Dream Keeper (13 page)

“Doesn’t seem like it’s that hard for the people on Jerry Springer,” Rissa grunted.

“Don’t be smart with your mother.” Brief laughter edged Sandra’s voice. “You’ve been happy with Dench for years without a child of your own. You just told me that you loved him…”

Standing, Rissa walked to the window that looked out over her budding rose garden. Bless his heart, Dench had taken to tending the roses when she’d abandoned them. She watched him pull a wagonload of tools into the garden. When he stopped, he looked around, surveying the work to be done. Afraid to be caught watching, she stepped back from the window.

“I do. I love him,” she whispered into the phone, “and those three words are my life.”

“Then I think it’s time you did something to save your life, Marissa. I want you to see someone and work this out.”

Rissa sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. “I’m supposed to go sit in somebody’s office and tell them all about what a sucky childhood I had and that will make everything better?” She sucked at her teeth again. “I don’t think so—you and Daddy didn’t abuse me enough to make that work.”

“Keep making jokes, Marissa. Maybe it will, and maybe it won’t. But at least you’ll have tried and given yourself a chance to get rid of some of the anger and guilt you’re carrying.”

Rissa’s hand slashed at the air before she could stop it and she cursed her mother’s intuitive hit. “Who said I felt guilt or anger?”

“I did. I’m your mother and I know you—you can’t go on the way you are, not for much longer. Dennis Charles needs for you to see someone, if only to keep you from losing him. You need to find a way to smile again, a way to help him smile again. Whether or not you two ever add to the list of my grandchildren is not what’s important now.”

So you say…

Her mother caught more than a hint of petulance in Rissa’s sigh. “Do what you have to do to save your life, Marissa.”

Her mother’s words felt like prayer in her ear. “I can try.”

“Nothing beats a failure but a try.”

“I’ll try,” Rissa promised.

“Then I can travel knowing that I’m leaving you in good hands? That you’ll see someone?”

“Yes, Mom. Be safe.”

“You, too, sweetheart, and I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Love you,” Rissa whispered, disconnecting the call. Standing back from the window, looking out at Dench as he labored in the garden, she felt her promise take root in her heart. She watched him move the Falcons cap farther back on his bald head and look to the sky, exposing all that he was: just Dench. A man with big hands, big feet, long limbs, sheets of muscle, warm lips, and a heartbeat like music.

Her own heart stumbled when she watched him. Backing up until the backs of her legs bumped the bed, she sat and watched him. On his knees, he tended her rosebushes under the hot Georgia sun. He worked steadily, taking as much care with the plant roots as he did with the tender blushing pink blossoms. She watched him use a small hand rake to fertilize the plant and thought her heart would burst.

He always knows the right thing to do.
Pulling her heels to the edge of the bed, Rissa hugged her knees to her chest and rested her cheek against them. From the corner of her eye, she could see their framed wedding photos.

I stood on a cliff in Jamaica and married him, and I felt like a queen. I married him and knew that I’d gotten a gift—a perfect man in paradise.

And it almost didn’t happen.
Sad as she felt, the memory made her smile.
All we had to do was be at Tensing Penn in Negril in time to get the marriage license, and I missed the plane.
The government required couples to be at the resort at least forty-eight hours in advance. Dench left from Florida, but everyone else left from Atlanta.
And everybody was on the plane except me. I got to the airport in time to see my plane leave without me.

She smiled when she thought of the people she’d called and the favors she’d called in, determined to get to Dench.
There was no way I was going to settle for not marrying him.
In the garden, she saw him organizing something in the wheelbarrow and her smile broadened.
I would have walked on water all the way to Negril to marry him.

Thank God I didn’t have to. When I’d done everything I could, I called him, frantic and afraid, and all he said was, ‘I can fix that.’ Then he made a call and I got a private jet. When we landed…
Her tongue traced her lips.
I can still taste his kiss…

The thought of his kiss brought a sweet surge of memory.
Every time I’ve ever needed him, ever wanted him, he’s been there and his kisses…
Unsubtle lust rushed and rambled through her body.
Mom’s right. I’m a fool and I’ve punished him for all the wrong reasons. We both want a baby and if we’re ever going to have one, I need to make the next step…

The picture she always referred to as their wedding photo sat in the center of the array on the small table across from where she sat. It was her favorite, one of more than two hundred pictures taken the day they were married, and now it captured her eye and her imagination. In the photo, they stood together at sunset, looking into each other’s eyes. Framed by a perfect Caribbean sky, standing on a Jamaican cliff, an ocean breeze flirting with her gown and veil, they appeared to be perched on the edge of eternity and it was the way she wanted to be with him forever.

