40. Forty
Forty
LENA
D ot’s voice cuts through a strange haze between nightmare and reality. “Lena, I can’t wake her.”
“What?”
“Aunt Barb. I can’t wake her.”
I sit up, pushing the throw blanket off me.
I’m on the couch in their living room. Cherry sleeps in the recliner beside me, curled in another throw.
The dogs cuddle by the unlit fireplace. Jaye’s probably in the guest room.
Grayness seeps in through the curtained windows.
It takes me a minute to remember that it’s Sunday morning, Ruthie’s with Ben, and I crashed here last night.
Mrs. Moore went to bed around nine. “Too tired for any more fun,” she said with a laugh. “But you girls carry on for me.”
Now, I stare down at her in the dim light of her bedroom. She wears a floral print nightgown, her crocheted duvet tucked up over her chest where her hands rest, knotted together. She’s as peaceful as I’ve ever seen her.
I reach for her pulse—her hand is cold. I feel nothing beneath her soft skin. Dot awaits my verdict in anguish. All I can do is pull her to me with one hand and call nine-one-one with the other.
The next call I make when I’m able is Ben. He answers on the first ring. “Lena, everything okay?”
“It’s Mrs. Moore.” My voice cracks and sounds childlike. “She… passed away in her sleep last night.”
“Lena… I’m sorry,” he says with a ragged sigh. “Are you okay? What can I do?”
“Keep Ruthie until I can come pick her up? Dot needs help with the arrangements, and I don’t know how long that’ll take.”
“Of course. Want me to tell Ruthie?”
More tears. “Um, no. Have you told her about us yet?”
“No.”
“Don’t, please. It’s too much. Not with this…” My voice trails off as tears take over, imagining how sad Ruthie will be about her Aunt Barb. “I shouldn’t have put that on you, anyway. When the time comes, we’ll talk to her together.”
“Lena—”
“Just give her a good day, like you planned. I’ll break the news when I pick her up.”
“When you get here, we’ll tell her together.”
“Okay.”
“Is there anything I can do for you? I-I… want to help.”
Sobs break through the last of my seams. I’m flooded with smart-ass answers, but all that comes out is a weak “I have to go” before I hang up.
The next hours pass in a haze. Consoling Dot as she cries. Meeting with the funeral home. Discovering, much to our surprise—not surprised—that Mrs. Moore made her arrangements, from the flowers to the guest book. This, of course, makes Dot break down again. But truly, it’s a miracle.
No one wants to pick out caskets and burial plots for someone they love.
Dot, Cherry, and I spend hours on Aunt Barb’s front porch. We share memories. We discuss details. But the most important thing is that we’re together, absorbing the truth. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back.
Jaye shows up early in the afternoon with catered food. She seems almost as upset as Dot, tearfully grabbing onto her like they’re each others’ life preserver. “You okay? I need you to be okay.”
Dot nods. And Cherry and I witness the most amazing thing—a first kiss.
Born from sadness and despair, but also love.
Jaye edges into Dot like she can’t help it—primal and necessary.
Cherry and I both gasp from the sidelines at their tangle of lips and love.
It’s what I’ve always hoped for her. Love as I’ve known it. Love—pure and simple.
And it makes me miss Ben.
Then, I feel wrong for missing him, like what he’s done should’ve instantly turned me to the Dark Side. No love. Only hate. But that’s not what I feel.
He texts me. I’m taking Ruthie home. Meet us there when you’re able.
That doesn’t happen until after dinner. The dogs and I find Ruthie and Ben snuggled on the couch, watching TV. The kitchen is clean. I hear the washing machine rumbling in the background and hope it’s Ruthie’s dresses. It feels almost normal.
Ben flips the TV off when I come in, and I take my usual side of the couch. I tell Ruthie what’s happened, nearly breaking when her bottom lip quivers and she bursts into tears. Ben holds her to his chest while she cries and pulls me toward him, too.
“Aunt Barb’s in heaven with Grandma Ruth now?” Ruthie whimpers.
“Yep. Best friends forever,” I say from the other side of Ben’s chest, our tears pooling on his t-shirt.
“Everyone dies, Ruthie,” he says into the air between us, “and we’ll miss her. But we can honor her by being brave and living fully like she did.”
My hand grips his like a lifeline as the tears flow. I’m grateful that he had the right words because I don’t.
