13. Little Bit Better #2
“I met Bill only six months later, still new to widowhood and bein’ a single mama.
There he was… a handsome, accomplished, kind man who volunteered to help coach the baseball team, and then, before I knew what was happening, he was catching me after Jordan’s games to talk.
Or asking if he could take us out to pizza, or if I needed anything done around the house, then lingering into the evening with conversation and companionship on nights I would have spent alone. ”
I snort, despite myself. It sounds awfully familiar and seems as if Jordan learned from the very best.
“He knew who I was in this small town, of course. That I’d been married before and that I wasn’t looking for anything romantic.
But I sure did love having a friend who didn’t see me as an endlessly grieving woman, barely making it by.
Bill saw me as a colleague. A friend. A mother…
and as a woman. When I desperately needed to be seen.
” She pauses, clearing her throat. “The ugly truth of it all is, Emory, that you never move on. James is always gonna be a huge, wonderful, and tragic part of your story. You don’t move on from binding yourself to someone for life. ”
Unbidden, my eyes begin to water. Hearing the truth my heart knows well, and my deepest fear, spoken aloud. I will never move on.
“But, sweet girl,” she says, wrapping an arm around me, “I do believe there’s a difference between living this strange new version of your life to the fullest—loving completely and receiving the same in return—and spending your remaining days buried and broken out of a sense of loyalty to someone who, I’d wager—if given the choice—would want you to live the first option.
Whether that option will be with Jordan or not is not for me to say. ”
“Well, I’ll say it.” Charlie throws her hand in the air. “That man sees you, Emory Nelson. And you’d be a fool to ignore it.”
Three of the women raise praise hands in agreement.
My sister grows suddenly serious—stage two of slightly tipsy Dinah—abandoning her chair and putting herself at my feet, curled up exactly like Chipper does to Jack when the man ever sits down.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever really grieved, Em.
I know you don’t like to talk about him, but James was my big brother.
He was a great husband. He took care of you, and he took care of me.
But when he was gone, you jumped into this new version of yourself.
You became so independent. You were a great mom to Molly…
and to me. And now you’re the PTA Princess. ”
“President,” I correct.
“Princess is better.” She squeezes my leg. “But you’re like a superhero with wings and powers and really great hair and sex appeal and…”
“Bring it back, girl,” Chloe encourages.
“What I mean to say is, you’re amazing, and to the outside world, you look like you’re thriving, but…”
“But?” I can’t help but stroke my sister’s hair when she lays her head on my knee. Even though I’m wildly uncomfortable and wish we didn’t have an audience right now, I can’t help but feel the comfort of being a safe place for her to curl into, and I know, if I allowed it, she’d be the same for me.
“But…” she says again. “Emory, you went to school for fashion design. You love decorating and art and being creative, but you have an alpaca farm.”
“I love my farm.” My voice cracks, and I’m not sure why.
“James loved your farm. You built the house and the farm and planted the lavender, and it was a beautiful dream you did together, but I worry that you’ve kept it all going as a sort of mausoleum for him and haven’t been living for yourself.
The furniture, the colors on the wall, even your bedroom…
every detail is the same as when James was here. ”
I think about how long it took me to remove the towel James had last used, hanging from the bathroom drying rack.
Then his tooth brush, months later. And after, how I’d cried on the floor of the shower for an hour so that Dinah wouldn’t hear my weeping over the water.
His clothes, donated at the three year mark, save the cotton T-shirts—which held his scent for far too short a time—that I slept with each night for years.
The therapist I spoke with reminded me at each visit that my process was my process. Grief looks and feels and flows in different patterns for each person. And different losses bring different waves of heartbreak.
My parents. James. And now, Pam, who I shed tears for only this morning. When I fed the other girls in their stalls and found Pam’s empty, I broke down and cried my way through morning chores, breakfast prep, and my shower, only gathering my emotions up in time to wake Molly.
Dinah has her down day each year to grieve our parents, but I stay busy. I keep moving. I endure.
Yet, I consider the truth of what Dinah is saying.
I’ve moved, but I haven’t moved forward.
James’ countless zoology books litter the shelves in the living room.
The wallpaper he picked out still clings to the ceiling of our bedroom.
James was so convinced I’d love it that I could never bring myself to tell him how much it reminded me of the wallpaper at the funeral home where we held my parents’ service.
Our wedding rings rest on my bedside table.
James’ cremated remains, in an unremarkable urn, are tucked away on the shelf in my closet.
I’ve clung to the house and the farm—and that horrid wallpaper—too afraid to cut out anything, and by doing so, cut out the memory of who I built it all with.
“I can’t believe you just used the word mausoleum while intoxicated,” Joey chimes in, incredibly impressed with my sister’s vocabulary and blessedly relieving me from inner spiral.
“Emory, I didn’t know your husband, and I’m sorry for that, but I do wonder, as a single mom for so long, when was the last time you did something for yourself? Something that you enjoy?”
I don’t answer, because I honestly don’t know.
“Like a makeout with a hot veterinarian.” Our author friend’s eyes grow heart shaped as she joins the conversation, enraptured with where all this is going.
Her poor little hand must be cramped from writing every morsel down, so this pause was necessary as her eyes flit to the girls around the room and are met with approving head nods.
She’s officially a Book Bae.
“Amen!” Mrs. Cotten shouts.
“Look, Emory,” Charlie says, just as a knock sounds at the door.
“The point is, we all love you and want to see you thriving, not just surviving. Just because you choose something or someone for yourself, doesn’t mean you’re forgetting the treasure you had before.
It just means you’re not gonna let the goodness of this life pass you by. ”
“And that goodness”—my sister hops up, completely herself and notably levelheaded—“is at the door.”
“What?” I ask, with Charlie pushing my butt off the couch and forcing me to stand.
“Your ride is here, girlie,” she says, while the others giggle excitedly. “Go grab up some of that life.”
“Oh, does he have the motorcycle with him? I wonder if she’ll be his bookbag.” Mrs. Cotten hollers at my back, “Come back next month for a debrief. We’re readin’ a historical romance. There’s men in kilts.”
The person on the other side of the door knocks again, and I have no doubt of who will greet me when I open it.