want to let go of Mary’s hand—I’d lost her once, after all, had never really had the chance to know her—but my fingers slipped from hers and I drifted backward, away from the light, and then, suddenly, I was back in my body. I could tell there were other people there. Soon my eyes opened, and I saw a man in a uniform. A paramedic. He had a syringe in his hand. He’d given me an injection of glucagon. ‘You’re going to be all right,’ he was saying. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
“The woman I’d been talking to on the phone—her name was Mary, by coincidence—had finally realized that I’d fainted and had hung up and called for an ambulance. The paramedics had had to break down my front door. If they’d arrived a few minutes later, I’d have been gone for good.
“So, Peter, I know what death is like. And I don’t fear it. It changed my whole attitude toward life, that experience. I learned to see everything with perspective, take everything in stride. And although I know I’ve only got a few days left now, I’m not afraid. I know my Kevin will be waiting for me in that light. And Mary, too.”
Peter had listened intently to the whole thing. He’d heard of such stories before, of course, and had even read part of Moody’s famous book Life After Life when he’d been trapped at a relative’s cottage and the choice was that or a book on how sun signs supposedly affected your love life. He didn’t know what to make of such stories then, and was even more uncertain now.
“Did you tell any of your doctors here about this?” Peter asked.
Peggy Fennell snorted. “Those guys come through here like they’re marathon runners and my chart is the baton. Why in God’s name would I share my most intimate experiences with them?”
Peter nodded.
“Anyway,” said Mrs. Fennell, “that’s what death’s like, Peter.”
“I—ah, I’d—”
“You’d still like to do your experiment, though, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
Mrs. Fennell moved her head slightly, the closest thing to a nod she could manage. “Very well,” she said at last. “I trust you, Peter. You seem a good man, and I thank you for listening to me. Go get your equipment.”
IT HAD BEEN one hell of a week since Cathy had made her announcement. They weren’t talking much, and when they did talk, it was about things such as Peter’s experiment with the superEEG. Nothing personal, nothing directly related to them. Just safe topics to fill some of the long, melancholy silences.
Now, on Saturday afternoon, Peter sat on the living-room couch, reading. No electronic book this time, though: instead, he was reading an honest-to-goodness paperback.
Peter had only recently discovered Robert B. Parker’s old Spenser novels. There was something appealing about the absolute, unequivocal trust shared by Spenser and Hawk, and a wonderful honesty in the relationship between Spenser and Susan Silverman. Parker had never given Spenser a first name, but Peter thought his own—meaning “rock”—would have been a fine choice. Certainly, Spenser was more rock-stable than Peter Hobson was.
On the wall behind him was a framed print of an Alex Colville painting. Peter had originally thought Colville static, but, over the years, his work had grown on him, and he found this particular painting—a man sitting on a cottage porch, an old hound dog lying at his feet—very appealing. Peter had finally realized that the lack of movement in Colville’s art was designed to convey permanence: these are the things that last, these are the things that matter.
Peter still didn’t know what to make of it all, didn’t know what future he and Cathy might have. He realized he’d just read a funny scene—Spenser deflecting Quirk’s questions with a series of vintage quips, Hawk standing motionless nearby, a grin splitting his features—but it hadn’t amused Peter the way it should have. He slipped a bookmark into the paperback and set it down beside him.
Cathy came down the stairs. She was wearing her hair down and was dressed in snug blue jeans and a loose-fitting white blouse with the top two buttons undone—attire, Peter realized, that could be viewed as either sexy or neutrally practical. She clearly was as confused as Peter, carefully trying to send signals that hopefully would be correct regardless of what mood he was in. “May I join you?” she said, her voice a feather fluttering in a breeze.
Peter nodded.
The couch consisted of three large cushions. Peter was sitting on the leftmost. Cathy sat on the border between the middle one and the rightmost, again trying for both closeness and distance simultaneously.
They sat together for a long time, saying nothing.
Peter kept moving his head slowly back and forth. He felt warm. His eyes weren’t focussing properly. Not enough sleep, he guessed. But then, suddenly, he realized that he was about to start crying. He took a deep breath, trying to forestall it. He remembered the last time he’d really cried: he’d been twelve years old. He’d been ashamed then, thinking he was too old to cry, but he’d had a frightening shock from an electrical outlet. In the thirty intervening years, he’d maintained his stoic face no matter what, but now, welling up within him …
He had to leave, get somewhere private, away from Cathy, away from everyone …
But it was too late. His body convulsed. His cheeks were wet. He found himself shuddering again and again. Cathy raised a hand from her lap, as if to touch him, but apparently thought better. Peter cried for several minutes. One fat drop fell on the edge of the Spenser paperback and was slowly absorbed into the newsprint.
