The Last Time I Was Me. Cathy Lamb

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      Rosvita’s house was not far off the main street. It was painted light blue with white trim. Flowers tumbled from boxes at each window. The yard was huge with a rolling expanse of grass, a few old fir trees, and a gated garden that was high on flowers. She guided me to the backyard and down some steps to the river. The river water was pure and rippling, trees towering on either side, the sunlight dancing off each crest.

      We stood in silence for a moment as I breathed. I still needed a scotch, but the quiet rush of the river was de-sizzling my overheated mind.

      Rosvita abruptly sat down and crossed her legs into a yoga position.

      What the heck. I sat, crossed my legs, palmed my hands. We breathed in and out together and, after about a half hour, we headed back to the bed-and-breakfast. The parlor was lush and cheerful, stuffed full of comfy furniture, about six different lamps with funky lamp shades, several plants, and a ton of books. On closer inspection, I noted that all the books had something to do with diseases.

      Current diseases.

      Past diseases.

      Jungle diseases.

      Diseases during wars and famine.

      Diseases pioneers suffered from on the Oregon Trail.

      I paid her before I had even seen my room.

      “It’s a super place for me to indulge in my nervous breakdown,” I told Rosvita.

      She didn’t blink an eye as she took off her gloves and placed them neatly in a white box lined with lace. “I’m pleased to hear it. You go ahead and do your flipping out and I’ll make sure that it stays quiet around here for you and your nervous breakdown. And clean. It’s clean here.”

      “Thank you, Rosvita. But so that you are fully informed-my nerves are in tatters; my psyche has been ground to pieces in a mental garbage disposal; and my emotions have been through a meat slicer. I cry easily, although I have made serious efforts not to cry for the last twelve years. I am prone to embarrassing outbursts. I have recently made rash and wild decisions, but have yet to regret any of them. I have found that I have a vindictive and vengeful side and am pleased to welcome it into the fold of my other personality characteristics. I am simply,” I told her, “not altogether.”

      There was silence for a moment as we pondered this.

      “Well,” said Rosvita. “If you can gather up your tattered nerves, your shredded garbage-disposal psyche, and your meat-sliced emotions, I can take you upstairs to your room, where you can further your nervous breakdown.” She spun on her cowboy boot heels and headed up the stairs. She reminded me of Tuscany and flamenco dancers and cotton balls. I followed her.

      If there is a room in heaven that is light blue and pristine white, it would look like this room. The bed had a spread that was fluffy and white with a white lace canopy fluttering in the breeze overhead and at least eight blue and white pillows. There was also two white wicker nightstands, each topped with a lamp with a frilly blue-flowered shade, and a white wicker desk and dresser. Charming.

      French doors opened to a deck which overlooked the Salmon River. I could hear the river gurgling and burbling, the fir trees making their wind-whistling noise. I thanked her and she left, patting my arm gently. “Nervous breakdowns are challenging mental diseases,” she said. “Call me if you need me.”

      I grabbed a bottle of scotch out of my suitcase and had a few drinks. To christen my bed of blue heaven, I decided to pull a pillow over my head and cry.

      And cry.

      And cry some more.

      And this is what I learned on that bed of blue heaven: When you live your life trying never to cry, when the tears finally bust through, they make a real wet mess.

      I put the scotch on the nightstand. I was gonna need it.

      CHAPTER 3

      For the next several days, I strolled along the river and told it my problems while drinking the very best wine I could find at the local store. It was made in the Willamette Valley vineyards. When I could walk no farther, I stumbled to a rock, sat down with my wine, stuck my feet in the water, and cried until I felt my guts were about ready to spring forth.

      When I could manage to stand without bursting into another round of tears, I toddled my way back to my bed of blue heaven room. That became my routine: Walk. Drink. Cry. Pass out.

      When I woke up on the fifth day, I called Roy. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. I decided to have a scotch. He reminded me of my court date. I agreed to show up.

      He told me how much money Ex-Asshole wanted.

      “That is a lot of money,” I mused, swirling the ice in my glass. “But I have to say it was worth it.”

      My lawyer, Roy Sass, laughed. “I’m sure it was, honey.”

      After my townhome and furniture were sold and the money added to my savings, I knew I would have an impressive chunk of money. As a workaholic who made a large salary, and a naturally frugal person, except for buying mammoth amounts of shoes, money was one СКАЧАТЬ