Chapter 11
Abby
Thirteen Weeks
As much as I hate to admit it, Ellie was onto something.
The Abby Duty schedule has been great.
It’s both a break in the monotonous routine of grief and setting a new routine in and of itself. I know exactly what my day is going to be depending on who’s “on duty.”
With Ellie and Griffin, it’s so incredibly normal in the best way.
They tell me about the business, which is apparently booming, and I tell them about whatever side project I’m working on for the local newspaper.
Ellie and I fall into conversation in our own kind of language, the way you do when you’ve been friends for nearly thirty years, and Griffin watches in awe while trying to decipher even a fraction of what we’re talking about.
It’s also productive–we do hours of research on strollers, cribs, high chairs, you name it.
Griffin has started working on minor projects around the house, with an emphasis on babyproofing our distinctly un-babyproofed home.
They also helped me research a new couch for the living room, and make a game plan to rearrange the guest room in preparation for the nursery.
Now that I’m not quite so alone, sleeping in my own bed has felt feasible again, and while David may fit comfortably on my velvet couch, Jack’s feet hang over the arm.
And although he would never complain, it can’t be comfortable.
When David comes over, it’s a genuine 90s coming-of-age movie type of sleepover.
We order pizza, eat an ungodly amount of candy, play hours of Mario Kart, and watch shitty horror movies we pretend not to be scared of before going to sleep with all of the lights on.
I never thought I’d see the day when I’d rely on David for something, but those nights of pure childlike fun do more for me than I could ever put into words.
And Jack, of course, feels natural. Even when someone else is over, it still feels a little weird and empty–but never with Jack.
Those might be my favorite nights. I don’t think they do it consciously, but people tend to avoid bringing Aaron up around me, afraid it might set off some kind of grief bomb.
Jack doesn’t shy away from it. He brings up Aaron often, and it’s such a relief to talk about him without worrying that I’m making anyone uncomfortable with my pain.
It actually helps to talk about him in a way that doesn’t revolve around the accident or its impact on me.
We tell stories intentionally, we reference him casually, we even posthumously rag on him the way we would do when he was still here.
Best of all, we sit in a silence that doesn’t threaten to crush me from the weight of it.
He does paperwork while I read, or we put a record on and listen in silence with our eyes closed, or we eat dinner without forcing conversation.
Those are the nights I feel most comfortable in my own home (and in my own skin).
“So, how are you feeling about this whole thing?” David asks, stuffing a Twizzler into his mouth. “Is Abby Duty a success or what?”
“Honestly, it is,” I say genuinely. “I didn’t think it would be this helpful. Or this fun.”
“I’m just practicing for being a Funcle,” David says, voice muffled by the faux liquorice.
“All you’re doing is demonstrating a choking hazard,” Jack says pointedly. He’s off duty tonight, and even though he’s not “scheduled,” he decided to come over anyway. “You’re going to set a bad example.”
“Newsflash,” David says, swallowing hard. “Fetus can’t see me yet. No bad examples being set here.”
“As if you’ll stop when the baby is born,” Jack scoffs. “You’re both going to end up terrorizing Abby, and she’ll have to lay down the law.”
“Yeah, David,” I say with a wicked grin. “Count your days, buddy.”
“Well, at least you’ve got the scary mom thing down,” he mutters, taking a more demure bite of candy this time. “Better?” he asks sarcastically, glaring in Jack’s direction.
“Much,” Jack nods.
“Why are you over here anyway? It’s not your night.”
“I can leave,” Jack counters, half rising from the couch.
“No, don’t,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “Please stay.”
“What, I’m not good enough for you?” David cries in mock outrage.
“Of course you are, David. But won’t it be nice to get your ass kicked in Mario Kart by someone else for a change?”
“If you weren’t growing a child right now…” he grumbles under his breath. Jack sits back down with a laugh, snatching the controller from the table and launching the game.
We spend the next several hours acting like we’re sixteen in Griffin’s basement again–David screams in frustration every time he loses, winding himself up on more and more sugar as me and Jack egg him on, until we hit a lull in the game and David passes out on the floor like an overgrown toddler.
“C’mon,” Jack says with a groan, heaving David up by the back of his shirt collar and depositing him unceremoniously onto the couch, where he immediately falls back asleep. “There you go.”
I press my lips together, stifling my giggles as Jack throws a blanket over him and turns out the lamps.
“Maybe you should be in charge of the baby,” I whisper. “You seem to have a maternal instinct.”
“Shut up,” he huffs. “There’s nothing natural about David, this is just from years and years of experience of making sure he doesn’t destroy everything in his general vicinity.”
“Aw, look at him, Jack Robbit,” I coo, peeking back into the living room. “He’s a perfect angel.”
“He’s a sleeping dragon,” he argues. “One wrong move and it’s all going up in flames. And don’t call me that.”
“Shh,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t fight it. You lost this battle fifteen years ago.”
He shakes his head, and I lean into his side, wrapping my arms around his waist. “Thank you for coming over tonight,” I murmur. “It was fun having you here with us.”
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks, looking down at me as he drapes an arm across my shoulder. “I can sleep on the floor, make sure he doesn’t break anything in the middle of the night.”
“You don’t have to,” I say with a shrug. “It’s not your night.”
“Every night is my night, Abs,” he says quietly. “I’m never not thinking about you, even when I’m not here. I’d be here every night if you asked me to.”
I mutter something noncommittal in response, the earnest kindness in his voice rendering me temporarily speechless.
I know how unbelievably lucky I am to have friends who care for me so deeply–but sometimes Jack says things like that so quickly, without an ounce of doubt, that I wonder what I’ve done to deserve him.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” I ask softly.
“Of course I do,” he says simply.
“I want you to stay,” I say. “But you can sleep in the guest room, you don’t need to sleep on the floor.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice laced with mild concern. “What about you?”
“I’ve been sleeping in my own bed lately,” I admit. “Now that I feel less alone, it’s not such a daunting thing. And I missed my mattress.”
It’s not just ‘not-daunting’–it’s nice, actually.
I know it might be gross, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to wash the sheets yet, to wash away the last traces of Aaron.
At first, his lingering scent on the pillow was a soul-crushing reminder of the empty space he left.
But now that some of the weight has lifted, and the fog of grief isn’t quite so dense, it’s a comfort more than a constant re-opening wound–a trace of I’m grateful to have, rather than be angry that I don’t have more.
“Okay,” Jack says, kissing the top of my head. “Goodnight, Abby. Come get me if you need anything.”
“I know where to find you,” I say, squeezing him one more time before retiring to my bedroom down the hall.
Laying in bed, I think more about his offer from earlier.
As much fun as Abby Duty has been, it can be a little chaotic, and my friends would never say it, but I know it can be an inconvenience sometimes.
Would it be easier to just have one person here all the time, and call in reinforcements when needed? Would he really stay if I asked him to?
Do I want to ask him to?
I close my eyes, hugging Aaron’s pillow to my chest and inhaling deeply. Am I a bad wife–do you stop being a wife when you become a widow?–for finding comfort in having another man in the house I shared with my husband?
Don’t be silly, Abigail. It’s not ‘another man.’ It’s Jack. He’s practically family.
I try to empty my mind, but as I fall into a fitful sleep, I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m doing something wrong.