Page 24 of Even After This
I can remember a thousand incidents for which I want to apologize to my late husband. My biggest guilt comes from the energy I wasted criticizing Steve for the mundane. None of my grumbling complaints matter now.
Who cares if he wanted to wear his grandfather’s old, worn, plaid shirts?
Who cares if he didn’t cut the apples for Clayton’s lunches the “right” way?
Who cares if he missed the turn to the highway for the seventy-fifth time and we added three whole minutes to our drive time?
None of it matters today.
It shouldn’t have mattered then.
Our marriage wasn’t perfect. It was perfectly normal. Two flawed people deciding to do life together. Ten years that weren’t always easy but held a lot of wonderful times.
Steve died, and there are no regrets about where our relationship ended. We said everything there was to say. Our goodbye is our legacy of respect for one another, the love we showed by serving each other, and the efforts we made in our purposeful parenting. That knowledge has to be enough because I wasn’t afforded a chance to say the word “goodbye” to him.
Something that only took me a few years of therapy to believe and accept.
Elbow pressed to the window, chin resting in my palm, I watch the clouds race our car to the mountains.Steve,I know. I know it was all so stupid. I know how amazing you were. I get it.
I get it now.
I hate that I get it now.
Prissy’s talk about her speeding tickets truce is a reminder.It justdoesn’t matter.
I sense Prissy’s scrutiny as she slows to turn right on a county road. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
Reaching for my purse, I weigh my words. “My brain is jumbled.”
She maneuvers the car to a stop and shifts into park. Her hair doesn’t move when she pulls off her sunglasses to reveal understanding eyes that seem to be waiting for my reply.
I angle my body toward her and plop my purse on my lap. “Steve is at the forefront of my mind today, and I can’t figure out why.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Is it necessary to figure out why?”
“For me, yes.” I toss my hair over my shoulder and let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sad today, which catapults me into guilt over not feeling sad today, which catapults me into anxiety.”
She remains silent, and I shake my head. “No, that’s not it. I’m always sad he isn’t here. But today I don’t miss him.”
I sit in those uncomfortable words for a beat.
“Yes,” I murmur to myself. “That’s it. I’m sad he’s not here, but I don’t miss him, which catapults me into guilt, which catapults me into anxiety.”
Prissy clears her throat in a way that sounds almost judgmental. “Could this have something to do with a certain Hercules?”
I’m too young to know what a hot flash feels like, but I’m guessing what I’m feeling now must be similar because my face is on fire. “You’re ridiculous.”
Tap,tap,tap.Her pristine index fingernail sounds like a gavelcalling our meeting to order. “Did you or did you not go to dinner with him and his friends last night?”
Wait a minute. “What? Why would you know that?”
“The Broadmoor is like a small town. The doormen gossip like girls. News travels fast.”
I blow out an unladylike breath. “Okay, fine. Yes. We ate a very benign dinner. Pizza, for goodness’ sake. There is no way some guy from Hollywood is interested in me.”
She pauses and stares, long enough for discomfort to crawl through my nerve endings. “Do you have an open mind?”
With theatrical flair, I lean forward and put my head on the dash in protest. “Prissy, I do not want to talk about Harlan Holcombe.”