Peter wanted to stop, but couldn’t. It just came and came. His nose was running now; he snorted between the shuddering convulsions that brought out the tears. It had been too much, held in too long. Finally, he was able to force out a few feeble, quiet words. “You’ve hurt me,” was all he said.
Cathy was biting her lower lip. She nodded slightly, her eyes batting up and down, holding in her own tears. “I know.”
CHAPTER 7
“Hello,” said the slim black woman. “Welcome to the Family Service Association. I’m Danita Crewson. Do you prefer Catherine or Cathy?” She had short hair and was dressed in a beige jacket and matching skirt, and wore a couple of pieces of simple gold jewelry—the perfect image of a modern professional woman.
Still, Cathy was sl
ightly taken aback. Danita Crewson looked to be all of twenty-four. Cathy had expected the counselor to be old and infinitely wise, not someone seventeen years her junior. “Cathy is fine. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”
“No problem, Cathy. Did you fill out the needs assessment?”
Cathy handed her the clipboard. “Yes. Money is no problem; I can pay the full fee.”
Danita smiled as if this was something she heard all too infrequently. “Wonderful.” When she smiled, no wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. Cathy was envious. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”
Cathy tried to compose herself. She’d been tortured for months by what she’d done. God, she thought. How could I have been so stupid? But, somehow, it wasn’t until she actually saw Peter cry that she realized she had to do something to get help. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like that again. Cathy folded her hands on her lap and said, very slowly, “I, ah, cheated on my husband.”
“I see,” said Danita, her tone one of professional detachment, free of any judgment. “Does he know?”
“Yes. I told him.” Cathy sighed. “It was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.”
“How did he take it?”
“He was devastated. I’ve never seen him so shaken.”
“Did he get angry?”
“He was furious. But he was also very sad.”
“Did he hit you?”
“What? No. No, he’s not an abusive husband—not at all.”
“Neither physically nor verbally?”
“That’s right. He’s always been very good to me.”
“But you cheated on him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Now that you’ve told your husband,” said Danita, “how do you feel?”
Cathy thought for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “Better. Worse. I don’t know.”
“Did you expect your husband to forgive you?”
“No,” said Cathy. “No, trust is very important to Peter—and to me. I … I expected our marriage to be over.”
“And is it?”
Cathy looked out the window. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want it to be?”
“No—absolutely not. But—but I want Peter to be happy. He deserves better.”
Danita nodded. “Did he tell you that?”
“No, of course not. But it’s true.”
“True that he deserves better?”
Cathy nodded.
“You seem to be a fine person. Why would you say that?”
Cathy said nothing.
Danita leaned back in her chair. “Has your marriage always been good?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Never any separations or anything like that?”
“No—well, we broke up once while we were dating.”
“Oh? Why?”
A small shrug. “I’m not sure. We’d been dating for close to a year while still in university. Then one day, I just broke up with him.”
“And you don’t know why?”
Cathy looked out the window again, as if drawing power from the sunlight. She closed her eyes. “I guess … I don’t know, guess I couldn’t believe anyone could love me so unconditionally.”
“And so you pushed him away?”
She nodded slowly. “I guess so.”
“Are you pushing him away again? Is that what your infidelity is about, Cathy?”
“Maybe,” she said slowly. “Maybe.”
Danita leaned slightly forward. “Why do you think no one could love you?” she said.
“I don’t know. I mean, I know Peter loves me. We’ve been together for a long time, and that’s been the one absolute constant in my life. I know it. But, still, even after all these years, I have trouble believing it.”
“Why?”
An infinitesimal lifting of shoulders. “Because of who I am.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m—I’m nothing. Nothing special.”
Danita steepled her fingers. “It sounds like you’re not very confident.”
Cathy considered this. “I guess I’m not.”
“But you say you went to university?”
“Oh, yes. I made the dean’s list.”
“And your job—do you do well at that?”
“I guess. I’ve been promoted several times. But it’s not a hard job.”
“Still, it sounds like you’ve done just fine over the years.”
