LIFE ON THE OUTSIDE
I WAS DISCHARGED the following Monday. After tearful farewells to all the nurses, orderlies, and other patients, I took the bus downtown to the rooming house that would be my home for the next three-and-a-half years.
My room was small, but cozy. A brand-new mattress was on the bed and a La-Z-Boy rocker sat in the corner by the window. My closet was full with all the clothes my father had purchased for me.
There were five other rooms for rent in this house and that night, at dinner, I met the occupants. Three were young men, interns at the hospital, and two were women, slightly older than me. The girls were nursing students from the local college who were doing rotations in pediatrics at the hospital. They would only stay a few months and would rapidly be replaced by other members of the medical community.
I had my first driving lesson that evening and found I took to it readily. I scheduled lessons every evening for the next two weeks and was rewarded by passing both the road and written test on the first try. A milestone reached: I had my driver’s license.
I started work at the children’s hospital shortly after that. For the first week, I shadowed one of the experienced ward clerks, watching and learning the fundamentals of the job. The second week, I was on my own, assigned to the oncology unit. It was my responsibility to ensure that all the patient records were properly completed and made readily available for doctors and other staff members. I also had to interact with our patients’ moms and dads when their kids were first admitted to the unit. This was the hardest part of the job for me since I had become rather reticent and guarded from my years in the psychiatric hospital. However, I forced myself to act more outgoing and pleasant, pasting a fake smile on my face, and was rewarded when my demeanor was often commented on positively by our clients.
At home, I was cordial with the other renters, but, for the most part, I stayed to myself. On weeknights, I came home right after work and, after supper, I would retire to my room to read or write in my journal.
On weekends, if I wasn’t on call, I often took off in my little car, exploring the city and surrounding countryside. On one such excursion, I visited the town of Salem and happened upon a small, local bookstore. It was beginning to rain and I slipped inside to avoid getting a soaking.
I spent some time perusing the bestsellers, then moved over to an area labelled “Local New England Authors.” Scanning the stacks, something caught my eye. It was a novel and when I read the title, my heart began to pound: Letters to Andi by Jake Chambers.
At this point, I’d been out of the hospital about a year and often wondered what path Jake had finally taken. I knew he’d majored in English in college, but what he’d planned to do with that degree, was a mystery to me. I’d cut off our communication before he’d made up his mind.
I pulled the book from the shelf and, slowly, ran my hands over the cover. It was almost as if I could feel him . . . see him hunched over the typewriter, sending one last letter to me.
I choked back tears as I walked to the register, the book clutched tightly in my hand. The rain was beginning to let up and, once outside, I made my way to the parking lot. Seated in my car, I pulled the novel from the bookstore’s paper bag.
The picture on the front cover was of a girl, her back to the camera, sitting on a rock overlooking the sea. Her hair, a mass of bright auburn curls, floated about her head as if dancing in a summer breeze.
I turned the book over. On the back, was a picture of the young man I had once loved.
With tears sliding down my cheeks, I opened to the first page and began to read.
That book became my bible, along with the stack of letters Jake had written to me over the years. My therapy continued with my new doctor and, while I was functioning pretty normally in the outside world, there were times when an errant memory would surface and I would be plunged back into a sea of self-loathing and despair. When that happened, I’d lock myself in my room and read Jake’s novel and/or the letters which transported me out of myself to another place and time—a time when I was full of hope and happiness.
These episodes of darkness came less frequently now, but, just in case, I always kept either the book or one of his letters in my purse for protection.
After a year and a half working on the oncology unit, I was promoted to senior ward clerk. Around the same time, a new intern rented a room at my boarding house.
He was from North Carolina and was just beginning an internship in pediatrics at my hospital. He was tall and thin, his elbows and knees jutting out at odd angles, resembling, in my mind, a comic book stork. But he had a kindly smile and a quick, dry sense of humor that softened his edges and made him more attractive. Surprisingly, I found myself drawn to him. His name was Don Whitcomb and in three years’ time, he would become my husband.
His courtship of me began shortly after he’d arrived. No matter where I was in the house, he seemed to be there, too. If I were washing dishes, he’d come up alongside me, offering to dry. Or, if I were vacuuming, he’d grab a dish towel and offer to dust.
