August 15th

Dana unlocked the door to her place, dropped her briefcase by a chair and did a quick sort through her mail before she put it in the basket on her desk. The weather had turned stormy for August, with sudden showers to make the streets slick and full of puddles. She was glad to be home with no need to go anywhere.

It was late and the kitchen was uncomfortable, full of damp warm air. She opened the fridge, glanced at the contents, and felt little interest in anything on offer. But she still made toast, and took the plate with her to the terrace. It was the work of a few moments to get settled into a comfortable chair. She looked out over the Philadelphia skyline, half-hidden in swirls of rain and fog. Here and there a light gleamed through the mist. She wondered who worked overtime, who met whom for dinner in town . . . all the people she would never know, isolated in their little squares of illumination against the approach of evening.

It's been over two months. She set aside the food. Not a single word, no phone call, nothing. He can't still believe I had anything to do with the decision to remove his leg. She saw Greg again in her mind's eye: his pale, battered face suffused with fury as he tried to shout at her, his voice broken . . . The shock was dulled now, but still present deep inside. She wasn't sure it would ever go away, buried in her heart like a barbed dart.

On a professional level she knew this behavior was the result of the first medical crisis years ago, and what he saw as an act of profound betrayal. He'd endured far too much pain during that time; coupled with chronic and deep-seated trust issues, it would be difficult for him to overcome his natural tendency to believe it had happened all over again. The sticking point in this hypothesis was the time she and Greg had spent together. Both of them had worked hard to establish a bond of honesty and trust between them—or at least she had. Perhaps she'd taken too much for granted . . . but that didn't feel right. Greg had made real progress during his months with her. And she knew he loved her . . . Something else, some piece of his personal history she didn't know about, stood in the way. She'd stake her license on it. There was still so much she hadn't learned about his life and experiences . . .

Am I done with him? She folded her arms and leaned her head against the wing of the chair. Her heart told her no; her mind suggested he was stubborn and it would take time for him to risk seeing her again. The question was, how long was she willing to wait?

The deeper question is, do I trust him to come to me? On that point both heart and mind were silent, though she knew it was imperative that he be the one to make the first move. Well, it didn't matter. Perhaps there would come a day when she would know it was time to move on. For now though, she would wait.

After a time she took the cold toast to the kitchen and put it in the sink. She would have to do better than this; after Papa's death she'd ended up not eating for months, and it had taken her a long time to regain her appetite—not just for food, but for the everyday pleasures of life. I've been staying in the house too much. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow I'll go to the café. She looked down at the plate and sighed softly. The temptation to give up her practice surged through her once more, but she set it aside. She'd built a solid practice, and she had plenty of clients—in fact there was a long waiting list as well as a substantial clientele roster. It would be foolish to throw away years of effort . . . but in this moment she could do it without regret, and move on to whatever awaited. But I won't. Not yet.

The rest of the evening she spent in her bedroom with case files, her thoughts closed against the emptiness of the place beside her.

Dana woke to a quiet Saturday. Weak sunlight filtered through a small gap in the curtains. She stared at it as she struggled with the desire to stay in bed all day. There were things to do . . . shopping, laundry, some work-related calls . . . She pulled the covers over her head and drifted off.

It was late when she woke again, muzzy and ill-tempered. She slithered out of bed and headed off to the shower, where she stood under the hot water until it washed away some of her bad mood.

You're going out, she reminded herself as she dressed. Some café au lait and croissants will keep you going. You can take your work with you and do some shopping on the way home. None of it held any appeal, but she went through the motions of an ordinary day—a cab into town, coffee and treats at the café. She managed to eat both, mainly because someone else had baked the croissants and brewed the coffee. Afterward she went in search of a new sweater, and made a stop at the little market on the corner to pick up a few essentials.

She was on her way home, engrossed in conversation with the cab driver, when her phone rang. Just for one moment she thought it's him. Of course it wasn't; a patient wanted to rearrange an appointment.

"Bad news?" the cabbie wanted to know. Dana shook her head and looked out the window.

"Too late for that."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." She offered a smile. "Do you have plans for Labor Day? Will you go to the shore?"

The talk about holidays took them the rest of the way to her place, where she gave the driver a generous tip, wished him a pleasant day, and went inside.

She put away the food, took the sweater to the laundry room and started a wash. As she sorted through the pile in the hamper, she found a crumpled shirt balled up in a corner that she'd missed somehow. It was Greg's. Dana held it in her hands. She remembered when she'd stolen it from his closet, how he'd growled at her and then laughed, and undid the buttons one by one as he kissed her and took his time . . . On impulse she lifted the shirt to her nose. It still smelled of him, that male scent she knew well.

Somehow she ended up on the bed with the shirt draped over her pillow. She pushed her face into the soft cloth. As she lay there, a memory came to her—Greg seated in an easy chair at the cottage, guitar in hand as he played for her a song she knew well and loved.

I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face

and the summer sun might burn me 'til I'm blind

but not to where I cannot see

you walkin' on the backroads

by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind . . .

'Gentle on My Mind,' Glen Campbell (lyrics by John Hartford)