Page 24 of A Lot Like Lavender

But I also learned, early on, that I had to get up each morning and be present for our daughter. A friend and sister to Dinah. A business owner. Then later, a PTA parent. A community member. A functional person. I had to keep going through the fog of grief, as impossible as it was.

I’ve lived longer now without James than I ever did with him, and naturally that pain has morphed, over the years, into something more like longing and a deep sadness, I’d guess only fellow widows would understand. I’m sad for Molly. For myself. And for the world, because he was really just the best man. But that sadness has ebbed and flowed into something different with time.

So, I don’t actually feel like I’m buried with repressed grief. Like I’ll just implode with the weight of it all at any moment. No, I’m really just terrified to revisit that grief and of even the thought of ever feeling the sting of unbearable loss or hopelessness again. I couldn’t survive it for a third time.

Studying Pam’s deep breaths, knowing she’s in a transition I can’t save her from, all those early days ofwhat ifshave naturally returned.

What if I’d known it was James’ last day? Would I have catalogued every sentence he said? Every touch and kiss and smile?

On his last night on this earth, we bickered about how to load the dishwasher. James rubbed my swollen ankles while we watched reruns ofThe Office. I complained about pregnancy aches, insisted he feel the baby in my belly who never seemed to sit still, and I tearfully admitted how hard it was to experience my first pregnancy without my mom. James drew me a bath, insisted I relax while he fed the girls, mucked the stalls, and came in early because he was feeling dizzy. We drank sweet tea on the porch, dreamed about what it would be like when our daughter finally arrived, and went to bed exhausted but happy. Content. Hopeful.

I wonder often what I would have done if I’d had some sign that we’d go to bed that night and James wouldn’t wake up in the morning? Try as I might, I’m finding it harder to remember the cadence of his voice as he soothed my worries about motherhood. Or the sound of his laugh during his favorite show, echoing off our living room walls. Or his warmth that night, holding me as I fell asleep.

“Dinah, I—” I search for a simple way to tell Dinah what I’m feeling without the weight of how much I need her by my side falling onto her shoulders. “I’m not ready to lose her. I can’t do it.”

Again.Is what I don’t say.Now. This month. Ever.

She takes my hand in hers. “Oh, Em. I know.” Tears fill her eyes, a vulnerability she’s never quick to hide. “I will be right here every step of the way. You are not alone.”

We both look at the alpaca sleeping under the window. Dinah wraps an arm around my waist, lets her temple rest against mine, and whispers, “When she does go, Em, it willbe knowing how loved she is and how very charmed her life has been with you. She won’t have any doubts.”

“Think so?”

“Oh yeah,” she whispers, making me feel like I’m the little sister, desperate for reassurance. Dinah sniffles, nodding her head against mine. “I know so. You’ve got so much love in your heart and in your home, Emory Nelson. No one could leave this place, this earth, and feel otherwise.” We clearly aren’t talking about Pamela anymore.

And shoot. I’m not going to avoid crying this time.

My eyes are misty, Lola giggles at something she finds hilarious in the room, and Dinah and I are suddenly hugging and weeping into each other’s necks with her between us for what feels like our now annual, cathartic, emotional breakdown. A real treat. My therapist will be thrilled.

Until Molly trots into the room withDr. Eyewearon her heels.

“Mama, can Jordan stay for dinner?” She holds his hand like he’s her newest friend and she’s desperate for a playdate. To his credit, Jordan does look as if he was coerced into the house and mouths,sorry,when he realizes he’s obviously interrupting something. “We were fixin’ the fence, but Jordan?—”

“Dr. Love,” I interrupt, wiping my cheeks quickly, and clearly setting a boundary for my child’s attachment, which she promptly ignores as she looks up and winks at him.

“Dr. Amor,” she corrects.

“Glad to see those Spanish immersion classes at school are really paying off, Molly Dolly,” Dinah says, wiping her eyes and poorly hiding her grin before pulling the man in question in for a hug. “Hello, Dr. Love.”

“Dinah Belle, it’s so good to see you,” he croons,obviously pleased to see her. “You grew up… and gave me a way better greeting than your sister.”

“Oh”—she pats his cheek good naturely, though there’s a bit of a spicy snap against his skin I can’t say that I hate—“there’s still time, Jordan. As long as you don’t, ya know, disappear for ten years.”

He pulls away, taking her admonishment in stride, and looks at me when he says, “I’m here to stay,” as if I might actually believe he’s not full of empty promises if he keeps repeating them. He rubs his fingers against Lola’s chubby hand. “So, who is this little beauty? The newest Knot girl?”

Lola smiles wide and holds out her arms, all but throwing herself into Jordan’s hands. He takes her willingly, albeit with awkwardness, but finds his footing with my niece as quickly as he did with my daughter. Worming his way into her easily-won heart with words of affirmation.

“You’re so pretty. Another Lil’ Red. Oh, look at those teefies… I bet you’re just as strong and bold as the rest of the Knot women.”

It’s not an attractive look for him. Not. One. Bit.

But, the other females in the room are enamored.

“Do you wash your hands regularly?” my sister blurts out.

“With soapandwater,” Jordan answers. The smile he shoots my sister is so genuine and familiar, I forget to be angry with him for a moment.

She’s pleased, indeed, with this response, announcing proudly, “Lola is a Jones, actually. And I’m married to Jack Jones. He wears glasses, too, so…”