The Best I Can Do: A True Story of Navigating the Complexities of Mental Illness and Homelessness

Home in the Snow

Massachusetts, January 2005

My ringing travel alarm jolts me from a deep sleep. I peek at the windows. They are covered in snow. I’m grateful for the thick comforter I salvaged from the storage unit before the auction. The skin on my face stiffens and stings from the frigid air.

How long have I been here? The limit is eight hours.

I throw back the covers, slip into my jacket and boots, and get out of my Honda CR-V. Big dry flakes glide through the air.

I walk through a foot of snow to the back of my car, open the hatch door, and retrieve a snow broom underneath two folded blankets. A tow truck driver stops a few feet away and watches me brush the snow off my car.

Please don’t tow me! I can’t afford another bill. Just go away!

Maybe the tow truck driver heard my thoughts, because he moves on. I sigh with relief.

The snow smells fresh. Aside from muffling the sound, the newly fallen flakes make everything look and smell clean—even in this dreary rest area thirty-five miles northwest of Boston. I long for a place to call home, but this is the best I can do for now. I moved into my car four weeks ago, when I couldn’t afford the rent anymore. I’m ashamed that I have to be homeless and frustrated that I can’t keep up with the bills, but I feel fortunate that at least I can use my car for shelter. So many people who don’t have places to live must sleep on the streets, under bridges, or anywhere else they can find.

The bathrooms are locked at the rest area for another hour, so I drive to the nearest Mobil station in Westford. I pull a change of clothes from a garbage bag in the back of my car, stuff them into a tote bag with my toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb, and carry them into the bathroom inside the convenience store. This is where I change and freshen up for the office. I don’t want anyone at work to know what’s happening to me.

When I’m done, I buy a croissant sandwich with bacon, egg, and cheese and a cup of coffee with cream at the Dunkin’ Donuts counter. I don’t have to buy lunch today because I left a half-eaten Chinese dinner in the refrigerator at the office. That’s the perk about eating Asian—stretching leftovers.

During the drive to the office in Acton, I think about my long day ahead and feel overwhelmed. I need to finish writing a manual for the latest product. It’s due today, and some of the features won’t be ready. I need to talk to the engineers again to get whatever information I can to make the manual as complete as possible. It will have to do until the next release.

I can’t forget to turn off my cell phone before entering the office. If I do, the creditors will bug me all day. They’re never happy, even when I can make my payments on time.

Why don’t they understand I’m doing the best I can? They treat me like I’m some deadbeat who’s hiding a pot of gold somewhere that I don’t want to give to them.

After a full day at the office, I will change again for my second job at the restaurant at the ski area. Hopefully the snow will attract more skiers tonight so I can earn enough tips to spend the night at the Motel 6 in Leominster. Maybe I can even pay a small bill or two. If not, I’ll return to the office and take a shower before heading to the rest area for another night. No one uses the fitness center that late, so it’s safe to shower without anyone knowing I’m there.

How did I wind up living in my car? I wish there were an easy answer. There’s so much going on, and it’s overwhelming. I’ve lost almost everything except for my car and I’m living in it. I’m struggling financially, and Tom, my husband, disappeared. He isn’t the same loving man I knew. He’s now in his own world, trying to escape people he believes are constantly following him. I wonder whether he will ever return to his old self and we can resume the happy life we lost.

Our Fifth Anniversary

London, September 1994

Tonight, Tom and I are as excited as two four-year-olds whose parents just said we’re going out for an ice-cream cone. We’re sitting in the back seat of a taxi, riding to London’s West End. We’ve seen live theater at home in Seattle, but this is the first time we’ll go to a big production in one of the most famous performing arts centers in the world.

If we were sitting any closer to each other, one of us would be in the other’s lap. I’m staring out the back passenger window with my hand on Tom’s knee. His hand is on my knee, and he’s leaning over my shoulder to see the sights. I can feel his breath tickling my ear.

The black Fairway we’re in reminds me of a car from the 1950s. The classic look fits in with the stone and brick buildings, many centuries old, we pass as the driver navigates the narrow, curvy, wet streets. Lights shine through windows of pubs and cafés, where people talk and laugh while eating a meal or enjoying a pint or two. A couple strolls along the sidewalk, sharing an open umbrella, deep in conversation.

