Page 64 of Even After This
“Hey, baby.” I sniff. “I need to tell you something.”
This time I want to borrow Steve to be my friend. And then, I negotiate again, I will send him back.
I exhale. “Stanley’s been calling a lot lately. I think he might have feelings for me.” I can almost catch Steve’s laughter in the wind. “Stop making fun. You always said he had a crush on me.”
My words and the smile on my face must make me appear odd. I’m glad the ducks are my only companions today.
I drop one of my hands, pick at some grass, and start a pile of blades. “The thing is, Steve, I might have ... met someone.” I shake my head. “I don’t think anything will happen with him. But I ... I guess I needed to say it out loud to you.” Tears prick my eyes, and my chin wobbles. “I know you would want me to be happy.”
I hate grief. It toys with your logic and has its way with the playground of your sanity. It feels like I’m breaking the family up to find someone new. I know it’s not logical. I know it’s not true. But my feelings vacillate between reality and distortion. I want off the seesaw.
I repeat the earlier truth to myself. He would want me to be happy.
“You’d love this part. He’s a celebrity.” My unseeing gaze aims at the birds swimming toward me. All I can picture is what Steve’s reply would have been. “You don’t need to remind me about Rachael Ray’s book-signing debacle. I agree. I can’t do famous people.”
One of the ducks rises from the water and ruffles his wings in a grand gesture I can only assume is agreement. If only they knew.
After the Apple store, I gave up ignoring Harlan’s messages. Not that there have been many. I don’t know why I’m dragging out the inevitable, but when Harlan texts me, I text back simple replies.
He’s left me two voicemails. One last week, filled with exhaustion and talk of something unexpected that came up. The other a few days ago, garbled and left while he was sitting on an airportrunway. “Hey, you might be good at Skee-Ball, but you are terrible at phone tag. That was a lame joke. So, we’re about to take off and my phone is dying. I accidentally packed my charger in my checked luggage ... Man, I really want to talk to you ... This isn’t how I wanted to do this. Okay. Take care of yourself.”
This isn’t how I wanted to do this.
That felt confusingly final. Which leads me to say to my husband’s grave, “None of this matters. He’s not interested in me.” My fingers dig into the bald spot I created on the ground. “But someday someone will be. And I want to thank you for loving me well.” The words are almost indistinguishable through my tears. “I won’t settle for anything less.”
My gaze hits his name, and I sigh.
The wind blows my grass pile away.
On my stomach again, I press my face to Steve’s chest, grab hold of Clayton’s and Chloe’s hands, and breathe in as I embrace my family. “I love you guys.”
Arriving at my house, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus. As I insert the key into my door, I spot dirt shoved into the beds of my fingernails. I glance down to confirm the additional green and brown marks of earth covering my sweatshirt and jeans. A wave of satisfaction washes over me.
Somehow the stains on my body and clothes legitimize today’s grief. I stared it in the face, honored it, got dirty with my efforts, and came out on the other side. When I leave the cemetery with a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil I’m in, my pain is validated.
I realize my shoes are muddy—another affirmation—and toe them off to dry on the porch. As I scoot them aside with my foot, something stops them.
A package.
Wow. I’m so out of it, I almost missed the delivery altogether.
I pick up the brown box, open the door, and enter my house. After I throw my purse on the red bench, I make a beeline for my bedroom. I grab my favorite pair of worn-out UT sweatpants off the top of my hamper and change into them. There’s a slim hole next to the monogrammedUandT. Upon noticing this one day, Molly burst out laughing and deemed these my UTI pants.
Molly.
I heave a sigh. She’s called a few times today. My phone’s now in my purse. I’ll text her later.
The closest shirt, also on my hamper, is a long-sleeve gray Henley. My arms protest with exhaustion as I drag my soiled top off and pull on the cleaner-but-not-clean replacement.
I climb up on the bed with the grace of an elephant and sit cross-legged with my back against the headboard. Turning my head to study the postal box on the table, I wonder if I have enough life left in me to open it.
With my last morsel of energy, I pull scissors out of my bedside table drawer and run the sharp edge down the sides of the package. When I unfold the top, I find a white card with handwritten red block letters resting on tissue paper.
Meredith—I’m not going to send you flowers, as if those could make you feel better. Instead I hope you can wrap yourself in this blanket and take some comfort. I hate that you have to go through today. I am thinking of you, sweetheart. Harlan.
As I read the words, a solitary tear, the last piece of emotion I can expend today, escapes down my cheek.
Drawing the delicate pink tissue paper open, I uncover a treasure. I skim the palm of my hand over the exposed layer of velvety fabric, the deep color of the predawn ocean.
