The Choice Not Taken

The Choice Not Taken

Jodi LaPalm

Kindle Edition

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.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, products, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the result of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 Jodi LaPalm

for my Mother,

who showed me it is indeed possible

to rise out of the ashes...

prologue

Yet even with these relentless memories of a painful past, I failed to recognize my previous self. I’m a different person now, and I couldn’t seem to reconcile that damaged, desperate girl with who I believed I was.

I am a better person
! I screamed in inner doubt. Not only stronger but also more true-to myself and those I loved.

But as I finally realized the impact of my selfish actions back then and attempted to alleviate the unbelievable guilt, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I was this woman now because of that time in my life.

Could I have become Me without ever being
Her
?

“
Some people come into our lives at a specific time and only for a little while...and they have a purpose-often unrecognized but powerful all the same
.” During our session, the words of my therapist seemed trite and patronizing. Now I saw them for their undeniable truth.

Still, I became frustrated that his death pushed me to a place I’d let go of many years before. The intense memory of him–and us–hadn’t ever been so demanding, so real, so needful of attention.

And yet, with absent condolences and lonesome grief, it was almost as if we never happened at all.

news

A man I loved, madly and desperately, died. But no one ever told me.

I guess it doesn’t cross a grieving family’s mind to contact the mistress of a married man when he leaves this Earth and passes onto the Heavenly beyond. I’m not sure I ever would have known other than the fact that I stumbled upon the news.

It was almost time for the kids to get home from school, and the housework gods were in my favor–for once. Laundry caught up, folded, and put away. Lasagna baking in the oven. Dishwasher humming through the final stages of its drying cycle. Even Rosie, our yellow lab, stopped her incessant whimpers during a doggy dream to lay peacefully still under the kitchen table.

I had approximately ten minutes of glorious solitude before all hell broke loose.

Ten minutes.

When I look back later, I’ll realize this was the second time in my forty years that such a short span would drastically impact my entire life. But while the first time was not by my doing, this day...this day was entirely my fault.

It was one random, but curious, search on the computer. That’s all.

I had no idea where the thought came from. Yet, that flashing cursor in a rectangular box tucked within the upper right corner beckoned me to enter something...
anything
.

Hypnotically, I typed his name.

P-H-I-L-I-P B-U-R-K-E.

The miniature two-dimensional hourglass took its time, channeling the billions and billions of possibilities in cyber-world, before finally revealing the top offerings.

There were the expected connections: his company’s listing in an on-line guide, an article celebrating expanded locations, his corporate biography as a leader in the information technology industry. But then...a eulogy on the company homepage?

“Mom! Where are my cleats? I need ‘em for the match tomorrow.”

Mitch’s whining rudely forced its way through cloudy confusion, and I discreetly closed my laptop cover to hide the contents upon the screen. Shame and guilt were really unfounded here, but I feared being caught in some wrong-doing just the same.

My ten-year-old tossed his school bag on the back entry floor, directly beneath his assigned hook in the custom-built wall cubbies. He proceeded to kick his mud-caked sneakers–purchased barely a week ago-into the corner, away from the rug, and precisely smack-dab onto the pale ivory tile I spent thirty minutes scrubbing that morning.

“Mitchell! Hang your backpack. Put those shoes on the rug. And wipe up the mess you just made on the floor,” I patiently demanded.

“Sorry, Mom,” he looked to me under thick eyelashes with sweet apology and did as he was told.

One day he’s going to break a lot of hearts
, I worried in silence.

“Now come here and give me a proper greeting,” I beamed, and he came into my arms with a shy smile of his own. “How was your day?”

“Pretty good. I got a ninety on my spelling test and was picked to be leader of the kickball game in gym!” His excited pale blue eyes shimmered against the darkening dim of the kitchen.

A storm was coming.

The changing April sky could signal a variety of things-rain, ice, or even snow. For while our spring had already been a beautiful one, the Midwestern weather of Wisconsin proved to be wholly unpredictable. One day you might wear flip-flops and shorts, and the next you could be scraping crusty ice off the driveway.

“So, Mom. Where’s my shoes?” he repeated.

“Mom. Can we go shopping on Saturday?”

“
I’m
talking to her,” Mitchell scolded his younger sister, Sylvie, as she came in the back door.

She stuck her tongue out at him before hanging her purple and pink striped messenger bag on its proper hook and setting her silver ballet flats neatly upon the rug.

The oven buzzed a programmed reminder to check the lasagna. My head instinctively whipped around in its direction, and I glared, angrily, at the glowing green clock.

Only late afternoon, yet a worn sigh escaped my lips while I dutifully walked to the still-beeping oven. Grabbing a hot-pad, I pulled the top rack out and carefully peeled back the foil while Mitch and Sylvie commenced their bickering in the other room.

Steam shot up from the pan, scalding my already clammy skin, and I quickly poked a knife in the center of bubbling cheese, deep into the underlying layers. Satisfied it was cooking properly, I returned the lasagna to the oven and began making garlic bread.