His behavior was also evident at work. Even though, as a first-year intern, he had little spare time, he always found a moment to stop at my desk to chat or bring me a cup of coffee or cocoa.
At first, I thought nothing of it, assuming he was just lonely. But it wasn’t long before the other hospital staff started whispering and giggling whenever he passed my desk.
Curious as to their behavior, I finally asked one of the nurses with whom I was friends what was going on.
“So, what’s the deal? Why does everyone start snickering whenever Dr. Whitcomb comes on the ward?”
She laughed. “Don’t you know?”
I shook my head.
She smiled and put her arm around my shoulders. “He’s got a crush on you, silly. I’m surprised you can’t see it. It’s so obvious. He’s totally smitten.”
I blushed. “Are you kidding me? Me?”
“Yes, you. And he’s not the only one. A couple of the other docs have asked about you, too. Dr. Don, however, is not as good at hiding his feelings. He looks at you like a lost puppy. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you out yet.”
I thought about that for a moment, realizing he had asked me out, but I hadn’t interpreted it that way. I’d thought of him only as a pal, not a lover, and, thus, saw his overtures as friendly, not romantic.
I started to say something to that effect to my friend, but our conversation was cut short by one of the senior attendings asking for information about a patient admitted that afternoon.
Later that evening, I started to look at Don with new eyes and, in the following months, we began to spend more time together.
It wasn’t overtly romantic. I still wasn’t sure I wanted to venture down that path with him or anyone. However, I found we both enjoyed many of the same things: books, noir movies from the thirties and forties, long walks in the woods or at the beach, and quiet evenings in front of the fireplace.
On weekends, when he wasn’t on call, we drove around the countryside, going to barn sales and exploring small out-of-the-way shops and cafes. I enjoyed his company and over the next year we became fast friends.
But it was inevitable that things would change. I knew he was falling in love with me and, for my part, I was becoming increasingly dependent upon him.
Things came to a head when he was approaching the third and final year of his residency. He would soon be a board-certified pediatrician and his tenure at the hospital here would be over.
“I’m going to apply for a fellowship in Pediatric Infectious Disease,” he told me one afternoon when we were having tea at a small cafe in town.
“Here?” I asked, my voice hopeful.
He sighed. “I’m afraid not, Andrea. I want to return home. I’ll be applying at Duke and UNC at Chapel Hill. Of course, I’ll have back-ups, but Duke’s my first choice.”
“Oh,” I replied, feeling strangely disappointed.
Minutes dragged by as we silently sipped our tea until, finally, he reached over and took my hand in his.
“You could come with me,” he said.
I choked on my tea and sputtered. “What?”
“Just what I said. You could come with me. I . . . gosh, Andrea, don’t you know? I’m crazy about you. I have been since the day I met you.”
I stared at him, speechless.
“I love you, Andrea,” he said softly. “I want to marry you.”
Shocked by his proposal, I pulled my hand away from his. “You . . . you don’t know anything about me. How can you want to marry me? We’ve never even . . . .”
“I know, I know,” he said, again taking my hand. “But, believe me, I’ve wanted to. But I know you’ve . . . you’ve been through something . . . been hurt. I never want to force myself on you. I want to protect you . . . take care of you.”
Not knowing what to say or how I felt about his declaration, I looked away from him, down at my hand, still held tightly in his.
“You don’t have to say anything now,” he said. “Just think about it. We’ve got plenty of time. Nothing has to be rushed.”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll think about it. But, let’s take it slow.”
“That’s fine,” he laughed. “Remember that old adage about the turtle and the hare, ‘slow and steady wins the race?’ Well, like I said, we’ve got plenty of time. My fellowship is over a year away.”
He leaned forward and kissed me chastely. “I love you, Andrea. I won’t rush. Now, I think we’d better get going. I’m on call tonight.”
He signaled to the waitress for the check and, as he paid our bill, I studied him. I did care for him and had grown to depend on him. But did I love him? I knew there were times when I longed for someone to be with . . . someone to hold me . . . but was Don the one I wanted?
When we got home, he kissed me again at the door to my room then left for the hospital. I sank down into my easy chair, still in a state of shock. A man had just asked me to marry him—me, the most unlovable girl in the world. It was a lot to wrap my head around.
