First of all, again, thank you to everyone who has been following this story and for all the kind and thoughtful feedback you've provided. It's been way too long since I've expressed my appreciation, but truly, every time I see views and comments, I am appreciative.

Second, I have a little preface to the forthcoming chapter(s):

You know that Henry Ford quote about how if he'd asked his customers what they wanted, they would have said they wanted faster horses? Okay, so what I need you to know is that even though things have gotten a bit *dark*, please have faith that in the big picture, what I have for you is much better than a horse. : )

Chapter 36

Some stories, like the one I promise I'm almost finished telling you, and like the one about Walt becoming consumed by grief and betrayal, go on too long.

We should probably be able to learn faster than that, but we know what we know. We get over things when we get over them, move forward when we're ready to move forward.

This is how I see it:

There's always a problem. Without a problem there is no story.

The hero takes action to try to solve the problem or others take actions that mess it all up more. Until the hero is successful at getting what he (or she) wants, or until getting it is no longer an option, the story continues.

That's life, too, except life is a series of stories under the canopy of the big one. In the big one, everyone has the same problem: survival.

So let's clear something up.

The problem you have with me is not the problem I have with me. That's why you have trouble understanding the actions I take—they are steps that don't make sense as a solution to your version of the problem.

This morning I woke up tear-burdened and trembling, inches away from my future, even touching it in places. For the first time, I understood that to remove the rest of that gap, permanently, I actually have to do something different. You can't solve a problem with the same approach that created it, or whatever. Einstein said that I think.

To get where I want to get, I have to decide for myself what problem drives my story, and to do that, I have to actually stop caring what you think instead of just pretending I don't care.

I don't blame you.

It isn't so odd that we forget how to take care of ourselves or that we never really learn how in the first place.

I don't mean to get all political and preachy on you, but think about it. Women have had the right to vote for less than 100 years. That means Marjorie Wilson, Walt's friend from the bench in the square on the day the sexual tension peaked, was born into a world where, by law, she was an accessory.

What I did to Lizzie and what you do to me are exactly what we've been genetically and historically programmed to do. We can't possibly take care of ourselves if we don't know how to take care of each other.

We're trained from birth to care about others more than we care about ourselves. We're taught to modify ourselves, modify our needs, in order to meet the needs of others. Whether or not you buy into it, and clearly I didn't, the idea of it marks you. It distorts the survival instinct.

A person can be self-focused and still not take care of herself (or himself). Case in point: me. Other case in point: Walt.

So we might as well get this over with.

I've been withholding a key piece of evidence, the nugget that will cement your case. When I'm finished handing it over, you'll likely find your views are aligned with the ghost Charles Van der Horn's.

It was around the middle of my first year on the force, and I was in the phase of life when visiting my parents was still called "coming home." I visited at least twice a month at that point. Every time I was there, I spent time with Aunt Maria because she treated me like I was already the person I wished I was. Believe me, I've asked myself over and over what I gave her in return. I'm still working on that one.

The last time I went to visit her, she wasn't herself. She was thinner, sort of gray-skinned and run down, but I didn't mention it. We were playing two-handed pinochle, and she was making all kinds of rookie mistakes, forgetting what cards had been played, dropping an ace when she could have taken the trick with a king.

None of it was like her, but when you're twenty-three you don't get it. You don't necessarily make the connections you're able to make later. She had always seemed like the picture of health, and that's the way I thought of her.

After I won the third game, she reached across the table and held my hands. Her skin was like tissue paper and her hands were cold.

"I have to tell you something, sweetheart," she said. Even her voice was thin.

Being the inwardly focused young adult that I was, I expected her to pass along some message from my mom that my mom was too chicken to tell me herself.

So I went into defensive mode: "Oh, God," I said. "What now?"

I fully expect to spend the rest of my life regretting that moment.

"I have cancer," she said.

I remember the sudden jet-engine din in my head, and the sensation of being hollowed out.

"What? When did you find out?" I asked, but it sounded like someone else's voice, someone else's response. It didn't seem to mean anything.

"Well, I found out about the breast cancer a few weeks ago . . . ."

"A few weeks?"

Only then did it occur to me that my mom had been stranger than usual. I'd asked her if she had a cold, and she had said she might be coming down with one.

"I was preparing for treatment," she said. "I wanted to get that worked out before telling you kids."

"And?" I said. "When does it start?"

Sandy, her yellow lab, started barking in the backyard.

"It doesn't," she said, squeezing my hands, comforting me. "It's spread. It's inoperable."

I cried and I hugged her, as though it was for her. She was so frail under her baggy track suit.

I promised to visit, but even as I said it, I knew I wouldn't.

When I got back to my apartment on the other side of the city, I broke up with the bartender I'd been seeing and immediately started up with a construction worker who lived across the hall in my complex. I wasn't that into him, either, but he didn't know much about me, and that was appealing.

Maria called a couple of times and we had awkward conversations. The last time, I didn't even call back.

Two days later, she died.

I was "too busy" to go to the funeral, and I've never seen her grave.

It's something I've carried so long that I forget most of the time that I'm even carrying it. It's just there, getting factored unconsciously into the weight of me.

For so long, I've taken the memory and the guilt for granted, that it's always there and always will be there, and it's just part of what I am. I may have even convinced myself it doesn't matter.

In reality, those choices and the resulting regret matter more than any other single action I've taken in my entire life.

Before yesterday.

The problem driving this story? My soul is getting crowded.