“Mitch! The cleats should be in your soccer duffel where you left them from the last match,” I informed, slicing even pieces of bread on the bamboo cutting board. “And Sylvie Honey. No, we can’t go shopping Saturday, because I’m going to help Auntie Jen with her yard sale.”

Her instant pout warned of a coming argument, and I held up the serrated gourmet knife to signal her to stop.

“You two are staying put with Dad. That’s final,” I sternly added. She wrinkled her petite button nose and loudly stomped toward her room.

After brushing melted butter on the crusty bread, I smothered fresh garlic haphazardly within its yeasty folds and placed the pan near the oven. I again set the timer as a reminder to bake them.

A few fleeting minutes before one of the kids interrupted or Alex called to say he was heading home from work meant I needed to move fast.

Flipping open the laptop, I impatiently tapped the space bar with my forefinger to re-illuminate the screen. It took too long, so I hit it again...and again...and again.

Hurry up
! my inner thoughts pleaded.

With eyes racing back and forth, I scanned every hyper-link to be sure I actually viewed information relevant to him or his company. I also secretly hoped for a photo to appear.

Would I recognize him–still? Or would he no longer resemble the random memories that pierced through my barricaded thoughts over the past fifteen years?

No images materialized. But I became convinced it was him; the references to his business partner and their acquisitions pertained to the same industry. Pausing in excessive indecision over the final link, I hovered the tiny arrow–indefinitely-upon the highlighted text.

The phone rang.

Startled, my fingertip reflexively clicked the mouse and opened the corresponding website. Fighting overwhelming curiosity, I averted my gaze from the screen and answered the phone.

“Hi, Alex,” I exhaled with forced enthusiasm while silently thanking technology for Caller ID. I envisioned my husband strolling to his car, briefcase in one hand and cell phone in the other.

“Hey, Sweetheart. How’s your day?” he smiled into the receiver. I instinctively flashed one in return-except mine was a shadow, tinged with uncertain discomfort, and masked with dread.

“Good! I got most of the work done around here and even found time to edit my layouts,” I answered with renewed, and genuine, pride.

At times, it was an all-out miracle I could keep up with my expectations for the household and fulfill my free-lance career as an illustrator. Flexibility of working from home became both a blessing and curse where being a wife and mother were concerned. For while it allowed me to create at my own pace and be available to Alex and the kids, the challenges of sticking to a disciplined work routine posed a daily problem as I battled obsessive-compulsive tendencies for organized perfection.

“Wonderful news! I think you deserve a glass of wine tonight. Come to think of it...I do, too. I closed the Larson case today with no hold-ups,” he chimed cheerily.

“Wow. That’s great, Alex!” I exclaimed, mirroring his excitement.

This project proved more than demanding and keeping everyone on the same page with the merger posed a struggle from day one. After many long hours at the office and extra nights spent at home drafting contracts and filing correspondence, Alex–in classic fashion-mediated the deal with methodical, yet stern, precision.

Still beaming over his latest victory, I made the mistake of habitually glancing at the computer. A eulogy, written by a man whose name I recognized as a co-worker, filled the screen.

Not Philip
, I prayed.

Alex’s smooth voice faded, replaced with the rough din of a static-filled background. In agonizing slow motion, I inhaled. Yet the overwhelming odors of garlic and oregano entirely escaped the warm kitchen. The peppermint candy tucked against my cheek couldn’t produce any saliva to soothe my dry throat. And although I knew the phone was physically in my tense grip, its hard plastic didn’t seem to touch my skin. My near perfect 20/20 vision blurred and then failed altogether, rendering me unable to register anything in my path, particularly the written misery on the computer beside me.

This must be wrong
, I convinced myself.
It must be for–about–someone else
.

Not Philip.

“What do you want to do for dinner, Court? Wanna go out and celebrate? Us and the kids?” Alex asked expectantly.

Though he spoke the words in order, they quickly mixed and jumbled into incoherent sentences. And I fought to decipher their hidden code.

“Courtney? Are you still there?”

After a too-long pause, my attempt to answer morphed into a gasping cough. I swallowed, leading any speech to become a choking, critical need to breathe. Sucking in long, deep pockets of air, I eventually regained a feasible, albeit ragged, rhythm while Alex helplessly talked with rapid alarm into my humming ear.

“I’m okay, Alex. Air just went down the wrong way,” I guaranteed him, wishing it really were all that was wrong.

“Boy. You gave me a scare, Court,” he offered thoughtfully. “So, do you wanna do dinner out?” he repeated, and I heard the car start up. I knew he wouldn’t begin the half hour commute home until he was off the phone so I hurried our conversation along.

“Actually, I already have lasagna in the oven,” I told him, gazing out the back French doors over the newly renovated slate stone patio he and I built together.

“Mm. Sounds perfect! See you in thirty, then. Love you,” he said, his signal to end the call.

“Love you more,” I replied absently and hung up the phone.