I thought about calling Dr. Slavin, whom I had come to rely on when I felt anxious or stressed, but decided against it. I would be seeing her in a few days anyway for our weekly appointment. Instead, I took a hot shower, crawled under the covers, and reached for Jake’s novel. I’d already read it dozens of times but it always served to soothe me.
When I’d bought it, I’d assumed from the title, he’d written about that summer, about us. But it turned out the novel was something quite different.
It was the story of a young man told through the letters he wrote to an imaginary girl and it followed him from adolescence through his twilight years. It was deeply moving and beautifully written and I loved that Jake had used my name for the elusive heroine.
I read for a while, then put the book aside and let my mind wander, remembering how safe and warm I’d felt lying in Jake’s arms at Preacher’s Cove. Would I ever feel that way about Don? And, what had I just agreed to? Had my reluctant acceptance made Don think we were, sort of, engaged?
Mulling that over in my mind, I found myself unable to sleep, so I got up and made a cup of tea.
Don was a good man: kind, patient, and gentle. And I did care for him. But was that enough? I didn’t know.
I glanced at the clock as I sipped my beverage. It was two a.m. and I had to be up for work at five. Not wanting to think anymore, I again picked up Jake’s book and let myself be carried away to another place. After all, as Don had said, there was plenty of time before I had to make a decision.
For the next few weeks, Don continued to court me. He sent flowers, bought me candy, and did all those romantic things that most girls only dream about. While I was still uneasy about our relationship, I have to admit I enjoyed the attention and found myself falling under his spell.
At the hospital, my co-workers giggled and whispered when Don stopped at my desk to chat. And if that wasn’t enough, the other residents and attendings began to treat me with a sort of deference and respect. I guess I was no longer just a redheaded ward clerk. I was Dr. Don’s girl and, might be, in the future, a faculty wife.
I talked about all this with my doctor, trying to make sense of the mixed feelings I had. On one hand, I was happier than I’d been since the summer of ’65, before everything went to hell in a handbasket. But, was I kidding myself and—even worse—kidding Don?
Dr. Slavin listened, then counseled me not to be so hard on myself.
“Enjoy, Andrea, enjoy,” she said. “After what you’ve been through, you deserve this happiness. Relax and let it play out. You know, you might find that this guy’s the real deal—a ‘keeper.’ Don’t toss him away because you feel guilty. You deserve this and more. Okay?”
I laughed and told her I would try, but my guilt at not loving him enough was not the biggest worry on my mind. No, the thing I fretted most about was what, if anything, should I tell him about my past?
He knew I’d been hospitalized for a while and that I was seeing a shrink. But he didn’t know why and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be ready to tell him or anyone.
Another month passed and I found I was getting more and more comfortable with Don and the thought of us being a “couple.” The holidays were approaching and, ever since I’d been released from the psych ward, I’d spent Christmas with my dad in California. I looked forward to these visits, not only because it gave me time to get reacquainted with my father, but because I loved walking the beach and relaxing in the California sunshine. I also was becoming good friends with my father’s girlfriend, Rebecca. She was the antithesis of Sherry.
She was older, close to my father’s age, and worked as a commercial artist in downtown L.A. She had a sharp mind and took no crap from anyone, my dad included. We got along from the start and I looked forward to seeing her.
But Don had other plans.
We were sitting in the living room at the rooming house, watching television, when he suddenly turned the set off.
“Why did you do that?” I asked. “I was watching that.”
“Andrea, we have to talk.”
He looked serious, so I turned to face him.
“Fine. What about?”
“Have you made your reservations for California yet?”
I frowned, puzzled. “No. I was going to do that next week. Why?”
“Well, I know you go every year, but this year I’d like you to consider an alternative.”
“What do you mean?”
“My parents would like to meet you and I think it’s time you met them. They’ve asked me to bring you home with me for the holidays . . . Christmas and New Year’s.”
I sat silent. The thought of meeting his parents frightened me.
“But my dad’s expecting me,” I finally said.
“I know, but we can go see him for spring break or something. Andrea, I really need you to come with me. Please say ‘yes.’”
