On Second Thought
Page 78
“Are you kidding? Yikes!” Oh, the fun of juicy gossip! It reminded me of happier times with Paige. “Well, all the more reason to be careful with him. I imagine he has trust issues.”
“See? Excellent big-sister advice.” She finished her wine. “All right. I have to change and find some slutty shoes. And, uh, I might stay over at his place.”
My heart sank a little. I’d missed her, too. “Okay. Have fun.”
She must’ve picked up on something, because she said, “You want to do something tomorrow night? Just you and me, or maybe you and me and some friends?”
Hell, yes. I was tired of my own company. “Sure. I’d love to. I’ll invite a couple people from the grief group, okay? LuAnn is hilarious, and she could use a night away from her kids.”
“Super! We can have a party! Put this house to good use.” She gave me a hug, then clattered upstairs.
So. Just me and the dog tonight. That was fine. I could edit the pictures I’d taken today. Or read a book. Or clean the bathroom.
Or start to clear out Nathan’s clothes.
It had to be done sometime.
Ainsley left, and I ate my lonely soup at the counter, feeling a bit like a Dickensian orphan. “Please, sir, I want some more,” I said aloud. Ollie barked and wagged, so what the heck? I scooped him onto my lap and let him lick out the bowl.
There was still some soup in the pot, enough for another bowl, at least.
I dumped it down the drain.
No more bereavement food. I was sick of it.
It’s funny how time is measured after you’ve lost someone. Everything relates back to that second your life swerved. The calendar isn’t measured by the names of the months or seasons anymore, but by those significant dates. The day we met. The first time we kissed. The first dinner with his family. The anniversary of his death. The date of his funeral.
And every day takes you further from the time he was alive, slicing you with the razor-sharp realization that those days would never be celebrated again. Nathan’s birthday would come and go, year after year, but he’d never grow older. All the anniversaries we’d never have. It would’ve been our first, our third, our twenty-fifth. All those dates that held no meaning for anyone on the outside but were slashed into the hearts of those of us who’d been left behind.
In our group the other night, LuAnn talked about that first year, how she’d steeled herself for every first. “The three hundred and sixty-sixth day, though...things inside me, they just kinda relaxed, you know? Like I proved I could survive it, even when I never believed I could.”
Janette, whose husband had died of cancer on their anniversary, said it was the opposite for her. “Every month seems harder. All the things he’s missing. And here I am, pathetically getting older, wandering through life without him.”
“For me,” Leo said, “it was like a car was parked on my chest, crushing me, and even breathing hurt. Now it’s been almost three years. The car’s still there, but it’s moved off and made some room.”
“For Jenny,” I said.
“Yes.” He smiled. “For Jenny. And other people, too. My students. You guys.”
I still had such a long way to go, the newest in the group.
I refilled my wineglass and wandered into the study (or den). Maybe I’d look at those last photos of Nathan, still sitting in the Nikon on the shelf.
But what if I saw that he didn’t really love me? What would I do then?
And then...no matter what I saw in his face...I’d never have anything new of him again. As long as those photos were unseen, it felt like there was something left of Nathan still in the world.
“Not tonight, Hector,” I said. My fish swam amiably in his bowl. Still alive, still bucking the fishy odds of life expectancy.
I clicked on my computer. I had to erase pimples from a dozen high school seniors’ faces and put together a slide show for two sets of newlyweds. Ollie came in, dragging his ratty old blanket, made a nest on the floor and fell asleep, his soft little doggy snores keeping me company.
I adjusted light and smoothed skin and cropped relatives. It was easy work. Ah, here was a gorgeous shot—the bride was African American, in profile as she said her vows, a tear glistening on her cheek, echoing the diamond earring she wore, the contrast in her skin tone and dress stunning. I’d submit that one to a photography magazine. “Nice work, don’t you think, Hector?” I asked. I’d really been on my game last weekend. Good for me.
A knock slammed at the front door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Boomboomboomboom! Ollie leaped up, grabbed his blanket and went racing to the door, his barks muffled by fleece. I followed.
