After
AFTER
Six months have stumbled by, and still, I find reminders of my husband everywhere. Yet I feel his loss most keenly in the places he isn’t . In the ragged, gaping holes he left behind.
No second toothbrush sits beside the sink. No hand steals around my waist to tug me close in the mornings. In the evenings, his drafting table lamp no longer spills light into the yard; when I look up from the couch, only my own wraithlike reflection hovers in the glass. There sits a sad-eyed widow, reading her book by the blue flicker of the television, just so some life will fill these empty rooms.
It’s August now. A beautiful month, but the sunshine hasn’t kept the days from blurring into one long, empty tableau. Last week, I turned thirty-seven without even noticing. I woke up and went to bed without once remembering my birthday.
Not that I would’ve done anything differently, if I had. That day always comes with its own set of problems. Best to avoid them completely.
Today, Michael’s absence presses in, heavier than usual. I carry my coffee to the living room and stare out through the glass. Sunlight winks through the evergreen fronds as if mocking the cavernous darkness gathered beneath my ribs. I sip, but even the bright warmth of caffeine fails to lift my spirits.
It’s obvious to me why. Once, in the first year of marriage, I’d complained to Michael about how intense his work had gotten. Cofounding his own architectural firm meant he’d barely had time for us anymore, which, to be fair, he’d warned me about in advance. Still, he’d apologized by buying me a subscription to the Coffees of the World club. The company had shipped us a bag of beans from a different country each month. That had lasted a year, until I’d met my soulmate strain in the form of a brew from Kenya and Michael had promptly switched the delivery over to a single variety. It still shows up on my doorstep each month, like clockwork.
God, I miss the way he took care of me. Even if I would’ve traded every ounce of that pampering for more of his time.
The chime of an incoming call jolts me. On the desk, my phone lights up with Kate’s picture. I reach over and hit Cancel. The idea of formulating words right now exhausts me, and my gaze wanders to my laptop. Maybe I could just email...
But no. If I venture onto the internet, I know exactly what I’ll see. Who I’ll accidentally end up staring in the face. And I’d love nothing more than to never think about Michael’s brother again.
A high-pitched keening slices through the quiet.
I jerk toward the windows. The sound comes again, from outside. Frowning, I set my coffee aside and venture through the slider onto the porch, then down into the yard.
Beneath the deck, something stirs. A pitiful whine floats from the shadows. The sound hits me in the heart, or whatever I have left of one, and I ease into the darkness, where a shadowy shape shrinks away.
I blink until my eyes adjust. It’s a dog. An old Irish setter mix, with muddy brown eyes and a graying snout.
Longing rises tight in my chest. For a moment, I’m seeing another dog entirely, one with a copper coat and wretched breath. One I buried years ago.
God, I’m so damn tired of burying things.
When I blink again, reality returns. What is wrong with me? This poor creature hardly resembles Penny at all.
I push away the hollow ache of loss and crouch. The dog is curled between a bag of mulch and a stack of empty flowerpots. No collar. No visible wounds, either, but she’s panting as if she just sprinted across miles of forest. Another whine comes from deep in her throat.
I reach out. Years ago, someone dumped a husky on the shelter’s doorstep who’d keened just like this. Darlene had taken one look and diagnosed him with peritonitis, then made a phone call that had gotten the dog into emergency surgery, where he’d had a broken chicken bone removed from his intestines. It hadn’t mattered that Seagrove’s only veterinarian had been the best man in a beachside wedding that evening. Darlene had worked her magic, the way she always does.
Now a fire lights in my muscles. I don’t know if this dog is in the same predicament, but if so, I need to get her to Darlene. Immediately.
The dog sniffs my outstretched fingers, then licks. It’s the only encouragement I need to scoop her up. She’s all deadweight, but I stagger around the house to the garage and settle her into the passenger seat of my Genesis. If her condition is as critical as the husky’s, every moment counts.
Within seconds, I’m rocketing from the driveway.
Maybe I shouldn’t roar across town at twice the speed limit, but every time the dog whimpers, a hot spark flares in my chest. If Penny had ever wandered off, I would’ve wanted someone to help her. To do anything.
And, if I’m honest, this is the first time since that horrible phone call that I’ve felt in control of anything. The first time in six months I’ve actually had a say.
The speedometer’s needle edges higher. “Hold on, girl.” I take the turnoff onto Darlene’s street thirty miles an hour faster than legally permitted. “Help’s coming.”
As trees whip past the window, I hope like hell that’s not a lie.