I’m trying to remember everything I see, but I’m approaching sensory overload just like Tiger, our Maine Coon cat, when he spends too much time studying the view through the two picture windows in our living room.

How appropriate, I think. We’re on our way to see Cats. What would Tiger think of that?

I look at Tom and smile. He smiles back. I love those beautiful, sparkling hazel eyes. That’s the first thing I found attractive about him when he was a regular customer at the 7-Eleven where I worked as a clerk when we were students at the University of Oregon. And his smile. His smile and sparkling eyes complement each other, always caring and comforting. He’s a handsome man with a stocky muscular frame, two inches taller than I am, with short, straight light-brown hair parted on the right side. He’s clean shaven, because he says when he tries to grow a mustache or beard, the hair grows unevenly. I’ve never seen him with a mustache or beard, but I tell him he doesn’t need facial hair to enhance his appearance. He’s four years older than I am, but he looks much younger.

In smiling, I can feel my eyes sparkle as well. I still can’t believe we’re doing this, I say.

Me, too, Tom says. This show has been sold out for years.

Maybe someone heard it’s our anniversary.

Time flies, doesn’t it? It seems like we got married yesterday. Tom smiles again, his face beaming with love. I squeeze his hand and lay my head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me.

The taxi driver stops in front of the New London Theatre on Drury Lane. Tom pays the fare and tip, and we thank the driver for his excellent service. On the marquee, the bright-yellow Cats logo and eyes flank the words Now and Forever in bold white block letters on a black background. The entrance is under a big banner reading, Welcome to the Jellicle Ball, which matches the marquee’s lettering and background.

Tom holds a door open for me as I walk into the lobby. He helps me remove my jacket and drapes it over the back of my seat.

Always the gentleman, I think. Four years of dating and five years of marriage haven’t changed that. I’m the luckiest woman in the world for having Tom in my life. Before he showed up, I’d given up looking for a man to share the rest of my life with. I’d had too many bad experiences. Tom showed me there are males who still exist who aren’t complete jerks. They can be caring, supportive beings who are more than spouses; they’re best friends. With the right people, a couple can be a true team. That’s what we are.

The theater is laid out like a target, with the stage being the bull’s-eye and the sections of seats in rings surrounding it. Every seat has an unobstructed view of a junkyard. When we bought the tickets at the central box office today, the agent said the stage and orchestra pit rotate. We’ve never seen a rotating stage at a theater.

I wonder how the actors and musicians can focus on their parts while on a rotating stage, but after the show starts, I discover the movement is barely noticeable. I think about our anniversary dinner last year at the top of the Space Needle in Seattle, where the restaurant makes one full rotation in an hour. We dined on fresh grilled salmon, roasted red potatoes, and steamed asparagus while the sun slid behind the Olympic Mountains, painting the sky with abstract swathes of red, orange, and purple. Ferries resembling double-decker wedding cakes glided across the water to downtown Seattle from Bainbridge Island and back again. We were so focused on our conversation, the delicious food, and the scenery that we didn’t pay attention to the floor moving below us.

We live like this. Life turns and we turn with it. I never have to worry that we don’t.

We return to the bed-and-breakfast near Victoria Station at eleven at night. When Tom unlocks the door to our room, he pokes his head inside and looks around. I stand behind him.

What’s wrong? I whisper.

Just checking, he says.

Checking for what?

He doesn’t reply.

I peek over his shoulder and scan the room. A streetlight shines through the window and outlines the two oversized twin beds with cast-iron headboards, a small nightstand with a pot-bellied lamp between the beds, and a chest of drawers. Everything I see looks the same as before we left to see Cats, except now it’s mostly dark.

What’s stopping him from going inside? I wonder.

Then I remember what happened earlier today. After a full morning of touring, we returned to our room to take a nap. We usually don’t take naps in the middle of the day, but the eight-hour time difference between Seattle and London caught up with us. We’ve been in London for only two days, and it’s taking longer than we expected to recover from the jet lag.

