The Whitney Chronicles by Judy Baer

Author:Judy Baer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Steeple Hill
Published: 2004-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

November 12

Every day is another spiral downward for Kim. The harder she tries to pull herself out, the lower she feels because nothing is working. I’m on the sidelines watching someone I love fall inch by inch into a deep well and feel helpless to rescue her. Occasionally she’s able to grab on to something and fight her way to the top of the pit, but she hasn’t the strength to hang on. Then she tumbles even deeper into the abyss.

I keep throwing her lifelines to take hold of, and sometimes they check her fall for a little while.

“Hey, Kimber! Want to run?” I stood on her doorstep, jogging in place. I’d pulled my hair into a whale spout on top of my head and slipped into my exercise clothes after work. I felt the way I had as a child, knocking on doors and hoping to find someone to come out and play.

Kim opened the door and stared out at me as if I were a complete stranger. The house was so dark behind her—curtains pulled and lights off—that she blinked and had to squint at me to see my face.

“Maybe tomorrow. It’s too cold today.”

“How about now? You’ve got on sweats and tennis shoes. Grab a coat. Just a spin around the block?” She didn’t have Wesley as an excuse to say no. Kurt told me that because Kim was sleeping so much, he’d started taking Wesley to the grandma-lady down the block for part of the day. That Kim hadn’t protested spoke volumes.

“I don’t think…”

I don’t delude myself into thinking I know how she feels, but I do know one thing—she’s usually more upbeat after a run than before. “You’ll feel better. You always do. I’m not leaving until you run.” I’ve become accustomed to her resistance.

She sighed as if greatly put upon, grabbing her sunglasses off the foyer table. “You are a pest, Whitney Blake.”

I grinned and set off at a slow jog. We didn’t talk much except for some desultory chatter about the office. Otherwise we just plowed along, making our way through the now-familiar route of park, lakeside and road. Our course was four miles from the time we left Kim’s to the time we returned. It usually took her that long to shake off the melancholy and invite me inside for something to drink.

“Better?” I panted, seated at her kitchen table, holding a glass of water with both hands.

“A little.” She gave me an owl-like glare and then turned her gaze to her hands. “Betty called today. She asked how I was, but I think she really wanted to know when I’ll be coming back to work.”

“Oh?” I’ve learned to be noncommittal with Kim. No prodding, no judgments—she has plenty of those on her own.

“While I was talking to her, it was as if a big cage dropped from the sky and trapped me. I feel as though I’m smothering when I think of going back to the office.”

“Then don’t feel obligated. You have sick leave coming.

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