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"She's Not There" by Kate Geiselman

Short Story and Poetry Winners

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Winning Adult Short Story Entry Updated 7:51 PM Saturday, May 29, 2010

The dime-sized hole in the knee of the counselor’s khakis was slightly frayed around the edges. It was not a fresh tear recently sustained in a fall on the icy sidewalk or clumsily snagged on the sharp corner of a metal desk; no, it had been through several washings, that much was certain. So distracted was Liz by the sight of this hole, wondering about what kind of woman would wear such tired garments to tend to the business of mending relationships, that she could barely hear her husband next to her as he wondered aloud to this stranger what had happened to her. What had he done wrong?

The answer, of course, was nothing. He never did anything wrong.

“Liz, what do you hear when Jason asks that question?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“What do you hear when Jason asks what he has done wrong?”

Liz had to resist rolling her eyes: “He’s really saying he didn’t do anything wrong. He knows he didn’t, and so do you. Isn’t that passive aggression? Can we just move past this question and can you please tell me what you want from me now? Go ahead. I’m listening. Go ahead you bloody cow with your ratty pants and Reeboks. Tell me.”

But she didn’t say that. She just stared at the hole again, and at the pale, slightly stubbly skin of the counselor’s legs showing above her ankle socks. The office was tiny and dark, the tired Berber carpet permanently grungy in front of the sagging Herculon couch she shared with her husband of almost 20 years. The first thing she had noticed when entering the room was the box of Kleenex on the woodgrain Formica end table. She had never been to a counselor before, but here were all the trappings. Apparently it was customary, even expected, to sit here and weep. This was normal behavior when one’s relationship was in tatters, but Liz hadn’t felt normal for a very long time. She was tired of watching Jason’s hangdog expression when he asked her over and over again what had made her leave. “What do you want that you don’t have? If I was such a terrible husband, why didn’t you tell me?”

But he wasn’t a terrible husband. He ironed his own shirts, coached the soccer team, did the dishes, cooked once in awhile. He was far more patient with the kids than she. He spent weekends working around the house or in the yard, not golfing or watching football as she knew he would have preferred. He skipped his daily run once in awhile to volunteer at the homeless shelter. He was good looking and a good lover, a great date at a party. The list went on and on, and she knew it by heart. She had recited this litany of blessings to herself night after night as she lay beside him, hoping it would crowd out the paralyzing boredom that threatened to swallow her whole.

Some nights, this worked. Other times, a competing list invaded her thoughts. She remembered the time when her printer broke just as she had a project due, and he had refused to let her use the one at his office because it was against corporate policy. How self-righteous he had been when he found a pack of cigarettes stashed in her nightstand after she promised she had quit. His affinity for chain restaurants and love of John Grisham novels. Even his affection seemed like a burden on nights when she was so tired from kids and laundry and tedium she could not have mustered up an interest in sex if her life had depended on it.

“It’s okay, honey. I know you’re tired. Let’s just skip it tonight,” he’d say, and open his paperback, denying himself pleasure because she could not summon up her own.

“It’s not his fault,” Liz finally said. “I know that.”

“So you blame yourself?” the doughy woman asked.

Liz looked at the counselor for the first time since she had sat down, unable to remember her name. A pen was poised over her clipboard, waiting to check a box.

“Who else is there to blame?”

“That’s not really an answer, is it?”

Liz looked up. “Go to hell.”

“God, Liz, what’s wrong with you?” Jason stared at her as though he’d never seen her before. “Jesus Christ. Could you at least pretend to be here?”

But that was just the problem: she couldn’t. She was gone. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to come back.

The first time she had left was a month before. The house had started to feel cluttered and worn as it always did after the holidays. She had sat down at her desk in the kitchen, shoving aside to make room for her keyboard a basket overflowing with detritus: cafeteria lunch menus, hockey camp brochures, unmailed Christmas thank you notes, empty jewel cases, a flash drive, a folder full of medical receipts, a box of stationery, a newspaper clipping, a school district calendar, two school directories, a list of props needed for the winter play, an overdue DVD from the library, the rough draft of a homework paper, the course catalog for Woodrow High School, and countless writing instruments — only half of which were fully functional. This mountain of obligation and trivia — this pile that shifted and grew and shrank with the seasons, suddenly filled her with despair. She had stared at it for a full five minutes, frozen with vague dread, of what, she had no idea.

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“She’s Not There” by Kate Geiselman, 44, of Oakwood, is the winning entry in the adult short story category in the 14th annual Dayton Daily News/Antioch Writers’ Workshop Short Story and Poetry Contest. The category is for writers 19 years old and older. The runners-up in this category are: Bill Steinmetz by “Juanita’s Casserole” and Janet Irvin by “A Way To Get There.” The Antioch Writers’ Workshop (AWW) is providing prizes for the contest’s top writers. Visit the AWW website — www.antiochwritersworkshop.com — to read more of this year’s winning work. Congratulations to all, and thanks to all of the writers from across the Miami Valley who entered the contest this year.

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