We cuddled in one of the beds and fell asleep. Twenty minutes later, we awoke to the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door opening. We shot up, speechless, as the gray-haired innkeeper poked his head inside, glancing at the sink next to the door and a small adjoining room that contains only a water closet. Then he saw us sitting up in the bed with the covers wrapped around us, staring at him with startled looks on our faces.

Sorry, he said quietly in a beautiful British accent while lowering his head. He backed into the hallway and gently closed the door.

Tom looked at me with clenched jaws and lowered eyebrows. Why would he come in here in the middle of the afternoon?

He was probably checking on whether we need fresh towels, soap, and toilet paper.

He should have knocked.

He assumed we weren’t here. Most people are out during the day, seeing the sights.

Well, I don’t like it!

I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.

Tom frowned at me. I couldn’t understand why he was overreacting but decided I shouldn’t talk about it anymore. This was the first time I’d seen Tom act this way. If I tried to continue our conversation, would he become more agitated? I didn’t know, so I decided it was best to let it go.

Now I wonder whether our experience this afternoon makes Tom believe that someone might be in our room tonight. But why would anyone be here this late at night? Why would anyone be here at all?

Another minute passes, which seems like hours. Tom reaches in, flips on the light switch above the sink, pushes the door open, and waits for me to go inside. We’re silent while dressing for bed. I’m still bewildered by his behavior when he climbs into his bed and rolls onto his side, his back facing me. I turn out the light, climb into my bed, and say, Good night. I love you. He doesn’t respond because he’s already asleep, softly snoring.

When we awake the next morning, Tom is back to his usual calm, pleasant demeanor. This puzzles me, but I rationalize that maybe he was tired from our full day yesterday and the persistent jet lag. After a good night’s sleep, he probably realizes he overreacted.

Our nine-day adventure continues. We tour Leeds Castle, the ancient city of Bath, and Kensington Palace. We ride bright-red double-decker tour buses while listening to guides talk about London’s history and landmarks and hop off at a stop to snap pictures of Big Ben. We take turns posing for pictures next to an old-fashioned cast-iron phone booth matching the color of the double-decker buses. We take the Tube to Little Venice for a lunch cruise of Regent’s Canal on a rainy day. We buy tickets to see two more plays, Five Guys Named Moe and an Agatha Christie mystery. We admire the beautiful stained glass and architecture of St. Paul’s Cathedral and explore the Tower of London with a guide whose storytelling talents bring its history to life. We take long walks along the River Thames, hand in hand.

I never dreamed we could be this happy, but we are.

Darkness in Magnolia

Seattle, January 1996

Lord, please let these publishers hire me to index their books! I pray while pushing batches of stamped nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelopes through the mail slot at the post office, a tiny corner room at the State Farm Insurance office in our West Seattle neighborhood. The envelopes, addressed to publishers I found in Writer’s Market, contain cover letters, résumés, and two samples of indexes I created.

I haven’t worked for almost three months and it’s wearing me down. I’m wondering whether I’ll ever work again. An agency in downtown Seattle had hired me to revise a report for an environmental consulting firm the Monday after I returned home from the Society for Technical Communication (STC) conference in Portland back in October. On the day before the conference, shortly after I arrived in Portland, I got the call from the vice president of the department where I worked as a technical writer, when he said the maritime company cut fifty percent of its workforce. I was among them. What’s worse, he called on my birthday, the same day before I spoke in front of my peers for the first time in my career. Somehow I pulled off the presentation, but I’m still astonished I could through my shock, frustration, and anger.

The last batch of envelopes slide down the chute while I look at the post office counter, an arch-shaped window with a wooden lip at the base, and debate whether I should buy some stamps in case I find more good publishing leads. I haven’t seen or heard anyone inside the post office since I arrived. Maybe the clerk took a long break.

I decide to buy stamps later. It’s more important to go home in case the phone rings. Oh, how I’m hoping someone calls me today about a job!

My thoughts continue wandering after I leave the post office. I walk past familiar sights during my six-block walk—from a restored movie theater built in the mid-1930s, mixed-use buildings, gas stations, a Safeway store, and fast-food restaurants, to streets of well-kept homes dating from the 1920s to 1940s.