Ruthie cries herself to sleep, and soon, Ben carries her into bed. She tucks in with barely a murmur.
Nothing tires like grief.
We reenter the living room. I’m exhausted and weak, totally spent. All I want is to crawl into bed and bury my face in the pillow. His pillow, if I’m honest. That I haven’t washed and still barely smells of his aftershave.
Ben stands by the kitchen island, looking unsure.
“Thanks for bringing her home,” I say, “and doing that with me.”
He nods as I lean against the counter opposite him. “Whatever you need.”
“She went peacefully in her sleep. That’s all anyone can hope for, really,” I say, the words avalanching from my mouth. “I should’ve known it was coming. She told me she loved me last night… between asking if I’d remembered to check the mail and if I thought Dot and Jaye would make it.”
“What’d you say?”
“Yes, I remembered the mail. Yes, Dot and Jaye will make it. And yes, I loved her, too. She also said… Loving is losing, eventually. Didn’t know she’d provide the evidence so soon, not that I needed proof.”
He looks unsure. “I’m sorry, Lena.”
“Me, too,” and then feeling bad about my jab, I add, “You were her favorite opponent in cards.”
He looks shocked. “Really? You think so?”
“She said so. Best poker face ever,” I grin, “and best strategist.”
He smiles—the first I’ve seen in so long that it hurts. “That means a lot… and thanks for not shutting me out.”
“I’ll never shut you out, Ben. Ruthie needs you. I… ”
Tears flow again as if my body’s sprung leaks that won’t be stopped.
I want to beg him to stay, to ask my usual question, but knowing he doesn’t want to and what he’s done, it’d only make me feel more pathetic.
This is how he wants it—hands off, feelings off, on to someone else.
Sadness tugs at my weaknesses like a sweater about to be undone.
“You should go,” I manage.
“If you need anything, let me know. I mean it,” he says, slow and stern. Then, he leaves.
The days blur together like a hazy sunset.
Dot’s estranged family reaches out, curious about the will, and I steer her through that drama like a captain, ready to go down with the ship.
We were relieved, but again, not surprised, to discover that Mrs. Moore left Dot everything—her beautiful farmhouse, everything inside it, and even her cute MINI Cooper.
Both having cried ourselves out, we sit through social calls and death details in numb stupors—zombie women.
I mourn her and my marriage together like they’re a packaged deal.
I mourn Mom again, too. She put the pieces of me back together after my last marriage failed.
She’s not here to puzzle me together this time.
I take care of Dot and Ruthie as best I can. In quiet moments, I bake and ride—the same joys that got me through Mom’s death.
My cast comes off in a quiet appointment with Dr. Rob Riley.
He spends five minutes with me while my head spins with anxiety.
Does he know? Do all the Rileys know? Are the Rileys giving themselves high fives and back pats over Lauren and Ben’s reconciliation?
Rob doesn’t say anything, but my imagination feeds my anxiety bitches plenty of material.
Ben doesn’t show up to my appointment this time.
He texts often to see how I am, even on days we’re not exchanging Ruthie, but I only manage quick answers, like he’s an addiction and I’m in a difficult recovery.
Ruthie doesn’t notice our strange situation—it’s too strange a time.
We’re off our usual schedule, Ben is still “fixing the roof” at Becca’s, we’re sad and mopey over Mrs. Moore, and there are witches in the woods around the house—nothing is normal.
But that’ll soon change.
After the funeral, we’ll sit down with Ruthie to explain it as gently as possible to a four-year-old.
I imagine he’ll start proceedings, and there’ll be lawyers and custody agreements—all the sad rigamarole of separating our lives.
He slept with someone else—there’s no coming back from that.
Is there? When I think about them together, I flush with anger, but I can’t stay that way long.
Sadness takes over every time.
I still haven’t told anyone. It’s not the right time, and the pathetic truth is, I’d still take him back.
It goes against my female identity and all the strength I supposedly have to admit it, but I would.
I’ll never be Cherry, pinning Ben’s face to a dartboard and cackling while I throw darts at it.
I’ll never move on to male nurses and dating apps, hardening my heart with each emotionless encounter.
It’s fine for her, no judgment, but it’s not me.
There’s a huge difference between Cherry and me—she wasn’t meant for Warren, but I was meant for Ben. I still am.
We just failed. I failed.