Free Home Safe by Elizabeth Berg Page B

she overheard in a gynecologist's office. “There'd be no charge for my coming back, of course,” she tells Doris.
    “Well, that's very nice of you. But you know, we schedule so far in advance …”
    “I see,” Helen says.
    They leave the empty auditorium, their footsteps echoing. At the doorway that leads to the parking lot, Helen shakes hands with Doris, and heads out into the parking lot. A raw wind blows, and Helen shivers in it.
    When she gets to the car, she calls Midge. Who is not home. “Well,” she says to the message machine, “you were kind of wrong about how I'd do.”
    She wishes Doris had taken back the check. She doesn't want it. But she needs it.
    The next morning is December 18, the anniversary of Dan's death. Helen comes into the kitchen early and turns on the light. She makes coffee, waits for it to brew, drinks some, then puts her cup in the sink to rinse it out. She turns on the water, speaks above the noise to say, “Damnit, Dan! I just bought that cup!” She stands there for a long moment, the water running, her hands clenching the edge of the sink. Then she turns around and looks at the spot where he fell. Behind her, the water runs and runs. She turns it off, then goes to sit at the kitchen table, still staring at that spot on the floor. She moves to Dan's chair. She opens her hand as though a cup is falling out of it, then slides onto the floor, adjusts her body to look the way his did. She is looking in the direction of the sink, right where she was just standing. He would have seen her ankles, the hem of her robe. He would have seen how the cabinets looked immense from there, the ceiling so far away. He would have heard her speaking. He would have seen her turn around and start toward him. He would have known she was coming to save him.
    She gets up off the floor and stands there. Outside, the sunrise completes itself, trades its rose colors for gold, and bars of light stripe the kitchen table. She hears the sound of birds, and she goes to the window to watch them eat.

eight
    A T ELEVEN-THIRTY IN THE MORNING , H ELEN IS AT HER DESK, TRYING to think of exercises for the first writing class. Her phone rings and she answers immediately, grateful for the distraction. But there is no one there. “Hello?” she says again. There is silence, then a gentle hang-up. A caller who keeps hanging up? A call that changed your life? A misunderstanding that occurs when you think you're talking on the phone to one person but in fact it's someone else? She taps her fingers against the desk, arranges again the red roses she brought home from the grocery store this morning. The first time you got flowers, or gave them? Your first dance? Your first date? No, no, and no. She looks carefully around her study, as though an idea will come floating down from the ceiling like Groucho's duck.
    Exasperated, Helen calls her friend Jessica Miller for ideas; Jessica is a writer who has taught a thousand workshops. “Well, I have an exercise I always use for the first class,” Jessica says. “It gets the juices flowing right away, and it helps people in the group get to know one another. I just say, ‘Write one page telling me who you are.’ And then I give them twenty minutes. I use a timer, by the way; there's something about that ding! that's pretty unequivocal.”
    “That's a big assignment!”
    “Yes, but restricting it to one page and giving them so little time keeps them focused on just getting something down on the page. There's no time to listen to that critical voice in their heads, no time to judge, no time to even plan anything. Tell them there doesn't have to be any rhyme or reason, that you're not looking for a completely finished piece, just an interesting fragment that feels true to them, maybe even scary. To feel a little scared, to take a risk when you write, is a good thing, and they need to learn that, right away. What you want is for them to trust the process, you know?”
    Helen thanks her