All I can think about is getting a job. That project for the environmental consulting firm lasted only two weeks. The recruiter said she would have more work for me, but then didn’t. I check in with her every week, and still nothing. Why would she say she has more work when she doesn’t?

I worry about Tom. I feel like I’m a burden, although we’ve managed with his income and my weekly unemployment checks since my layoff. I’m not used to depending on someone. Before we married, I took care of myself. Our marriage is a partnership, where we contribute equally. We treat each other as equals and support our personal dreams and professional goals, but it feels like my job loss has tilted the scales.

He has been so supportive since this happened. When I called him from Portland, he didn’t get upset. He was sad and sympathetic. He called me back after he finished his sales rounds that day to check on me. He made me feel like everything would be okay, although I wasn’t so sure. And the next day after work, he drove all the way to Portland. He fought a twenty-five-mile backup from the Southcenter Mall to the Tacoma Dome on a Friday afternoon and other stops and starts along the way just to be with me. I didn’t ask him to come, and he didn’t tell me he was coming, but I was glad he did.

The traffic light at the intersection turns red. I push the chrome button to trigger the walk light and wait until it illuminates to cross the street.

Throughout our relationship, Tom has surprised me when I’ve hit hard spots. He seems to enjoy cheering me up. I remember the first time, a month after we started dating. When he heard that I got a C on a marketing midterm that I had studied hard for, he asked me to meet him on campus between classes and handed me a bouquet of white carnations. His thoughtfulness touched me so deeply that I cried. Then he worried that I was sad. I had to explain that I was crying happy tears, which made him feel better.

I turn onto the street to our house. The sun peeks through the clouds long enough to warm my face, then hides again.

Although Tom never complains about my struggles, I sense something is wrong. He has been quieter lately. Sometimes when he returns home from work, he’s edgy. He mentions a few times that George, his manager of four years at his Fortune 500 employer, is more demanding, so he’s feeling pressure to sell more.

I think about those conversations, which don’t vary much. Tom starts them with, I saw someone following me today.

Was it George? I ask.

No.

What did the car look like? Could you see them?

I didn’t recognize them. He doesn’t describe the car, which puzzles me. If he believes someone is following him, why wouldn’t he talk about the car? Could he see who’s in the car? He knew it wasn’t George, so he must have had a good view of them.

Why would someone follow you? I ask.

Tom doesn’t reply.

The sales managers routinely audit the grocery stores in each sales rep’s territory to check the company’s market shares of products on the shelves, but they’ve never followed the reps anywhere. I wonder whether Tom’s job stress is becoming overwhelming and hope I can find steady work soon to relieve his pressure.

By the time our house, a 1920s-era cottage with cream-colored siding and brown trim, is within view, I’m feeling sadder than ever. I’m trying not to give up, but today, I really want to. It would be easier to crawl into bed and sleep all day than continue this frustrating job search, but I never take the easy way out.

My mother and grandparents taught me that if I work hard and am reliable, my efforts will pay off. I learned those lessons early from helping them on a forty-acre farm in the Missouri Ozarks. We raised purebred Angus cattle, chickens, and pigs, and had three gardens that produced most of the food we needed. The only items we consistently bought from the grocery store in the largest town in the county, nine miles from the farm, were sugar, flour, salt, pepper, and spices.

When I was growing up, I loved school and studied hard to get straight As. Grandma encouraged me and was proud that I kept up my grades. She also encouraged me to go to college because she believed getting a degree would lead me to a prosperous career. She was sensitive to this because Grandpa, who was almost twenty years older than her, couldn’t finish school. He had to quit in the fourth grade to help his widowed mother take care of the rest of the family. He couldn’t read, so Grandma took care of anything that required reading discretely. No one knew outside our family about Grandpa’s inability to read. Despite this, Grandpa worked steadily in a variety of blue-collar jobs throughout his life until his health forced him to retire. That’s when Grandma and Grandpa decided to move from my birthplace of San Jose, California, to the farm in the Ozarks, about sixty miles from where they grew up and married. My mother, a single parent, decided to join them with me and Julie, my younger sister.

I settle into our office, turn on the computer, and surf the Internet, hoping to find some openings I haven’t applied to. Nothing new today.