It was Daniel. And it was past nine.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I’m an uncle again!” he said, giving me a big hug. “Congratulate me! I was in the delivery room, which, believe me, was not on my bucket list, seeing my sister spread from east to west. I need some acid to wash out my eyes.” He let me go, grinning like an idiot. “Oh. Shouldn’t have hugged you. I have all sorts of fluids on me. I came right from the hospital.”
His happiness was contagious. “Oh, hell, it’s okay. Boy or girl?”
“Girl, and please God, she won’t be the little demon her sister is. Maisy Danielle—I totally earned that middle name, by the way, hauling my sister’s leg back so she could push, telling her she was amazing while trying not to look at her parts. Nine pounds, two ounces, head like a frickin’ moon. My sister won’t be able to walk for weeks.” He folded his brawny arms across his chest, still smiling. “Nice name, right?”
“Very nice. Congratulations, Uncle Dan. Come on. I might even have champagne somewhere.”
“I’ll take a beer. Actually, I’m kind of gross. A brother tends to sweat from every pore when his sister’s water breaks. In my truck, no less. Any chance I could take a shower first?”
He was clearly buzzed with adrenaline. “Sure, come on in. There are seven bathrooms in this house.”
“See this stain?” he said, pointing to his shirt. “It’s blood. How gross is that? And I don’t even want to think what this is.” He continued to talk as I led him upstairs. “She was a champ, though, my sis. Hardly yelled at all. Then my mom got there, and she was all irritated that she missed the drama, but it was Jane’s fourth, you know? The kid slid out like a greased otter. We barely made it to the hospital. I think she pushed five times.”
I led him down the hall to one of the unused bedrooms. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in here, but it was clean, vacuum marks still on the rug, a splotchy painting on the wall.
Strange, that there were rooms in my house I didn’t go in.
Daniel opened the door to the bathroom. “Wow. This is bigger than my apartment.”
Yeah, it was a little on the obscene side. Tasteful, sure, but enormous. Nathan had deemed white and glass bathrooms very “last decade,” and so this one was made out of dark wood and soapstone. One side of the room had a counter with double sinks, elaborate lighting above, below and alongside the counter, as well as four live orchids. Someone was keeping them alive, Ainsley or the cleaning service. There was the toilet room (with bidet, which, being American, I found creepy). A giant tub with water jets, and, in the far corner, the shower, hidden by a wall of smoked gray glass.
“See? Excellent big-sister advice.” She finished her wine. “All right. I have to change and find some slutty shoes. And, uh, I might stay over at his place.”
My heart sank a little. I’d missed her, too. “Okay. Have fun.”
She must’ve picked up on something, because she said, “You want to do something tomorrow night? Just you and me, or maybe you and me and some friends?”
Hell, yes. I was tired of my own company. “Sure. I’d love to. I’ll invite a couple people from the grief group, okay? LuAnn is hilarious, and she could use a night away from her kids.”
“Super! We can have a party! Put this house to good use.” She gave me a hug, then clattered upstairs.
So. Just me and the dog tonight. That was fine. I could edit the pictures I’d taken today. Or read a book. Or clean the bathroom.
Or start to clear out Nathan’s clothes.
It had to be done sometime.
Ainsley left, and I ate my lonely soup at the counter, feeling a bit like a Dickensian orphan. “Please, sir, I want some more,” I said aloud. Ollie barked and wagged, so what the heck? I scooped him onto my lap and let him lick out the bowl.
There was still some soup in the pot, enough for another bowl, at least.
I dumped it down the drain.
No more bereavement food. I was sick of it.
It’s funny how time is measured after you’ve lost someone. Everything relates back to that second your life swerved. The calendar isn’t measured by the names of the months or seasons anymore, but by those significant dates. The day we met. The first time we kissed. The first dinner with his family. The anniversary of his death. The date of his funeral.
And every day takes you further from the time he was alive, slicing you with the razor-sharp realization that those days would never be celebrated again. Nathan’s birthday would come and go, year after year, but he’d never grow older. All the anniversaries we’d never have. It would’ve been our first, our third, our twenty-fifth. All those dates that held no meaning for anyone on the outside but were slashed into the hearts of those of us who’d been left behind.
In our group the other night, LuAnn talked about that first year, how she’d steeled herself for every first. “The three hundred and sixty-sixth day, though...things inside me, they just kinda relaxed, you know? Like I proved I could survive it, even when I never believed I could.”
