~ And The Truth Will Set You Free ~

by

Linda Rettstatt

Prologue

“Every journey begins with one step...”

Kate read the words beneath a calendar picture of footprints on a path that ran alongside a narrow river and disappeared into a pristine wood. The trees glowed in varying shades of orange, yellow and red, and a covered bridge spanning a creek was visible in the distance. Even though it was March, Kate had, for some reason, kept this picture from October hanging on the wall behind her desk. She took a minute every morning, with the cup of Starbucks she picked up on her way into the State Office Building, and reflected upon the picture and the words beneath it. She envisioned herself stepping onto this path and into the footprints. Where would they take her? What journey awaited her step?

One

The late Saturday morning sun found its way through the slats in the mini-blinds and directly into Kate’s left eye. The rays warmed her cheek. She turned over and, once her vision cleared, looked at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock--10:32. Staring up at the ceiling, she noticed the beginnings of a small circular darkening in the paint. She wondered how long the leak had been there and why she hadn’t noticed sooner. Then she wondered how long she had not been noticing. Kate took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. Her mind kicked into gear. I should get up. I should do laundry. I should go out and enjoy this sunshine. But her body felt stapled to the bed, weighted. Another deep, sighing breath emerged.

At eleven, Kate forced herself out of bed. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and pondered showering. Maybe later. Stepping into a worn pair of moccasins, she stumbled into the bathroom. The sight of herself in the mirror as she splashed water on her face surprised her. When had she become an older woman? She peered at her reflection intently. She noticed the deep lines around her eyes and mouth that gave her a sad, tired look. The graying hair at her temples would be considered distinguished, if she were a man. She noticed the hump forming at the back of her neck which reminded her of her grandmother, the pouch that had appeared, seemingly overnight, on her belly. She felt the weight of her breasts inching toward her thickening waistline.

“Welcome to middle age,” she muttered as she turned and headed toward the kitchen.

The coffee maker with the pause feature, allowing her to take a cup before the pot finished brewing, elicited a grateful smile. Kate stood with a steaming mug in hand and gazed out the kitchen window to her garden. She hadn’t worked in the garden since fall. The crocuses had already pushed their way through the ground. There were remnants of plants, brown and scraggly, not having survived the winter. She usually pulled those up before the harsh weather set in, but hadn’t bothered last year. The pulling, tilling and replanting should have begun by now. Her only effort had left a small pile of browning weeds. This task had taken half an hour and all of her energy. The garden showed the lack of attention. Is that the result of neglect? Is that how I look to others? She shivered and felt her mood sink even further.

Kate hadn’t given much thought to midlife, except she thought some women made too much of it. She didn’t remember her mother talking about hot flashes, menopause, and feeling depressed about aging. The women she had grown up with just got older, took it in stride. She did remember promising herself she would never wear those plaid or flowered cotton house dresses her grandmother then her mother had taken to wearing as they got older. Other than that, she just didn’t think about it. She still felt the way she had at thirty-five and that had been a good year.

Her gynecologist told her last month that she was officially menopausal. Something inside of her ached--just for a moment. Other women who had raised children talked about empty nest syndrome and struggling to find their identities when they were no longer needed in the same way as a mother. Kate didn’t have children and so had not had that experience. Her identity was intact.

Perhaps it was the realization that having a child would no longer be an option--maybe that’s what the ache was about. She still felt young and vital--not twenty, but young enough. Something had definitely shifted inside her with Dr. Sheaffer’s diagnosis. That night when she went in to take a shower, she stood in front of the full-length mirror and studied herself, searching for outward signs, but skimming quickly over her body so as not to notice all of it. Today, she was noticing.

Kate warmed her coffee and sat at the kitchen table, slipping her feet free of the moccasins and tucking them under the chair. She felt weary, scared, and alone and realized she had been feeling these things for some time, but had kept herself busy enough to keep the feelings at bay.

~ * ~

The house, a modest-sized three-bedroom on two levels, was typical of the older homes in the Morningside neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Kate had turned one of the bedrooms into an office and hobby room. Here she sat at an old oak desk and paid bills or wrote letters. A large table across the room afforded a place to dabble with various crafts. A well-worn leather recliner provided a place for reflection and the dreaming of dreams.

The other spare bedroom was comfortably furnished for guests, with a double bed centered along the back wall, a rocking chair against one side wall and her grandmother’s antique chest of drawers against the other.

Kate had purchased the house at auction and, over the years, had some of the original woodwork refurbished or replaced. She loved the glossy feel of the worn wooden banister against her palm as she ascended the stairs. She sometimes wondered about other hands that had used this railing while descending to greet the day or pulling another tired body upward for a night’s rest. She liked the aged look of the house and the sounds that came with it. It felt familiar and reminded her of the home she’d lived in as a child, a house built in the late 1800s and owned by her great-grandparents.

Kate prided herself in the care she gave to her house and her garden. Most of her neighbors, second- and third-generation Italian families, planted vegetable gardens. Kate preferred flowers, especially wildflowers. Maybe it was the fact that they were wild and grew as they pleased. She admired their sense of adventure, their spirit that defied the little fences she placed around the flowerbeds.

The phone rang and she let it go to the answering machine. It was Terri calling to see if she wanted to go to a movie, just as she had done five other times in the past two weeks. How had two weeks passed so quickly?

Kate remembered bits and pieces of that time. She’d managed to drag herself to the grocery store once. The cupboards and refrigerator were nearly empty, but her incentive was a craving for potato chips and peanut butter cups. She had gotten herself out of bed and dressed every day, the latest being noon, and then sat until her coffee was cold, unsure of what to do next. This was followed by a nap.

Terri came by once, but Kate didn’t answer the door. Feeling guilty, Kate called her later and told her she was fine, but that she needed to be alone. Terri had a key and could have used it and, Kate knew, would have if she hadn’t eventually heard Kate’s voice. Terri knew something had happened at work, but Kate hadn’t shared all the details yet. Terri was giving her time.

Kate had the feeling she was drifting away from herself these past couple of weeks. Then just yesterday she had become frightened when she had the sense she was watching a shadow of herself, out in the garden, still in her sweats that doubled as pajamas, hair uncombed, pulling weeds. The experience sent her back to her bed. She stared at the ceiling and silently chanted her new mantra, “Get a grip. You’ll be okay.”

Today she had trouble remembering when she’d last eaten a meal. She scrounged around and found a packet of instant oatmeal that she microwaved. As usual, it boiled over, leaving a milky film on the plate of the oven. She would clean that up later. Adding cinnamon for flavor and a little skim milk to cool it, she mindlessly spooned it into her mouth.

The phone rang again and the answering machine picked up. This time Terri simply told Kate that she was on her way over there with key in hand and was not leaving until she saw her face and they talked.

Kate grabbed for the phone and said, “Hi.”

“You sound like you just woke up. I’m already turning onto Highland. I’ll be there in five minutes and we’re gonna talk. Okay?”

Kate hesitated. A lump formed in her throat and tears welled up. Her response sounded choked, “Yeah, okay.”

Kate was not one to easily give way to emotion and rarely cried, at least not in front of anyone. She wanted to regain control before Terri got there, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Was this grief or was it something more? She hadn’t felt this way since her mother died. Maybe this is what they mean by midlife crisis, she thought, almost laughing at herself. Hell, I passed midlife ten years ago.