Tom returns from his sales rounds a few hours later, carrying a sheet of paper. He hands it to me. I saw this in one of the grocery manager’s offices and asked him if I could make a copy.

I look at the black-and-white drawing on the paper while Tom watches me. A stork stands on the bank of a pond with a frog’s rear sticking out of its mouth. While the stork tries to swallow the frog, the frog grips the stork’s neck with its four feet. The words, Never Give Up, are centered across the top of the page.

I look up at Tom with watery eyes. You don’t know how much I needed to see this, I say. It’s been a tough day.

Tom smiles at me. I thought about you when I saw it. I knew you needed some encouragement.

He hugs me and kisses my forehead.

I’m taping this to the side of the file cabinet in our office, I say. We’ll always see it when we’re working on the computer. It will inspire both of us.

Tom smiles again.

A week later, I’m at home mopping the floor in our compact, functional kitchen that hasn’t been updated since the seventies. The color scheme gives it away: an avocado refrigerator and electric stove in a bank of maple-stained cabinets forming an L-shape along the walls. The cream countertops match the linoleum. The dishwasher leaks because the landlord doesn’t want to spend money to fix it, so we wash our dishes by hand in the stainless-steel sink next to the dishwasher. We’ve stopped contacting the landlord for repairs because he raises the rent after he’s finished. If anything we need breaks, we fix it ourselves if we’re able or hire someone else to do it if we can afford it. Tom’s experience working for his dad in cabinetmaking and construction while he was growing up and during holiday and summer breaks in college transformed him into a great handyman.

I’m feeling down again today. Like that leaky dishwasher, I can feel the energy draining from my body. It’s now exactly three months since I’ve been laid off. No one replies to my job applications and inquiries. It feels like I’m sending my résumés to a black hole. Heck, I feel like I’m being sucked into a black hole. Why won’t anyone contact me?

At least the mopping makes me feel like I’m in control of something, and I can see the results—a clean kitchen floor.

I hear chattering in the living room. Through the doorway, I see Tiger crouching on top of the bookshelf under the windowsill, staring at a squirrel grabbing a peanut from the wooden box Tom nailed to the trunk. The squirrel jumps on a branch and nibbles the peanut. Tiger’s puffy tail swings like a pendulum on a clock, brushing the top of the bookshelf.

I can always rely on Tiger to distract me. Does he know what I’m going through? Cats have an amazing ability to detect when their humans are happy or sad.

The phone rings and I check the caller ID. The name of an agency I found in the Yellow Pages displays on the tiny screen.

Hi, this is Susan from The Write Stuff, a cheery voice says. Is this Cheryl?

It is.

I’m calling about a project you might be interested in. A project manager at Microsoft is looking for an indexer. I see that you have indexing experience on your résumé.

I do. My heart pounds faster.

I don’t have a lot of information yet, except it’s a contract for six months to start. Most of the assignments we have at Microsoft extend. Would you like me to send your résumé to him?

Yes, I’m interested. I’m trying to speak calmly and professionally, but my mind is turning cartwheels. What if I don’t get the job? What if I don’t have enough experience? And if I do get it…what will it be like to work again? Will it help with Tom’s edginess?

Great! I will send it to him today and follow up with you when I hear from him.

Do you mind my asking what happens after that? I’m new to contracting.

Not at all. If he’s interested, he will ask me to send you to Microsoft for an interview. He will make a decision after interviewing a few candidates. If you’re hired, we’ll have you come to our office to fill out the paperwork and we’ll schedule a start date.

As soon as we hang up, I say, Hey, Tiger, guess what? I got a job lead!

I peek through the doorway and see Tiger frozen on the windowsill, staring at the squirrel.

I dunk the mophead into the bucket of water, wring out as much water as I can, and swish and swirl the mop across the floor. What if this contract will be mine?

You’ve got it, my inner voice says. I’ve named her Charlotte after the wise spider in E.B. White’s famous story, Charlotte’s Web. The spider’s quick thinking of weaving complimentary words in her web saved a pig from becoming Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve admired her, although she’s a fictional character, from the time Miss Atkins, my sixth-grade teacher, read that book to the class. Every day after lunch, Miss Atkins read to us for an hour before we resumed our lessons.

