Dear Betty:

Last night, I dreamt I still lived in the big house in Fox Chapel. I was methodically cleaning every room, just like I did before Roy left me, before I lost Charlie. When I got to Charlie's room, I was afraid to open the door. Inside the room, though, I heard someone moaning. I was scared, but thrilled to think I would soon see Charlie's face. When I opened the door, a river of blood poured out.

What can this mean?

Your friend,

Kate

Dear Betty:

On one of those shows I cannot stop watching, a woman with bright orange hair and purple glasses told the audience that we had to go to our bedroom, light a candle, take off our clothes, and accept our bodies.

I got as far as my shirt and my shoes before my knees began to ache and I had to sit down.

I am 64 years old outside of my body, but inside, I feel young. You could see that.

But Roy wanted something, someone, who was the same inside and out.

I walk the streets where I was young and pretty once and the men look right through me. I am invisible to them. The younger women pretend not to see me, pretend that I am not their future.

I look back at the older women, and pray that I will not suffer.

Dear Betty:

Today I went to the Rite-Aid to pick up a prescription. I won't tell you for what because you always thought illness was boring. "Skip the details, Kate."

So I'll skip them.

Lentil soup was on sale. The kind we used to heat up and drink in my little garden. So I stood in line, the weight of the cans finally forcing me to put the basket down. The line was long, and there was a single clerk there who hadn't been trained on the register. So I picked up a People magazine to pass the time. I don't know half their names, but I like the inspirational stories.

And then I saw Him in the magazine. "The ratfucking bastard," you liked to say. How did you manage to be a corporate wife with that salty tongue, Betty? What gave you the gumption? Roy--the ratfucking bastard---was always hissing at me to keep quiet, not rock the boat, shut up. I guess that was the difference between you and me.

Then I saw Her. Roy's....new wife. The line moved forward, and I moved with it, but I was really in another world, reading this chirpy story about "the CEO and his fabulous family...." And a picture of Roy beaming at Elizabitch, as you called her, and her just barely rounded tummy.

The story went on to talk about Roy and his new career as a clean energy baron, how he was becoming the Bill Gates of power, how before he came West, he'd revolutionized IronTek in Pittsburgh. I looked in vain for my face, my name. Roy never mentioned me, so neither did the reporter.

30 years of marriage, erased.

I wanted to die.

And then, when I got to the register, I discovered I'd forgotten my purse.

I wished I could have vanished on the spot.

And soon I will.

I miss you so much.

Kate

Dear Betty:

Oprah said this would help.

Oprah was wrong.

It's been a year since I buried you, and I still expect to get a phone call from you. "Kate," you'll squawk, "Get the hell out of the house. Don't let the bastard get you down! Let's go shopping."

It was easy enough, after you'd died, to imagine that you were actually on one of those fabled trips to Brazil that you wouldn't tell me about because I was too Catholic. To imagine that you'd come back with a lot of sun baked into your smile, and a present I would never wear because...well, because I was too Catholic.

But it is a year now, and I know that we are never going to go to Florida together to flirt with the old geezers you told me all wanted you. We are never going to go to Venice, and close our eyes and listen to the endless chorus of footsteps. All because a doctor thought you were too old to matter.

I am still waiting for this writing to help me. In the meantime, I'll try gin.

Your friend,

Kate