Read Online Dancing Naked at the Edge of Dawn by Kris Radish - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kris Radish
Tags: Fiction, General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Adultery, Middle-Aged Women, Married Women, Self-actualization (Psychology), Chicago (Ill.), Separation (Psychology)
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moves. My stomach lurches and I have to force it to stop six inches from the edge of my throat.
“I didn't care that he was fucking someone else.”
“What else?”
“I got excited.”
“Sexually excited?”
“A little bit, which in my case is really something.”
“What else?”
“You are relentless,” I tell her, looking to that same spot on the window where Dr. C focused when she told me about her daughter.
“Once you say these things, a long white sheet falls over them and they slowly disappear,” she tells me, so softly I can barely hear her speaking. “It doesn't mean it will get easier right away, but it's a start. You know it's the beginning.”
I want to begin something, but there is this strange sensation that if I begin something then something ends, and I am hanging on to everything so tightly that I can feel my fingers swelling. There are rope burns on the palms of my hands and there is a pool of blood right where I am sitting.
“Can you say it?”
“It's a couple of things and it's everything. I am running through the yard and it wasn't the sex thing, it was that I didn't care and that I had no idea where I was running to.”
“You were lost?”
“I've been lost for a very long time, and I just don't want to be lost anymore. I need to figure out how to be happy. I cannot remember the last time I was happy.”
The good doctor is smiling. When I finish talking, she moves back into her chair and begins tapping her fingers together again.
“There,” she says loudly. “You have had your slap and now you begin again.”
There is a wave as high as forever about to crash on top of me. Begin again. How in the hell do I begin again?
“How?” I whimper. “How do I do that?”
“Well, we just started. Now we get to work. There will be no more passiveness and waiting and there will be wondering, but you have to agree, right now, here, Meg, in the next second, to work with me and to remember what it felt like when you were floating around in that bedroom of yours. Can you do that?”
“It's not my bedroom anymore,” I remind her.
“I take it that is a yes?”
“Yes.”
There. That's it, then. We are out of time, which is mildly irritating but also a relief. During the next five minutes she asks me to make what she calls a “Life List.” “Write out your whole life, all the people in it, places, everything you can think of, put it all down on paper. Then you must look at each item, and this may take a while, and decide what goes and what stays.”
It's just on paper, she adds, so I can change my mind when I get to the real part. “The real part?” I ask.
“Yes, that's when you actually begin discarding things.”
All righty, then.
“Can I sit in the lobby until next week?” I ask her as we both rise to leave.
“There are already fifty-six people living in the lobby. All clients of mine. There's no room left, but if someone jumps out the window I will be sure to give you a call. You just never know when there might be an opening.”
I laugh but I also want to cry. Now I actually have to leave the building and get into the car again, and when I manage to do that, I steer myself over to Elizabeth's house, which is the only place I can think of where I might find safety, shelter and a glass of wine before noon. I am worried about the list, not to mention the next fifty or so years of my life. Worried as hell. And now, on top of everything else, I also worry about Jane.
Jane has entered my life like an out-of-control band saw. She needs constant attention, and oil in all the right places. I cannot wait to give her Dr. C's card. I cannot abandon her either. Suddenly, we are both swimming toward an unseen shore and I'm the one pulling the raft. Sweet Jesus. Poor me. Poor Jane.
Halfway to Elizabeth's, I realize that I have left my purse on the floor in Dr. C's office. Now what? This kind of thing has been happening to me since the day I watched Bob and the geranium woman.
“I didn't care that he was fucking someone else.”
“What else?”
“I got excited.”
“Sexually excited?”
“A little bit, which in my case is really something.”
“What else?”
“You are relentless,” I tell her, looking to that same spot on the window where Dr. C focused when she told me about her daughter.
“Once you say these things, a long white sheet falls over them and they slowly disappear,” she tells me, so softly I can barely hear her speaking. “It doesn't mean it will get easier right away, but it's a start. You know it's the beginning.”
I want to begin something, but there is this strange sensation that if I begin something then something ends, and I am hanging on to everything so tightly that I can feel my fingers swelling. There are rope burns on the palms of my hands and there is a pool of blood right where I am sitting.
“Can you say it?”
“It's a couple of things and it's everything. I am running through the yard and it wasn't the sex thing, it was that I didn't care and that I had no idea where I was running to.”
“You were lost?”
“I've been lost for a very long time, and I just don't want to be lost anymore. I need to figure out how to be happy. I cannot remember the last time I was happy.”
The good doctor is smiling. When I finish talking, she moves back into her chair and begins tapping her fingers together again.
“There,” she says loudly. “You have had your slap and now you begin again.”
There is a wave as high as forever about to crash on top of me. Begin again. How in the hell do I begin again?
“How?” I whimper. “How do I do that?”
“Well, we just started. Now we get to work. There will be no more passiveness and waiting and there will be wondering, but you have to agree, right now, here, Meg, in the next second, to work with me and to remember what it felt like when you were floating around in that bedroom of yours. Can you do that?”
“It's not my bedroom anymore,” I remind her.
“I take it that is a yes?”
“Yes.”
There. That's it, then. We are out of time, which is mildly irritating but also a relief. During the next five minutes she asks me to make what she calls a “Life List.” “Write out your whole life, all the people in it, places, everything you can think of, put it all down on paper. Then you must look at each item, and this may take a while, and decide what goes and what stays.”
It's just on paper, she adds, so I can change my mind when I get to the real part. “The real part?” I ask.
“Yes, that's when you actually begin discarding things.”
All righty, then.
“Can I sit in the lobby until next week?” I ask her as we both rise to leave.
“There are already fifty-six people living in the lobby. All clients of mine. There's no room left, but if someone jumps out the window I will be sure to give you a call. You just never know when there might be an opening.”
I laugh but I also want to cry. Now I actually have to leave the building and get into the car again, and when I manage to do that, I steer myself over to Elizabeth's house, which is the only place I can think of where I might find safety, shelter and a glass of wine before noon. I am worried about the list, not to mention the next fifty or so years of my life. Worried as hell. And now, on top of everything else, I also worry about Jane.
Jane has entered my life like an out-of-control band saw. She needs constant attention, and oil in all the right places. I cannot wait to give her Dr. C's card. I cannot abandon her either. Suddenly, we are both swimming toward an unseen shore and I'm the one pulling the raft. Sweet Jesus. Poor me. Poor Jane.
Halfway to Elizabeth's, I realize that I have left my purse on the floor in Dr. C's office. Now what? This kind of thing has been happening to me since the day I watched Bob and the geranium woman.
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