Confessions Of A Falling Woman And Other Stories by Debra Dean

another couple of sessions, but suddenly I just didn't see the point. I had this moment of clarity, and I realized that there's no mileage in trying to convince someone to recognize happiness when it comes. You can talk and talk and talk and talk, and the truth gets further away. Some truths aren't gotten to through words. That's heresy in your profession, I know, and who am I to be criticizing? After all, here I am. Still blathering on. Of course, I'm not exactly happy now either.
    How much time do we have left?
    The cherry trees are blooming in the park now. Douglas and I walked the length of the long meadow and through this place over near the library called the Vale of Kashmir. It's pretty run-down now, broken beer bottles, et cetera, but it must have been beautiful once. The cherry trees were thick with blossoms, and every little riff of breeze snowed petals on us.
    Douglas was telling me a story about a monk he met who can amplify his heartbeat. He sat in a room, in Thailand, with this monk and he listened to the pulse of the man's heart, this slow drumming swelling louder and louder. Douglas said it felt like being inside the womb, like a memory of perfect contentment.
    The funny thing is I nodded and smiled, like I'd been there, like I remembered it, too. The room, the feeling of peace. Like a deja vu or something. And then I realized it was the sound of my own heart.

Confessions Of A Falling Woman
    If this letter reaches you, it will have to be by some divine accident. I know you are no longer living at this address, and the phone company no longer lists you in Chicago. That doesn't surprise me; after all I was the one who loved cities, not you. All your talk, after the accident, about going back to Minot, working on your dad's farm, how you wanted to sleep in the dark again. Anyplace but North Dakota, I used to think. It might please you to know that I've come around to your way of thinking, Russ. Not geographically, but I have a small garden. A few tomato plants, some basil and mint, a row of spinach. It's not ambitious, but things grow in it.
    In fact, I took a shot and called Information in Minot. I also tried to get in touch with you through Audie, and I'm sorry to hear of his passing. He was a sweet man, and he treated me like a daughter, even after the divorce.
    So my only hope, absurd perhaps, is that you've left a forwarding address and the postal service will find you for me.
    You must be wondering why I am trying to contact you now, after all this time. Perhaps it will strike you as a thoughtless invasion of your privacy, or worse, a deliberate unkindness, an attempt to open up old wounds.
    Another possibility occurs to me: that you have put our life behind you entirely, and I will have to rely on idle curiosity. I'm trying to imagine you now, wherever you are, holding this letter in your hands and glancing over the lines, like a plea from some charity. What does she want from me?
    Here it is: I want you to hear me out. An apology is a limp thing, I know that, and it's late by about eleven years, but here it is.
    Do you remember the night in the hospital, we were in the waiting room, and you said you had noticed the tires on the Chevy the week before, that they were a little bald? It was just something you muttered, you probably don't remember. You were saying a lot of things, and your hair was coming out in handfuls, little tufts of hair coming off in my hands when I stroked your head. The medic said it was shock. Still, you might have noticed that I didn't shush you, that I didn't say "No, honey, it's not your fault."
    The brakes had locked, and I realize now that new tires wouldn't have made any difference. But at the time, I heard an explanation in your words. Our child couldn't die unless someone had been irresponsible, I thought, unless someone was to blame. I don't remember much else of that year, except being tired. It took so much effort to keep that image of balding tires at bay, to keep on