And if I don’t move now, forever could become a lost wish…

Her eyes and throat filled with tears and she knew what she had to do. Picking up the phone, she pressed in the numbers and listened to the ring. The second she heard the answering voice, her lips parted.

“Marlea, I need a favor…”

* * *

“And we both know that I’m pretty much the only one you could ask,” Marlea muttered. “Seriously though, I’m glad that you decided to take this step.” She turned the business card in her hand and read the therapist’s name. “Chris Gordon—is this a woman?”

“Yes.” Rissa turned the wheel and steered her car around a truck stalled in the middle of the intersection. “Connie gave me the card a while back and I figured that it couldn’t hurt to go in and talk with her.” Her eyes moved from traffic to Marlea and back again.

“You know, I would argue with you if this wasn’t such a good idea.” Marlea flicked the card with her thumbnail as she studied Rissa’s intent profile. “But just for the record, I know this wasn’t your idea.”

“It is my idea, and I know what you think you’re doing.” Rissa passed Pharr Road and slowed a little, ignoring the shift in the Peachtree Street traffic. Squinting, she read the addresses, then picked up speed. “You’re trying to distract me.” She slowed and squinted again. Changing lanes, she kept her eyes straight ahead. “Thank you.”

Along for the ride, Marlea kept her mouth closed.
If I say one word, it will be one too many, and I don’t want to give her any excuses for avoiding this session—she needs it too much, even if only to have the chance to hear herself say things out loud.
Lowering her lashes, Marlea studied her sister-in-law, looking for a clue.

Rissa looked neat and pretty—normal, in fact. Dressed in creamy white slacks and a sleeveless coral sweater, she wore minimal makeup, and her longer hair curling at her cheek made her seem softer. Only her fingers, tight on the steering wheel, gave her nerves away. Marlea didn’t blame her for a minute.

When I think of everything she must be holding inside…I don’t think I could stand it if something had happened while I carried Jabari or Nia.
Unconsciously, her hands folded across her stomach and her unseeing gaze veered toward people on the sidewalks.
And AJ would never have blamed me, just like I know that Dench will never blame Rissa. But how do you forgive yourself?
Careful not to let Rissa catch her, Marlea studied her face and saw the tightness around her mouth.
This is hard for her…so hard…

“Here’s the building.” Timing the traffic, Rissa turned and drove through the iron gate fronting what appeared to be an elegant home. Parking in the small lot behind the building, she collected her purse and jacket without so much as glancing at Marlea.

Following, Marlea kept her questions to herself.
I’m just here for moral support,
she told herself.
There will be plenty of time for questions later.
It struck her a bit odd that such a classically built mansion, complete with rolling green lawn and handsome shrubbery, would sit so close to the urgent bustle of Buckhead.
Wonder if this used to be a private home?

She was still looking around when Rissa marched up the wide, white marble stairs. Keeping pace with her, Marlea stopped at her side when she paused to press an intercom button beside the door. Waiting, trying not to give in to the urge to try to peek through the leaded-glass-paned windows in hopes of seeing beyond the door, Marlea noticed the small brass plaque bearing the engraved names of four women practitioners, including Chris Gordon, PhD.

Hearing the click of the lock when the door opened electronically, she followed Rissa. Impressive antique furniture and what she guessed to be Aubusson carpets filled the lobby. Staged to look like an elegant home, polished wood gleamed, piecrust-edged tables bore what looked like real Tiffany lamps, and etched crystal vases were filled with fragrant flowers. Marlea had the feeling that they had stepped through time.

A lot of money went into this place. Maybe they figure clients will recover better if the surroundings don’t look clinical.
Marlea felt Rissa’s nervous resolve and wondered if the surroundings would work for her.