My first encounter with inner voice Charlotte was at the age of ten, when my grandfather was admitted to the hospital after a doctor’s appointment earlier the same day. An uneasy feeling nagged at me and triggered thoughts that he’d never return home. He died three weeks later. Four years later, I began having dreams about finding my grandmother in distress somewhere and I couldn’t help her. A month after those dreams started, she died suddenly from a heart attack.

Both experiences were unnerving, but Charlotte’s revelations weren’t always tragic. When Tom and I started dating, she quickly encouraged me to take the plunge. I was wary at first because of my bad experiences with men. My first and only boyfriend before Tom dumped me to date a fourteen-year-old, who soon became pregnant with his child. During a second date with another man, he invited me to his apartment after dinner for coffee and spent the next forty-five minutes lecturing me about the importance of wives submitting to their husbands. I refused to see him after that. The other guys who scheduled dates stood me up. But Tom was always a gentleman and never broke a commitment. Charlotte reminded me every chance she could with, He’s the one.

I learned through these experiences and others that Charlotte is always right, but there are still times I either don’t believe her or don’t take her advice, and that gets me into trouble. Today is one of these days. I’ve been out of work long enough to be skeptical of her reassurance that I’ve got this contract at Microsoft. How can she know I’ll be hired? I don’t want to get my hopes up only to be disappointed if the contract falls through.

Despite my struggles believing Charlotte today, I can’t wait to tell Tom about the lead when he returns home from his sales route. He needs to hear some good news. Sharing bad news or no news every day is tiring for me, so surely hearing it is tiring for him, too.

I hear a thump against the glass in the living room and turn around to see Tiger land on the floor in front of the bookshelf on all four feet. He freezes for a few seconds with a stunned look on his face, then shakes himself from head to tail and strolls into the bedroom.

I chuckle, hoping Tiger doesn’t hear me. He forgot about the window again when he lunged at the squirrel.

Silly cat. He’ll never learn. I hope I’m better at seeing the clear boundaries in my life.

Tom arrives home at three-thirty, his usual time. His eyes look weary and his shoulders droop when he walks through the door from our enclosed back porch into the kitchen. I’m at the sink, washing the dishes I used to prepare dinner.

I kiss him on the cheek. How was your day? I ask. You look tired.

He frowns, then kisses me on the forehead. It was okay, he says in a sad voice.

It doesn’t sound like it was okay.

We go to the living room and sit on the couch, facing each other.

George called me. He was in a bad mood.

Again? He seems to be in bad moods a lot lately.

Yeah, he’s always complaining. Let’s talk about something else.

I have some good news. I got a call today about a contract at Microsoft. The recruiter said that it starts at six months but will probably extend. She sent my résumé to the hiring manager.

That’s nice, Tom says in a monotone. Usually he’s more excited about news like this.

Are you sure everything is okay? I ask.

It’s fine, he replies in the same monotone.

His voice doesn’t convince me that everything is fine. Maybe a tasty meal will help.

I’m baking a pork roast with the orange-raspberry glaze you like for dinner tonight, I say. It’ll be ready in a half hour.

That sounds good, but I’m not hungry. I’ll have some later.

Tom never turns down food.

Are you sure you’re okay?

He nods, but his face looks worried.

Let’s go for a drive tonight, he says. I want to check the cereal aisle at the Albertsons in Magnolia.

Maybe a drive will make him feel better, but I wonder why he wants to go to a store in his territory so late in the day. Why didn’t he do it earlier?

Tom changes his mind about skipping dinner after I pull the pork roast out of the oven, but he’s still distracted. We eat in silence. Usually we talk about what happened during the day or make plans for the weekend.

The silence continues while Tom clears the table and I wash the dishes. He dries them with a towel and puts them away.

As soon as we’re done, he asks, Are you ready?

I nod.

Let’s go.

He seems to be in a hurry. None of this makes sense to me, and I wonder whether something is seriously wrong.

I become more confused when we leave. Instead of taking the direct route from West Seattle to the Magnolia neighborhood, Tom roams a few back streets along the way.