He looked so serious; I began to feel guilty about being hesitant. How bad could it really be? His parents were just people after all.
I took a deep breath. “Let me talk to my dad. If he’s okay with it, then, yes, I’ll go with you. Okay?”
Don smiled enthusiastically. “Great! You’ll love North Carolina and Mom and Dad always go all out at Christmas. I can’t wait to tell them.”
“Whoa! I said I have to talk to my dad first. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Okay, I know; but it’s going to work out. I can feel it.”
He was right. My father thought it was a splendid idea for me to get to know Don’s parents and we made plans to delay our yearly get-together until spring.
Don and I flew down to North Carolina two days before Christmas. He surprised me by booking us seats in first class. We were about a half-hour into the flight when he turned to me, taking my hand.
“Andrea,” he said. “This is it.”
“This is what?”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box and opened it.
“Andrea Martin, will you marry me?”
I stared at the diamond solitaire he was holding, flabbergasted.
“What? Why are you doing this here?” I blurted out.
He laughed. “Because this is one place you can’t run away from me. The seat belt sign is on. You’re a captive audience and we’ve got about an hour and a half to go before we land. I figure I can wear you down by then.”
I just stared at him, my mind in turmoil.
“I love you, Andrea,” he said, suddenly serious. “And I want to spend my life with you by my side.”
I gazed up into his eyes then back down to the ring, taking a deep breath.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll marry you.”
He exhaled and removed the ring from the box. “God, that was easier than I thought it would be.”
He took my hand in his and placed the ring on my finger. The couple sitting across the aisle watched the whole thing and when I raised my hand to gaze at it, they began applauding.
“Get these folks some champagne,” the man said in a loud voice to the stewardess who was making her way down the aisle. “They just got engaged.”
With that announcement, everyone began clapping. The stewardess, grinning broadly, brought us a bottle of bubbly and placed it, along with two glasses, on the tray table in front of us.
“Congratulations,” she said. “This bottle of champagne is on the captain.”
Don’s father met us at the airport and I could see immediately the family resemblance. Like Don, Roger was tall and thin, his chestnut-colored hair thinning and sprinkled with gray. He greeted me warmly, giving me a hug.
“So good to finally meet you, Andrea,” he said. “Don’s told us all about you, but I think you’re even prettier than he described.”
I blushed. “Thanks, Mr. Whitcomb,” I replied. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Tsk, tsk,” he clucked, lacing his arm in mine. “You call me Roger or Dad. Whichever makes you more comfortable.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Thanks, Roger.”
He nodded and then looked down at my hand, catching sight of the sparkling diamond on my finger.
He turned to his son, smiling, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I see you did it!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations! This is going to be a Christmas to remember.”
He shook Don’s hand and then hugged me again. “Welcome to the family,” he said. “Now, let’s get ourselves down to baggage claim. Betty’s waiting in the car. She hates airports. Don’t know why, but she doesn’t want to set foot in them.”
While I liked his father immediately, Don’s mother was something else. She was, indeed, waiting in the car, but when we approached she got out and hugged Don fiercely.
“Look at you,” she drawled. “My baby boy, now a big-time doctor. I’m so glad you’re coming home to practice next year. We’ve missed you so.”
She went on talking to Don for a few minutes while Roger loaded the bags into the trunk. I was ignored.
Finally, she turned to me, a reluctant smile on her face. “And you must be Andrea. So nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Pleased to meet you, too,” I responded, suddenly wishing I’d stuck to my original plans and gone to California to be with my dad.
“Don, honey,” she crooned. “You sit in the back with me. We have so much to catch up on. Andrea can sit in the front with Dad.”
“Sure, Mom,” he said, giving me an apologetic smile as I slipped into the front seat.
Roger got in behind the wheel and before turning on the ignition, looked over his shoulder. “Did you get a gander at that rock on Andrea’s hand, Mother? Looks like you’re going to have a wedding to plan.”
The look of shock on her face was almost laughable. But she quickly recovered.
“Well, congratulations, you two,” she said, then turned to her husband.
“Roger, stop at the party store on the way home and pick up some champagne. We’ll need to make a toast.”