Janette, whose husband had died of cancer on their anniversary, said it was the opposite for her. “Every month seems harder. All the things he’s missing. And here I am, pathetically getting older, wandering through life without him.”
“For me,” Leo said, “it was like a car was parked on my chest, crushing me, and even breathing hurt. Now it’s been almost three years. The car’s still there, but it’s moved off and made some room.”
“For Jenny,” I said.
“Yes.” He smiled. “For Jenny. And other people, too. My students. You guys.”
I still had such a long way to go, the newest in the group.
I refilled my wineglass and wandered into the study (or den). Maybe I’d look at those last photos of Nathan, still sitting in the Nikon on the shelf.
But what if I saw that he didn’t really love me? What would I do then?
And then...no matter what I saw in his face...I’d never have anything new of him again. As long as those photos were unseen, it felt like there was something left of Nathan still in the world.
“Not tonight, Hector,” I said. My fish swam amiably in his bowl. Still alive, still bucking the fishy odds of life expectancy.
I clicked on my computer. I had to erase pimples from a dozen high school seniors’ faces and put together a slide show for two sets of newlyweds. Ollie came in, dragging his ratty old blanket, made a nest on the floor and fell asleep, his soft little doggy snores keeping me company.
I adjusted light and smoothed skin and cropped relatives. It was easy work. Ah, here was a gorgeous shot—the bride was African American, in profile as she said her vows, a tear glistening on her cheek, echoing the diamond earring she wore, the contrast in her skin tone and dress stunning. I’d submit that one to a photography magazine. “Nice work, don’t you think, Hector?” I asked. I’d really been on my game last weekend. Good for me.
A knock slammed at the front door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Boomboomboomboom! Ollie leaped up, grabbed his blanket and went racing to the door, his barks muffled by fleece. I followed.
It was Daniel. And it was past nine.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“I’m an uncle again!” he said, giving me a big hug. “Congratulate me! I was in the delivery room, which, believe me, was not on my bucket list, seeing my sister spread from east to west. I need some acid to wash out my eyes.” He let me go, grinning like an idiot. “Oh. Shouldn’t have hugged you. I have all sorts of fluids on me. I came right from the hospital.”
His happiness was contagious. “Oh, hell, it’s okay. Boy or girl?”
“Girl, and please God, she won’t be the little demon her sister is. Maisy Danielle—I totally earned that middle name, by the way, hauling my sister’s leg back so she could push, telling her she was amazing while trying not to look at her parts. Nine pounds, two ounces, head like a frickin’ moon. My sister won’t be able to walk for weeks.” He folded his brawny arms across his chest, still smiling. “Nice name, right?”
“Very nice. Congratulations, Uncle Dan. Come on. I might even have champagne somewhere.”
“I’ll take a beer. Actually, I’m kind of gross. A brother tends to sweat from every pore when his sister’s water breaks. In my truck, no less. Any chance I could take a shower first?”
He was clearly buzzed with adrenaline. “Sure, come on in. There are seven bathrooms in this house.”
“See this stain?” he said, pointing to his shirt. “It’s blood. How gross is that? And I don’t even want to think what this is.” He continued to talk as I led him upstairs. “She was a champ, though, my sis. Hardly yelled at all. Then my mom got there, and she was all irritated that she missed the drama, but it was Jane’s fourth, you know? The kid slid out like a greased otter. We barely made it to the hospital. I think she pushed five times.”
I led him down the hall to one of the unused bedrooms. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in here, but it was clean, vacuum marks still on the rug, a splotchy painting on the wall.
Strange, that there were rooms in my house I didn’t go in.
Daniel opened the door to the bathroom. “Wow. This is bigger than my apartment.”
Yeah, it was a little on the obscene side. Tasteful, sure, but enormous. Nathan had deemed white and glass bathrooms very “last decade,” and so this one was made out of dark wood and soapstone. One side of the room had a counter with double sinks, elaborate lighting above, below and alongside the counter, as well as four live orchids. Someone was keeping them alive, Ainsley or the cleaning service. There was the toilet room (with bidet, which, being American, I found creepy). A giant tub with water jets, and, in the far corner, the shower, hidden by a wall of smoked gray glass.
