Chapter 19
While I wake alone, I do smile. I was definitely scooped last night. Taken care of.
Loved.
And my wrist is free. I pull away from the now-melted ice packs that Dave set me up with, and I wriggle around my hand. It is for sure hurting and swollen, but at least it’s gloriously out of the cast.
After I make a Nespresso, I show off my bare arm to Top Cat and read him a book.
He meows his approval, and I smile, even more so when he ventures from his cozy cube, rubs against me, and then devours the plate of food I offered.
It makes me so happy to capture this stuff and share it with my followers.
Five seconds later, he scratches the shit out of my hand when I give him an unwelcome pat. So, I roll my eyes and share that, too, with a giggle. So are the adventures with a feral cat.
But then I falter. While I feel so wonderful for a minute, I then feel so totally devastated and guilty to have a second of peace, of happiness. A break from the reality that hurts too much.
Patrick is dead. Patrick is dead. Patrick is dead.
Get that through your head! I again scream to myself. He’s fucking dead.
Katrina must get moments of denial. At least, I pray she does because I’d love her to have a respite of any kind. Yet, it crushes me to know every second of every day is probably crushing her.
No matter how many times I try to reason with my brain, the reality never sinks in.
It just can’t be true. Ten times a day, I think about something that makes me want to call him, to ask him about something.
To send him a stupid meme. Even an innocent scroll through Instagram wrecks me. Because of all things? Goats.
We had a running thing about goats. Like, the crazy fainting goats, and goats screaming to Taylor Swift’s song “Trouble.” Totally stupid stuff. A post about goat yoga? He loved it all.
Today, a post about traveling to Ireland makes me want to sob.
Anytime reminders of him pop up, it’s my instinct to reach out. Yet I somehow keep forgetting that I can’t.
The many texts I’ve sent Katrina have gone unanswered, so I text her again and get nothing back.
I decide to get a bit more assertive and dial her number, expecting nothing, so I’m startled when she picks up.
“Diana.” I can hear her nearly choke.
Immediately, I sink, regretting having taken this risk. It may have been too much. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called?”
Then her voice lifts. Just a touch, but it lifts. “No, I should have called you. It’s just been too hard. How on earth to reach out to his best friend. From the day he met you …”
“Also from the day he met you.”
Katrina is pacing. I can practically see it.
Both of us take big breaths.
“Diana? What you did for me. For me, and Patrick, and our baby.” Katrina pauses. “Both of our babies. Daniella and Tommy. I truly don’t think our family would have survived without you.”
While she can’t see me, I shake my head. “You’ve proven how tough you are. You didn’t need me. But how is my little Tommy?”
There’s a long pause.
“He’s confused and sad. Clingy.”
My heart sinks. “I can come out there anytime.”
Katrina waits to reply. “Thank you. Just not yet. My family is here still. And it’s a bit much.
But, yes, when things calm down?” There’s a silence that about breaks me, and I hear the emotional inhale and exhale when she finally continues, “Tommy and I need you. When I can kick out my family, it’d be great to have you here.
I just don’t want to be on all the time. I can’t.”
All of this has to be too much.
“Of course. Just tell me when you’re ready.”
She must be indescribably exhausted.
I mean, I’m indescribably exhausted, and I don’t have a toddler and a dead husband.
“Can we switch to FaceTime?” she asks. “I think Tommy might like a book.”
“Yes! I think I might like a book too.” I smile and scramble to Dave’s bookshelf.
It’s become a routine for me to read a book to Tommy at least once a week. Katrina always has her print copy, and I have mine. Patrick’s kid gets to hear my voice, see my face, but also see the clear pictures his mom holds up. It’s as close to an in-person reading as we can get.
It’s impossible not to melt, not to clutch my hand over my heart when Tommy is on my screen. I may not be a kid person usually, but this child is everything. He laughs and bounces around in a diaper as Katrina sets him on the bed and opens a book.
“Auntie Diana is going to read to you, okay?”
Tommy lunges at the phone when he sees me, and he reaches out and screeches, “DiNah! DiNah!”
“Yes, it’s me! DiNah.” I’m giddy. “Ready for Bear Snores On?”
After I read the book a few times over and hang up with Katrina, I am melancholy. Hurting, and aching, and heartbroken again.
I text Dave.
Me: I’m cast-free. Wheee!
Dave: I know. I was there when it was removed. I’m very happy for you.
He’s always so sweetly controlled, and factual, and cute, but I can practically hear him gently laughing now.
Me: I still can’t believe it. It felt like I was going to be thrashing around like a cave person forever.
Me: I might have been a bit messy last night.
Dave: You were exuberant. Deservedly so.
Me: Okay if I come see you? Or are you too busy?
Dave: Pedro Pascal, Marcia Gay Harden.
He’s not too busy.
Me: Anthony Edwards. And Brooke Shields. Ed Asner.
Dave: Dave Navarro.
So, I shower and get to use both of my hands to scrub the shit out of my hair, layer on a few products, and then blow it dry with a diffuser.
My red curls finally look normal by my own hands.
Then I throw on one of my JAKI tops—an ultra-black mock turtleneck that drapes down my torso in soft folds and pair it with jeans.
I want to look cute, but don’t want to seem like I tried too hard to look cute, so I do very minimal makeup.
I mean, that’s been my standard for as long as he’s known me, but I do have to resist the temptation to go overboard and indicate that I want to drag him home and do all the things …
I grab the keys to my Subaru and head out. It’s also pretty thrilling that I can slip both of my arms through the sleeves and put on a weighty winter coat.
Out of nowhere, an involuntary and gross cry hits me the moment I leave Dave’s place. Stupid pain hits when it wants. Good thing I’ve got tissues and a bottle of water, so I clean myself up. Without a doubt, my sad attempt at eyeliner and such is already bleeding down my face.
This has been happening though. Like, all of a sudden, I’ll realize that my face is soaked, and my eyes are burning.
My heart is so full of bullets.
These breakdowns are maybe something I’m getting used to. They’re going to be my new normal. They’re going to routinely deliver pain. Grief, loss, fucking intolerable aches. All are going to be a part of my makeup, who I am.
My friendship with Patrick will be stored in my muscle memory forever. There will be lifelong triggers, and so I will see, hear, and think of him and us for the rest of my life.
And maybe that’s not something to be scared of. Not something to run away from.
It’ll keep Patrick with me forever.
I guess I can either let the bullets kill me or I can figure out how to live with them.
I choose the latter.
It’s a short drive to town and to the parking lot where Dave’s truck still shows a solid line of hungry diners. But that’s good because it gives me time to collect myself.