with coming out of their shells? Or am I totally off base?”
I pause. “You know what? Yeah, I think I could help them, and I’d be happy to try,” I hear myself say. “Why not?”
“Really? Kate, seriously, you have no idea what kind of a difference you could make. There’s one girl in particular who I just can’t get to open up; maybe you can reach her.” He smiles and shakes his head. “Geez, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll have to have you fill out some paperwork, but I can expedite all that, I think. I’m just really happy to get you involved.”
“My pleasure,” I tell him, and I’m a little surprised to realize that I mean it.
The waitress sweeps by to deliver the check, which Andrew insists on picking up. “Least I can do, Kate,” he says. “I’ll buy you greasy burgers every week if you help give my kids a better shot.”
As I jot down my contact information for him, it occurs to me that maybe that’s what the weird visions of Patrick and Hannah were about: a reminder that I still have something to offer, even though I’ve slipped into a comfort zone of going through the motions. It’s the first explanation that’s made me feel better instead of twisting my insides into a tangled mess.
Ten
I ’m already in bed when Dan gets home that night, so the first chance I get to tell him about Andrew and my promise to help a few kids from St. Anne’s is the next evening after work. I call him from the train on the way out to see Joan, whom I’ve been visiting once a month since Patrick died.
“But, babe, your schedule is already packed,” he says, sounding perplexed after I fill him in on Andrew’s request and the paperwork I filled out and faxed back to him this afternoon. “You sure this is something you want to take on?”
“I think I can move some things around and volunteer one evening a week.”
“Kate, I hate to say it, but are you sure you didn’t fall for a recruiting scam or something?” His tone is gentle and concerned, which makes me feel annoyed. “It sounds almost like this St. Anne’s place sends out people like this Andrew guy to sign up volunteers like you.”
“No, it wasn’t like that at all!” I retort. I hate it when he talks to me like I’m a child, even though I know he means well. “What Andrew was saying made sense. I have a skill that can help these kids.”
“Okay.” He draws the word out and pauses. “Kate, is there something here I’m not getting?”
Like my new obsession with my imaginary daughter? I think guiltily. “What do you mean?” I ask instead.
“Well, you develop an interest in sign language out of the blue,” he says slowly, “and then you make plans to start hanging out with some random social worker guy. I just want to make sure I shouldn’t worry.”
“Dan, did you seriously just say that?”
“I know it’s crazy . . .” He lets his voice trail off, and I know I’m supposed to jump in and tell him I understand where he’s coming from, that I would never cheat on him, and that nothing is wrong. But my defenses are already up, and I don’t feel much like soothing him now.
“I’m just trying to pursue something I think I could love doing,” I say tightly. “I would think you’d be supportive of that, but instead, you’re twisting it. I’m hanging up now.” I push the End Call button and turn to stare out the window. I feel equal parts angry and guilty: angry because he suspects I’m not being entirely honest with him, and guilty because he’s right. My phone rings again two minutes later, but when I see it’s Dan calling back, I let it go to voice mail. I’m not doing anything wrong. I listen to the message he’s left, and some of my anger melts away when I realize it’s a heartfelt apology.
“Baby, I’m really sorry,” he says. “Sometimes I just worry about losing you. I know it’s stupid; I know you love me. I hope you know much I love you.”
I consider texting him back, but
I pause. “You know what? Yeah, I think I could help them, and I’d be happy to try,” I hear myself say. “Why not?”
“Really? Kate, seriously, you have no idea what kind of a difference you could make. There’s one girl in particular who I just can’t get to open up; maybe you can reach her.” He smiles and shakes his head. “Geez, sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll have to have you fill out some paperwork, but I can expedite all that, I think. I’m just really happy to get you involved.”
“My pleasure,” I tell him, and I’m a little surprised to realize that I mean it.
The waitress sweeps by to deliver the check, which Andrew insists on picking up. “Least I can do, Kate,” he says. “I’ll buy you greasy burgers every week if you help give my kids a better shot.”
As I jot down my contact information for him, it occurs to me that maybe that’s what the weird visions of Patrick and Hannah were about: a reminder that I still have something to offer, even though I’ve slipped into a comfort zone of going through the motions. It’s the first explanation that’s made me feel better instead of twisting my insides into a tangled mess.
Ten
I ’m already in bed when Dan gets home that night, so the first chance I get to tell him about Andrew and my promise to help a few kids from St. Anne’s is the next evening after work. I call him from the train on the way out to see Joan, whom I’ve been visiting once a month since Patrick died.
“But, babe, your schedule is already packed,” he says, sounding perplexed after I fill him in on Andrew’s request and the paperwork I filled out and faxed back to him this afternoon. “You sure this is something you want to take on?”
“I think I can move some things around and volunteer one evening a week.”
“Kate, I hate to say it, but are you sure you didn’t fall for a recruiting scam or something?” His tone is gentle and concerned, which makes me feel annoyed. “It sounds almost like this St. Anne’s place sends out people like this Andrew guy to sign up volunteers like you.”
“No, it wasn’t like that at all!” I retort. I hate it when he talks to me like I’m a child, even though I know he means well. “What Andrew was saying made sense. I have a skill that can help these kids.”
“Okay.” He draws the word out and pauses. “Kate, is there something here I’m not getting?”
Like my new obsession with my imaginary daughter? I think guiltily. “What do you mean?” I ask instead.
“Well, you develop an interest in sign language out of the blue,” he says slowly, “and then you make plans to start hanging out with some random social worker guy. I just want to make sure I shouldn’t worry.”
“Dan, did you seriously just say that?”
“I know it’s crazy . . .” He lets his voice trail off, and I know I’m supposed to jump in and tell him I understand where he’s coming from, that I would never cheat on him, and that nothing is wrong. But my defenses are already up, and I don’t feel much like soothing him now.
“I’m just trying to pursue something I think I could love doing,” I say tightly. “I would think you’d be supportive of that, but instead, you’re twisting it. I’m hanging up now.” I push the End Call button and turn to stare out the window. I feel equal parts angry and guilty: angry because he suspects I’m not being entirely honest with him, and guilty because he’s right. My phone rings again two minutes later, but when I see it’s Dan calling back, I let it go to voice mail. I’m not doing anything wrong. I listen to the message he’s left, and some of my anger melts away when I realize it’s a heartfelt apology.
“Baby, I’m really sorry,” he says. “Sometimes I just worry about losing you. I know it’s stupid; I know you love me. I hope you know much I love you.”
I consider texting him back, but
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