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Your Thera-Me Team

Ugh.

Dear Dr. Raymond,

Exercise 2 is attached. I have a pressing issue, however, for which I need your advice immediately. I just lost the most important person in my adult life and I cannot cry. Is something wrong with me? I’m frozen. Please advise.

G.C.B.

I look over at the cake and decide to save it for breakfast. I pull the duvet and quilt up to my chin before turning out the light. Mrs. Cartegna promised to hold the apartment in Hoboken if I could drop off the deposit sometime next week.

I’m trying to pray in the dark when a ferocious wind kicks up outside; the gusts are so loud they rattle the cellar windows that overlook the lawn. I sit up in bed as the screen door to the outside blows open and swirls of fallen leaves blow into the cellar. Soon, I make out a figure in the doorway. The shape of the head and line of the shoulders, the musculature, all familiar. Bobby Bilancia doesn’t speak. He comes to my bed. In an instant, I look spectacular. My hair is shiny and smooth like I’ve been rolled over by a Zamboni. I’ve got smoky eyes, dewy skin, and moist lips. When I shudder, Bobby comes into my bed and holds me tightly until my temperature rises high enough to stop the shivers. I begin to sweat as though I’m hacking through brush in a sweltering jungle. The garden thermometer on the wall has a red line that rises to the top. The walls rattle and the bed shakes like the entire house is inside a blender onpulse. I can hear the swell of the ocean even though we are half a mile from the beach. The light of the full moon fills the cellar, which turns us pale blue, like Carrara marble.

Bobby scoops me up until we are standing next to the bed. There’s wind; the lights blast; the moon shimmers overhead. Now we’re on a dance floor under a tent, the last two guests at the party, except for the DJ, who plays music. The world has fallen away, and we don’t care; we don’t miss it.

Bobby’s hands rest on my hips as he kisses my neck on the way to my mouth. I close my eyes as his lips gently touch mine. I melt into him with a feeling of belonging, the best part of being married to him. He pushes my new, frizz-free, perfect-length bangs off my forehead. He likes the new haircut! I don’t hear the snap of the buttons as the top of my pajamas falls away, because they aren’t pajamas; I wear a pink chemise I wore to see Cirque du Soleil on our honeymoon in Las Vegas. Bobby kneels down and slips my feet out of the feathered mule slippers, tossing them over his shoulder. I’m wearing pajamas again! These pajamas are embroidered in a palm-leaf design, like the exotic wallpaper in Aunt Lil’s downstairs powder room. Bobby’s hands travel all over me as he undresses me. The heat from his touch creates an urgency as we make love. Why is the cellar screen door off its hinges? Why is the world shaking? Why the thunder and lightning but no rain?

I remove his tie and unbutton his shirt. I kiss his chest and undo his belt. He cradles me tightly before he places me on his bed. He trips and covers me with his body. We laugh but do not speak. I can’t speak. I cannot form words.

The light in the room dims. The moon must have gone behind the clouds, but inside, it’s just bright enough to see his eyes as he drinks me in. He kisses me with urgency before he pulls the coverlet down; I climb under it. The sheets are cool as he pulls me towardhim. I wrap around him with ease. He knows my body as his own; he knows how to please me. If only we could talk to each other! All the things I would say!

Bobby gently slides me on top of him, kisses me as though he has to make up for the time we’ve been apart. The bed begins to lift off the floor, like cake batter spilling over as it rises in the oven. I peer over the side as the mattress ascends. As Bobby kisses me, the bed lurches higher and higher toward the ceiling. Before we hit the ceiling, the bed stops. I slide off Bobby onto the mattress and cling to him. The cellar floor is miles away. I can’t breathe. He wraps around me like a silk rope. His body is pressed against mine. The bed bounces up and down. I pull the coverlet over Bobby and hold him close.

“Giuseppina!”

I wake up and open my eyes. “Ma?” I’m groggy and feel lost.

“You were having some dream.” My mother is fully made up while wearing her bathrobe. “Thrashing all around.” She picks up the uneaten cake and glass of milk from the table from the night before. “I’ll take this upstairs. We don’t want to get mice.”

I look down, relieved to see I am still wearing pajamas. I wrap the coverlet around me.

“We have the final viewing before the Mass at the church,” Connie says brightly as she descends the stairs wearing a black wool suit and Pappagallo flats.

“What are you doing here?” I get out of the bed.

“I told Ma to let you sleep, and then we almost forgot about you. What are you wearing to the funeral?”

“I’ll meet you upstairs,” Mom says, and goes.

Connie looks through my closet. “This is easy. Everything is black.”

“My hair.” I look in the mirror. It is sticking up like the rays ona monstrance. Or maybe that’s just the sun-kissed streaks seeking a light source. I pat down my new bangs and spray some curl enhancer, then realize it’s a bottle of bug spray.

“Ponytail,” Connie says. “When did you get bangs?”

Does anyone in my family ever look at me? I had the bangs at the viewing last night.

Connie holds up two clothing options for the funeral, a suit and the dress Lisa loaned me. “Which one? The dress?”

“I wore it last night.” More proof that no one looks at me. “I can’t breathe in it. I’ll wear the suit.”

“Mom won’t like that you’re in pants.”

“Really? I lost my best friend in the world, and I can’t mourn his passing in pants?”

Connie sits down on the edge of the bed. “Was Uncle Louie your best friend?” she asks sadly.

I nod.