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therapist, I
wondered? My track record with psychologists in Atlanta was dismal.
Desperate for support, I had called Ruthie who was an aficionado on
the newest spiritual and psychological theories.
    “That’s terrific,” she’d said, when I told
her my feelings of despair had turned to rage. “You’re making great
progress. Rage is much farther up the consciousness scale than
despair. Don’t be concerned unless the nightmares get worse.
Otherwise, I think your unconscious is working it out.”
    Geez, everything was terrific to Ruthie. She
said the same thing about my memory loss. Heck, maybe she was
right. Perhaps I’d just forget Zack pretty soon.
    The phone emitted another electronic jingle.
Ruthie stirred in the next twin bed. “Wha—” she mumbled.
    I snatched the portable from its cradle and
headed for the kitchen. It was all merely a dream, I told myself,
trying to clear my head.
    I looked at the clock. The only person who
would call at that ungodly hour was my daughter, Ann, who still
hadn’t gotten the hang of the time difference although she’d been
in London six weeks.
    “Hello.”
    “Mom, are you all right?”
    I cradled the phone on my shoulder and
reached for the coffee can. “Sure, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to
calm my racing heart. You woke me up, that’s all. It’s seven a.m.
here.”
    “Sorry, I keep forgetting. I just finished
lunch.”
    “That’s okay. How about you? Still loving
your job?”
    “Yes, more than ever.”
    My antenna went up. More than ever. A
hidden meaning there. “Another junket to Scotland?” I asked,
pouring water into the Mr. Coffee.
    “Nothing like that. Mom, I’ve met
someone.”
    My heart raced again. Ann was a smart,
attractive, twenty-two year old who’d had many boy friends over the
years. She was pinned to Gregory at one point and hinted at
marriage. Yet, even then, she’d never sounded so serious. I took a
deep breath to calm myself. “Is your boyfriend an intern?”
    “No, Patrick is a career employee. A Deputy
Public Affairs Officer.”
    Career employee. Deputy Public Affairs
Officer . That sounded like an important position, not one
they’d give to a recent college grad. “Wow, he sounds impressive.
How old is Patrick, honey?” I detected a transatlantic gulp.
    “He’s a little older than I am.”
    An image of Monica and Clinton flashed
through my mind. Then, an image of Zack and his young honey. My
blood pressure shot up. “Oh? How much older?”
    “He recently turned forty.”
    “Forty!” Magawd, he was nearly my age. Was
this one of those contemptible, cloying Casanovas? A philandering
slime bucket who preyed on dewy-eyed interns? “Is he married?” I
nearly shouted.
    Penny Sue entered the room, eyes wide. “Who
is it?” she whispered.
    “Ann,” I mouthed back.
    My friend poured some coffee and perched on
a stool to listen.
    “He’s divorced, Mom. Don’t get excited.”
    I let out a long breath. “I’m sorry.
Eighteen years is a big age difference.”
    Penny Sue’s eyebrow shot up.
    “Does he have kids? How long has he been
divorced?”
    “No children from either—”
    “Either?”
    Penny Sue’s other brow arched.
    “It’s not what you think, Mom. He got
married right out of college. Young and stupid, as he said.”
    Like you!
    “That one only lasted a little over a year.
His second marriage ended two years ago. His wife didn’t like
living in England and went back to the states. She came from a big
family and never adjusted to being away from her mother.”
    Being away from her mother . If Ann
married this guy, she’d live in England. I’d never see her. Worse,
Patrick might be transferred to Zimbabwe or Latvia, or an obscure
post that was only accessible by dog sled. Smelly dogs that pooped
and peed as they mushed along.
    Then what? I’d never see my grandchildren,
if Ann had any. She might catch a horrible disease like SARS or be
embroiled in a revolution. For godssakes, why did we let her major
in