We planned the wedding for early June since Don was scheduled to start his fellowship in July. For our honeymoon, Don’s parents loaned us their condominium in Daytona Beach, Florida. After ten days in the sun, it would be off to Chapel Hill, North Carolina to begin our married life.
Florida made me a little nervous. My mother’s parents lived there, albeit further south. They never tried to contact me after I was institutionalized and I never sought them out after I was discharged. I longed to talk to someone about my fears, but there was no one I could trust. If Don had known I had relatives not far from our honeymoon abode, I worried that he would insist we contact them. Thus, I kept my mouth shut and buried my concerns deep along with all the other remnants from my past.
But it was not the location of the honeymoon alone that worried me. In agreeing to marry Don, I had made a hasty decision and was not entirely sure this was the path I wanted to take. But he was a good man and he loved me and, somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt this was more than I deserved.
As the wedding approached, I finally told Don an abbreviated version of the events that led to my years of incarceration at the psychiatric hospital. I didn’t overtly lie, but I didn’t tell the whole truth either. I made the abuse sound more mental than physical, afraid that if he knew what really happened, he would never look at me in quite the same way again.
He accepted the tale I told him, but questioned my need to continue seeing a psychiatrist.
“Honey,” he said. “You’re about the sanest person I know. You don’t need all that mumbo jumbo anymore. And anyway, you have me now. Anytime you feel down or upset, you come to me. Okay?”
I tried to argue with him, knowing that my visits with Dr. Slavin were important, but he was adamant, so I finally gave in. Time was at a premium what with work and planning the wedding. And, I knew I would have to stop seeing her soon anyway when we moved to Chapel Hill.
The wedding was a lavish affair, fully funded by my father who walked me proudly down the aisle. After the reception, we were off for Florida, spending our wedding night in a motel just off the interstate.
It was our first time sharing a bed. We had fooled around—kissing, touching—but never actually made love. I was nervous . . . it would be my first time since that one night on the beach with Jake. Don was also nervous . . . he was a virgin and I was to be his one and only girl.
A comedy of errors, we got through it okay, and, while it wasn’t skyrockets and the Fourth of July, it was nice . . . and we both felt safe and warm.
Afterward, we settled down in our new, rented home. It was the first time since I had been a young girl that I had a home of my own, complete with backyard and patio. Don didn’t want me to work, but I insisted, and easily found a job as a secretary at the hospital.
We were a year into his fellowship when I discovered I was pregnant. At first, I had misgivings about it. How could I, the girl that nobody wanted, become a loving mother for a helpless child? My own mother had been a disaster and I worried that, once I gave birth, some sort of genetic defect would kick in. I thought long and hard about stopping it before it really got started. After all, I worked in the medical world . . . I knew it could be taken care of safely.
But, in the end, I accepted it, not grudgingly, but willingly. Don was ecstatic and I wallowed in the joy of my pregnancy, morning sickness and all.
After I passed my first trimester, Don insisted that I retire to become a full-time wife and mother. This time I didn’t object. I was so in love with the alien creature that was growing inside me, I wanted to spend all my time talking to it, singing to it, and just plain adoring it.
Finally, Don, Jr. came screaming into the world and, for once, I felt complete.
The years following his birth were happy ones. Don worked long hours and wasn’t home much, but that didn’t seem to matter. Only occasionally during that period did the darkness seek me out, bringing with it my two old companions, guilt and shame. At those times, I retreated to our attic where, secreted in a corner under the eaves, was a box labeled “Books.”
When I was sure I was alone, I would open the box and retrieve from under a pile of old paperbacks a stack of letters tied together with a red ribbon . . . letters from Jake.
Holding them in my lap, I’d read them . . . sometimes aloud . . . sometimes silently. And I would continue reading until the pounding of my heart slowed and the panic that engulfed me lessened. Only these letters could do that for me. Nothing else. No pills, no shrinks . . . only words . . . words written by a boy I once loved.
He saved my life countless times. He was the one guidepost I had . . . the one that kept me bound to this earth . . . the one that kept me sane.
My life assumed a new pattern after Don Jr.’s birth, a pattern that was not wholly unpleasant. My husband, highly regarded in the medical community, was often away at meetings, presenting one paper or another. I became his surrogate, a faculty wife, supporting him when I could and taking care of our home and child.
