The Choice Not Taken Read Free Page B

of that young, broken girl–staring at me in the mirror.
     
    “Mom?” Sylvie sleepily called from the master bedroom. “Where are you?”
     
    I immediately went to my daughter, hugged her good morning, and led her tiny half-asleep, yet surprisingly dressed body to the kitchen table. Once she settled beside Mitch, who was already on his second bowl of cereal, I turned to make a pot of coffee.
     
    The shower–along with everything else–would have to wait.
     
    ***
     
    With a quiet house, thoughts buzzed in and around my head while I forged through layouts of sketches for a children’s book. The author was waiting on a first round of rough drafts, and I was under signed contract to submit them by day’s end.
     
    Page after page, I’d continually pause and stare blankly around the makeshift library nestled in our lower-level. While decorating the room, I believed the dark wood and leather furnishings brought harmony to the pale green walls and patterned rug. Yet today, their soothing tones offered little consolation. And the full wall of shelves graced with an eclectic book collection, framed family photos, and tacky vacation souvenirs fostered discontent rather than inspiration.
     
    Struggling, I drew and re-drew while subsequently fighting the drone inside my head. Against the silent backdrop, the decibels seemingly increased. And more than once, I impulsively swiped my hand at the air, as if to shoo an unseen pest away.
     
    I worked through the morning, never fully satisfied with the ideas, shading, or flow of images. But finally, after downing the entire contents of a pot of coffee, I had twenty acceptable drafts.
     
    One longing glance at the desktop computer propped upon the heavy walnut desk, and I silently wished it could be used to send my files. However, this assignment required special software, which meant I needed to use my laptop.
     
    After immense deliberation, I headed upstairs.
     
    My shaking index finger hovered over the power button. Not wanting to even turn on the screen, I somehow feared what it might reveal-as if it telepathically recalled my search last night and would automatically offer it to me again today.
     
    Of course, it didn’t do that. But my scanned files did take forever to download and in the time I sat waiting to enter the appropriate prompts of my software program, the appeal became too great.
     
    Recklessly, I re-entered his name. P-H-I-L-I-P B-U-R-K-E.
     
    Resuming my hunt for answers to an expanding list of questions, I read the eulogy, slowly and word by word. It was sincere and kind and touching, and in its glowing descriptions and heartfelt praise, I realized it was, in fact, for the man I once knew-and loved.
     
    He was indeed gone.
     
    A startling beep signaled my email transmission as complete, thankfully bringing me back to the present before I could stumble dangerously into the past.
     
    With little time, I scurried through the house, preparing for a long weekend with my sister. I only had pajamas and underwear in the overnight bag before I found myself freezing mid-task. As ancient images and ideas grew more persistent, all efforts to concentrate on my current packing failed. I anxiously headed to the farthest room upstairs.
     
    And so the ritual began.
     
    Passing from one room to the next, I checked that everything was in its place and organized. I typically did this whenever we headed out of town, but my usual habit was to perform it only one time, right before we locked up and left.
     
    Today was different.
     
    The compulsion-to be absolutely sure items were put away, things were turned off, and windows were locked–permeated my thoughts and actions. I could think of nothing else.
     
    My shoulders dropped in understanding upon the swiftness with which the obsessive-compulsive disorder returned. And I instantly became driven to combat it with my behavioral techniques.
     
    As I performed the pattern for a second time, I stopped at the door of each