“Mrs. Traylor?” The voice was gentle and sensitive, and filled with enough authority to make Rissa and Marlea jump. The speaker, with her salt-and-pepper hair, polite smile, and sensible shoes, walked toward them with her hand extended. “I’m Chris Gordon.”

Shy for the first time in her life, Rissa took a step back. “I’m Rissa and this is Marlea.” She pushed her forward.

Just throw me under the bus!
Marlea pasted on a smile and extended her hand. Taking stock of her, Marlea knew instantly that the woman was no athlete, probably never had been. At medium height, she was middle-aged and carrying a few extra comfortable pounds. Though everything about her seemed soft, the therapist’s earthy confidence reminded Marlea of singer Nancy Wilson. Her bright eyes were dark enough to be considered black and didn’t seem to miss a thing as she looked at the women in front of her.

Chris looked deeply into Marlea’s eyes and smiled warmly. She took Marlea’s hand and held it in both of hers. The effect was comforting.

“I came along for moral support,” Marlea murmured.

“Always a good thing.”

“She’s the one I told you about, and she’s going in with me. With us.” Rissa stood ramrod straight and clutched her purse in front of her like a shield.

“Family support is important, and I am very glad that you have such a willing supporter.” Chris gave Marlea’s hand a pat as she released it. Her eyes watched Rissa. “But this a bit unusual, and I believe that…”

“We discussed it when I made this appointment. I told you on the telephone that I was bringing her with me.” Rissa’s rigid body went even stiffer. “She’s with me and I’m with her. I go in there with her, or not at all.”

“Rissa, maybe talking about this would be easier if I waited…”

Marlea’s soft voice seemed to melt the ice in Rissa’s spine, but her gaze never left the doctor’s. “No. You promised to help me do this, and I’m going to hold you to it. This is hard, really hard, Dr. Gordon. I trust Marlea and I need her with me, if I’m going to do this.”

Chris nodded. “Confidentiality is always an issue, but if you’re sure?”

Rissa looked at Marlea, and was comforted when she nodded and said, “I’ll sign whatever I need to.”

“I will, too. I want her with me. Please.” Reaching for Marlea’s hand, Rissa waited.

“Then I believe we need to get started.” Totally at ease with Rissa’s new reticence, the caramel-skinned woman gave new meaning to encouragement as she led them to her office, an eye-pleasing space defined by sensitively muted colors, furnishings and artwork.

Chris watched them settle in the pair of thickly upholstered delft blue chairs across from her, and when Rissa sat stiffly silent, she began to speak. “Grief,” she said, “is a natural and normal response to loss. It is the internal part of loss, how we feel and thus how we react to loss. All loss is the absence of someone that was loved or something that fulfilled a significant role in one’s life.”

Rissa pressed her lips together and stole a quick look at Marla. Her head was bowed as she inspected her nails. Rissa cleared her throat and sat straighter in her chair.
I only agreed to do this once, and since I’m paying for it, I might as well try to get something out of it.
“The baby I lost never had a chance to establish a place in my life.”

“And yet you grieve for the loss—this is by no means unusual. A grief reaction may be experienced in response to a physical loss, in your case the loss of your child.”

Rissa crossed her legs and pulled her purse into her lap. “How do you propose I get over this grief reaction?”

Marlea sighed and never lifted her eyes from her hands. Rissa’s leg twitched nervously when she realized that she was the recipient of Chris’s gentle smile.

“You’d like the quick fix, wouldn’t you? I wish I could offer you one, but grief is best considered a journey or a process. It is not simply a series of events that fit into a structured timeline.”

“Then I can tell you that I don’t know why I’m here.” When Marlea looked up, Rissa was already facing her. “I don’t,” she said, determination lancing her features. “There is nothing you can do to help me. I want to be pregnant, and that’s outside your area of expertise. I want to not have lost my baby, and you can’t fix that either.”

Relaxed in her chair, Chris looked at the woman sitting across from her. “Then why did you come here, Rissa?”

“Because…”
I want to stop hurting Dench.
The story of crawling out from under a desk nearly spilled from her lips, but Rissa folded her hands, squeezing them nearly bloodless as she clamped down on the story.
There is no way I’m going to tell her about Jimmy and Sierra’s baby.
“I want to get pregnant again. I want a baby, and I guess I thought that talking to you would help me to go forward.”