I accepted this . . . it was my life. That is, it was until earlier this year when Don came home and announced that he had been offered a position in the Division of Infectious Disease at Children’s Hospital in Cincinnati. Along with this prestigious appointment came something he coveted even more, an assistant professorship. He was elated and paced around the room, relating the details of his conversation with the dean of the medical school there. He told me we would be moving in September and gave me the card of a real estate agent to contact about finding us a home.
When he finally finished, I looked at him incredulously.
“Ohio? Cincinnati is in Ohio, isn’t it?”
Don laughed. “Of course it is. And don’t say ‘Ohio’ like it’s a dirty word. It’s a great place. You’ll love it.”
“But there isn’t any water near it. No shore. It’s landlocked. It’s the Midwest, for God’s sake.”
“Now you’re being silly. What about the Great Lakes? They’re close by.”
“Lakes,” I said, derisively. “Big, old, flat puddles of water. Not like the ocean at all. We can drive to the Atlantic from here. We won’t be able to that in Ohio.”
He took a deep breath, trying to control his confusion and anger at my response.
“Honey, positions like this don’t come along every day. And, it’ll mean a real boost in pay. Maybe we can start thinking about making a little brother or sister for Donny. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“In Ohio?” I replied sarcastically.
He pursed his lips, obviously trying to suppress his irritation. “Okay, Andrea. Enough. We’re moving. Get used to it. We’ll talk about it in detail later when you’re in a more rational mood. Now, I’ve got some reading to do. Call me when supper’s ready.”
Without another word, he left the room, leaving me standing with my mouth open.
I tried to broach the subject again later, after dinner, but there was no reasoning with him. He had made up his mind. We were moving—end of story.
As a result, the next few days were cold ones in our house, the two of us barely speaking. Finally, resigning myself to the inevitable, I half-heartedly called the Ohio real estate agent and asked him to send me listings of available homes near the hospital.
When Don saw the advertisements the agent sent sitting on the coffee table in our living room, he was visibly relieved. He kissed me soundly, reiterating again how much I was going to like Ohio. I shrugged my shoulders, noncommittal. Then, he suggested we take a long vacation the summer before we moved . . . a vacation I assumed was to be my reward for being a good and dutiful wife. Needless to say, this rankled me.
“I’ll be finished here by June,” he said. “We really haven’t had a proper vacation in years. We could take June and July and just loaf. Maybe we could use my folks’ place in Florida or, if you’d like, go on a cruise. What do you think?”
I was silent for a moment, then walked over to my desk, pulling open a drawer and taking out a brochure.
“How about an island off the coast of Maine?” I asked, handing it to him.
Surprised, he looked at it. “A cottage? On the ocean? On an island?”
“Yes,” I said patiently. “It’s on the water. Supposed to be very cozy and picturesque. A place we can relax and forget about the rest of the world.”
Don chuckled. “Hmmm, I can almost see it: You and me in front of a blazing fire, listening to the sound of the waves pounding the shore . . . kind of romantic?”
“Yes, it would be,” I said, smiling. “More romantic than that condo in Florida and much more romantic than some dumb cruise where we might both end up getting seasick. Think about it: fresh lobster any time we wanted it, and we could dig our own clams. And, another plus: the island has a golf course so you can still play every day if you want.”
“Sounds good. Cutter Island. Where did you hear about this place?”
I couldn’t look at him and flat-out lie. So, I decided to tell a half-truth.
“My family spent a week there when I was just a little kid. I read something about the place in a travel magazine a couple of months ago and, as a lark, inquired about lodgings there. They send me that brochure. So, what do you think?”
He took a minute, reading the details about the cottage and the island, and then smiled at me.
“Let’s do it. You call and see if we can rent the place from mid-June to mid-July. We could take a few extra days and drive up . . . take the coastal route so you can get your fill of water before we move to landlocked Cincinnati.”
I grinned back at him and kissed him on the cheek. “Okay, I’ll call tomorrow.”
And, that’s how we got to Cutter. Rationally, I knew the odds were slim to none that I’d bump into Jake. I knew from his book jackets that he lived in California, was married, and had a couple of kids. But, still, I’d hoped.