“I suppose,” said Cathy. “But none of that matters.”
Danita raised her eyebrows. “What’s your definition of something that matters?”
“I don’t know. Something people notice.”
“Something which people notice?”
“Just people.”
“Does your husband—Peter, is it? Does Peter notice when you achieve something?”
“Oh, yes. I do ceramic art as a hobby—you should have seen him bubbling over when I had a showing at a small gallery last year. He’s always been like that, boosting me—right from the beginning. He threw a surprise party for me when I graduated with honors.”
“And were you proud of yourself for that?”
“I was glad university was finally over.”
“Was your family proud of you?”
“I suppose.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. Yes, I guess she was. She came to my graduation.”
“What about your father?”
“No, he didn’t attend.”
“Was he proud of you?”
A short, sharp laugh.
“Tell me, Cathy: was your father proud of you?”
“Sure.” Something strained in her voice.
“Really?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“He never said.”
“Never?”
“My father is not a … demonstrative man.”
“And did that bother you, Cathy?”
Cathy lifted her eyebrows. “Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Yes, it bothered me a lot.” She was trying to remain calm, but emotion was creeping into her voice. “It bothered me an awful lot. No matter what I did, he never praised it. If I’d bring home a report card with five As and a B, all he’d talk about was the B. He never came to see me perform in the school band. Even to this day, he thinks my ceramics are silly. And he never …”
“Never what?”
“Nothing.”
“Please, Cathy, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“He never once said he loved me. He even signed birthday cards—cards that my mother had picked out for him—‘Dad.’ Not ‘Love, Dad’ —but just ‘Dad.’”
“I’m sorry,” said Danita.
“I tried to make him happy. Tried to make him proud of me. But no matter what I did, it was like I wasn’t there.”
“Have you ever discussed this with your father?”
Cathy made a noise in her throat. “I’ve never discussed anything with my father.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But he did hurt me. And now I’ve hurt Peter.”
Danita nodded. “You said that you didn’t believe anyone could love you unconditionally.”
Cathy nodded.
“Is that because you felt your father never loved you?”
“I guess.”
“But you think Peter loves you a lot?”
“If you knew him, you wouldn’t have to ask. People are always saying how much he loves me, how obvious it is.”
“Does Peter tell you he loves you?”
“Oh, yes. Not every day of course, but often.”
Danita leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps your problems with Peter are related to your problems with your father. Down deep, perhaps you felt that no man could love you because your father had eroded your self-esteem. When you found a man who did love
you, you couldn’t believe it, and you tried—and are still trying—to push him away.”
Cathy was immobile.
“It’s a common enough scenario, I’m afraid. Low self-esteem has always been a big problem among women, even today.”
Still immobile, except for chewing her lower lip.
“You have to realize that you are not worthless, Cathy. You have to recognize the value in yourself, see in yourself all the wonderful qualities Peter sees in you. Peter doesn’t put you down, does he?”
“No. Never. As I said, he’s very supportive.”
“Sorry to have to ask again. It’s just that women often end up marrying men who are like their fathers, just as men often end up marrying women who are like their mothers. So Peter isn’t like your father?”
“No. No, not in the least. But, then, Peter pursued me. I don’t know what kind of man I was looking for. I don’t even know if I was looking at all. I think— I think I just wanted to be left alone.”
“What about the man you had the affair with? Was he the kind of man you were looking for?”
Cathy snorted. “No.”
“You weren’t attracted to him?”
“Oh, Hans was cute, in a chubby way. And there was something disarming about his smile. But I didn’t go after him.”
“Did he treat you well?”
“He was a smooth talker, but you could tell it was all just talk.”
“And yet it worked.”
Cathy sighed. “He was persistent.”
“Did this Hans remind you of your father?”
“No, of course not,” Cathy said immediately, but then she paused. “Well, I suppose they have some things in common. Peter would say they’re both dumb jocks.”
“And was Hans good to you during your relationship?”
“He was terrible to me. He’d ignore me for weeks on end, while he was presumably involved with someone else.”
“But when he came back to you, you’d respond.”
She sighed. “I know it was stupid.”
“No one is judging you, Cathy. I just want to understand what went on. Why did you keep going back to Hans?”
“I don’t know. Maybe …”
“Yes?”
“Maybe it was just that Hans seemed more the kind of guy I deserved.”