Page 23 of From This Moment (After We Fall 4)
Margot and the other servers swung into the kitchen again, and we got busy with new orders, which left us less time to talk. But what she’d said made sense—as did what Wes said. Maybe the best way to drive home that Wes was not Drew was to let him in, not shut him out. Maybe keeping him at a distance would only feed Abby’s hopeful confusion. Maybe what we really needed was more time together, not less.
But just to make sure, I called Tess on my way home from work. Of all the women in my widow support group, I felt the closest to her, maybe because our journeys were the most similar. We also shared a therapist, which was how both of us found the group, and we often called each other to agonize or celebrate a particularly difficult session.
Tess listened to my side of the story, murmuring sympathetically and assuring me my reactions were totally understandable.
“Even wanting to pretend he was Drew just to feel his arms around me?” I asked doubtfully.
“Totally. It would be understandable even if you didn’t want to pretend he was Drew, and just wanted to feel a man’s arms around you!” she cried. “My God, look what I did with the tree man. Sometimes you just want that. Not love, not a relationship, not a date, but arms. Chest. Shoulders. Skin. Stubble. Muscle. The smell of a man. The solidity of him. Remember how those things used to make us feel?”
Did I? “Vaguely.”
“Well, it’s okay to want them again. To want to feel that way again—taken care of. That’s all you needed. It had nothing to do with him being Drew’s brother.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but I went with it. “Right.”
“And I think he’s right about letting him into your lives,” she went on. “It’s like Exposure Therapy. Remember that shit?
“Ugh, yes. It was so hard.” Exposure therapy involved us sort of deconstructing the event of our husbands’
deaths, facing all of our fears and anxieties about it. It was excruciatingly painful, and I wasn’t entirely sure it had worked for me, since I still had boatloads of anxiety, but after those sessions, I’d at least been able to get off the pills I’d been taking to cope.
“So I think this could be like that for you and Abby. Stare that fucker down. Look him in the eye and tell yourself, ‘This is not my husband because my husband is gone. This is his brother and he is going to be part of our lives from now on.’”
“Okay. I’ll try. Thanks, Tess.”
“You’re welcome. Of course, fuck if I really have any answers, I’m feeling my way just like you are.”
“I know you are. How’s the weekend going for you?” Weekends were always tough for widowed people. If we got invitations at all, we felt like the fifth wheel, the odd man out, the third person on a bicycle built for two. It’s one of the reasons I liked my job—it kept me busy on weekends.
“It’s okay. Kids will be back tomorrow, so I’m doing all the laundry and cleaning. Boring stuff.”
“Want to come to the beach with us this afternoon? I’m sure it would be okay.”
“No, no. I’m fine, really. I’m getting to the point where I can enjoy a little solitude again.”
“Good. Call if you need anything.”
“Same. Have fun today.”
We hung up, and I took a quick detour to the grocery store to get the ingredients I’d need for the potato salad. I didn’t want to show up empty-handed today, although sometimes with Lenore it was hard to tell if she was more put out when I brought something for the table or when I didn’t. Inside the store, I filled a small hand-held basket with what I needed along with a bottle of wine, and got in one of the long lines to check out. Holiday weekends were always busy.
“Hannah? Is that you, dear?”
I turned and saw my mother-in-law behind me. “Oh hi, Lenore.” Dutifully, I left my place in line and went to kiss her cheek.
“Is Abby with you?” she asked, looking around.
“No, she’s with the sitter. I just got off work, and I wanted to pick up a few things to bring to the house later.”
Lenore clucked her tongue. “You don’t have to bring a thing, dear! We’re just so glad you and Abby are coming over.”
“It’s just a curried potato salad,” I said, shrugging it off.
“My, that sounds exotic. I’ve never cared for curry myself.”
I forced a smile. “No?”
“No, my family always preferred good old-fashioned American potato salad.”