Isn’t Tom in a hurry to go to that store? If not, why?

Tom is looking in the rearview mirror more often than usual. He continues focusing on the mirror until he parks the car in the Albertsons lot.

Stay here, he says. I’ll be back.

Tom strolls to the store and enters through the automatic doors at a casual pace. While I wait for him to return in the dark, empty parking lot, so many questions fly around in my head that I can’t answer: What’s happening? Why is Tom acting this way? Why was he in a hurry after we washed the dishes tonight but took his time to drive here? Why did he meander through West Seattle before heading over here? Why didn’t he rush into the store? Is he telling me everything about his problems at work? Has George threatened to fire Tom because Tom isn’t meeting his expectations?

Tom is one of the top salespeople in the Northwest, so I don’t understand why George would be unhappy about his performance. I don’t know if this is the real reason Tom is distracted and worried. I can only guess, but I don’t have any answers. I wish I did.

I feel helpless waiting in the dark, empty parking lot. If there’s anything I can do, I don’t know what it could be. The more I dwell on my confusion, the more frightened I become.

Tom returns to the car fifteen minutes later with a worried look on his face. He’s quiet while he drives out of the parking lot and turns onto the main road.

I don’t say anything. I decide it’s better to watch him and hopefully I can figure out what’s going on. If I talk to him, he probably won’t tell me anything. Whatever he’s going through, he doesn’t want me to know about it. But if he doesn’t want me to know, why did he ask me to go on this drive with him? Maybe he wants me to be near him, to keep him company.

As soon as we’re on the main road, Tom shifts his focus to the rearview mirror. We’re being followed, he says.

I turn around and see four cars with their lights shining behind us. Yes, they’re following us, but this is the only way to reach the closest highway through Seattle.

Don’t look, Tom says. They might see you.

How can they see me in the dark?

Tom doesn’t answer.

I turn around and start monitoring the mirror on the passenger door. The four cars stay behind us.

Tom maintains a close watch in the rearview mirror, fear gripping his face. He turns left at the next intersection. All the cars behind us pass, continuing their journeys toward the exit.

Where are we going? I ask.

Tom doesn’t respond. He’s watching the rearview mirror. No cars are behind us now.

All the roads we follow in this residential area are dark and empty, except for the occasional streetlight shining on the sidewalks or reflecting in puddles. Most of the lights in the houses are off because it’s late.

I’m scared. It’s hard for me to think. Even if I could think, I wouldn’t know what to do.

Twenty minutes later, Tom returns to the main road and resumes our journey home. The worried look fades from his face, but he’s still quiet. I think about asking him if he’s okay but decide to wait until he’s ready to talk. I don’t know how he’ll react.

As soon as we’re home, Tom sits at the small teak desk in the corner of our kitchen and dials into the company’s email server from the modem in his laptop. The modem hums, splutters, and screams while it connects. It’s silent while Tom downloads his messages, uploads replies to messages he received earlier, and logs off.

I sit on the couch and hope that Tom will talk to me after he finishes reading his new messages. I want to know what’s going on but don’t want to ask. Judging by my observations tonight, he won’t talk to me if I start asking questions. I don’t know if he’ll get angry if I persist. I feel so helpless because I don’t understand why Tom is behaving this way. This is not the same Tom I’ve known for so long. I don’t know where this new person came from.

Tiger jumps on the couch and curls into a ball next to me. I rub his head between his ears, and he starts purring softly. The more I rub, the louder he purrs. The sound comforts me.

Tom turns off the laptop, closes the lid, and goes to the bedroom. I hear him crawl into bed in the dark room. Usually we kiss and say good-night before going to bed.

He forgot about me. This hurts.

I stay on the couch, my thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion and fear, and rub Tiger.

Night Shift at the Ski Area

Massachusetts, January 2005

Across the hall from my cubicle, I see giant fluffy flakes falling outside the windows. At least another foot of snow has accumulated since I arrived at the office this morning. It’s now three-forty in the afternoon, and I just finished writing the last paragraph for the manual that’s due today. I save the chapter, compile a PDF for the administrative assistant to print for the training next week, back up the files on the network, and shut down my computer.

I leave here by four o’clock