Chapter 24
Abby
Twenty Two Weeks
“Do you think it’ll feel any different?” I ask, my body pressed close to Aaron’s while Michael Bublé’s version of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ plays over the speakers.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ve been together since kindergarten practically,” I say. “We’ve lived together for four years. Do you think anything will feel different now that we’re married? Even though nothing’s changing?”
“It already feels different to me,” he says softly. “I’ve called you a lot of things over the years, but my favorite by far is ‘wife’.”
“That’s still so crazy,” I giggle as he twirls me around. “You’re my husband now. Some days I still feel like the thirteen year old girl fumbling through our first kiss. And now we’re grown up enough to be married. Is that not crazy to you?”
“The only thing crazy about this is that I didn’t know it was possible to love you more than I already did,” he says, leaning me into a dip and kissing me deeply. “And the only thing I’m crazy about is you, Abigail Thompson. Forever and ever, amen.”
Those same words come through the record player speakers now, with Randy Travis singing me through my soul-wrenching sobs. Today is our wedding anniversary. But instead of ‘forever and ever, amen,’ we didn’t even get seven years.
When the record ends, I stay where I’m slumped on the floor, watching it spin silently.
From the moment I opened my eyes this morning, I’ve felt like my grief has been trying to physically rip through my chest. I am so ready to be done with 'firsts'–first holidays, first birthdays, first anniversaries, first everythings without him. I can only hope that even if it never gets better, it’ll get easier.
That’s what I have to cling to, the same way I’m clinging to Aaron’s pillow like a lifeline. I don’t think December 5th will ever be a good day for me, but God I hope it’s not this painful forever.
Maybe I’ll just sleep through it every year.
I still don’t move when I hear the front door open, or when I hear the familiar sounds of Jack’s post-work routine. He takes a few steps down the hallway, and I hear him stop to backtrack.
“Abby? Are you okay?”
He hurries toward me, kneeling at my side where I lay curled into myself, unable to even turn my head to look at him.
“Talk to me, pretty girl,” he murmurs softly, sprawling on the floor in front of me where he can look into my eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, swollen and burning from the relentless crying. I can’t move–I can’t speak. I’m trapped in my own head, even as this wonderful man is trying to offer me a life raft in the middle of my endless sea of sorrow.
“That’s okay,” he says, still in a soft voice. “You don’t have to talk about it. Do you want me to stay here with you, or do you want to be alone?”
“Stay,” I whisper hoarsely. It’s the first time I’ve heard my voice today, using all my might to squeeze the words through my sandpaper throat. “Please.”
“Okay,” he says simply, taking my hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here as long as you want me to.”
I close my eyes again, fresh tears following the rivulets left by the ones before.
I don’t know exactly how long we lay there like that, but the next thing I know, I’m waking up in my bed.
It’s pitch black outside, which means we either laid there for hours, or I’ve been asleep for just as long.
Sitting up slowly, I rub my eyes like a toddler who’s been woken up by a nightmare.
My head is pounding, my face feels hot and puffy, and my mouth is bone dry.
I swing my feet over the side of the bed, but instead of feeling the cold hardwood floor, something warm and squishy is there instead. Peering over my knees, I see Jack laying on his stomach, his normally sharp features softened in sleep.
I step gingerly over him and tiptoe to the kitchen as quietly as possible.
Part of me wonders if I should wake him after all, if only so he can get off the floor and into an actual bed.
It’s a simple gesture, staying with me even while I sleep.
He must have moved me to my bed, and chose to watch over me even when it would have been perfectly reasonable to go to bed himself.
It stirs an uncomfortable feeling in my chest–not suffocating like the grief, but equally all-consuming. I stare absently out the window into the abyss when my musings are interrupted by a groggy voice behind me.
“You okay?”
I turn to find Jack standing in the doorway, his white t-shirt wrinkled from his unconventional sleeping arrangement. He stifles a yawn, blinking blearily and waiting for my answer.
“Okay,” I say in a small voice, eyes fixed on my half empty waterglass. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he says, eyebrows scrunching together. He looks so much younger like this, his features almost boyish as he leans against the door frame half-asleep. I can almost picture little Jack, and wonder if he was silent and serious even as a child.
“For staying,” I say simply.
“Always,” he says, reaching over me into the cabinet to grab his own glass. He leans against the counter next to me and downs half the glass in one gulp. “You should go back to sleep.”
“I will,” I say with a nod. “So should you, Jack Robbit, but not on my floor. Go to bed.”
“Are you sure? I’m happy to stay in your room if you don’t want to be alone,” he asks. “And don’t call me that.”
I laugh softly, leaning my head against his arm. “You can’t make me stop.”
“It was worth a shot,” he says, laying his head on top of mine. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“I’m sure,” I say, answering his question. “I’ll be okay. Go to bed, Jacky boy.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened earlier? It’s okay if you don’t. It’s late, and we can talk about it tomorrow if you want. Or we can talk about it never. Entirely up to you.”
“It should have been our seventh wedding anniversary,” I whisper. “Year seven is copper. He would have told me the only copper he needs is my hair.”
“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he says, setting his glass in the sink and wrapping his arms around me. “I didn’t realize what the date was. I can’t imagine how hard that was for you.”
“It’s just another ‘first thing’ without him,” I sigh. “It’s so weird to think that at some point the firsts will overlap–I’ll have my first birthday without him, and then Little One will have their first smile or something.”
“It’s a cruel and beautiful thing,” he says solemnly. “To be able to experience grief and joy at the same time. Nothing about life is ever simple, is it?”
“No. I suppose it’s not.”
With one final squeeze, he kisses the top of my hair and lets me go. Grabbing my shoulders, he spins me around and marches me back to my bedroom, making me laugh, like I wasn't just on the verge of tears just moments ago.
“Jack?” I ask, nervously wringing my hands.
“Yes, pretty girl?”
“Can we have a sleepover? Like a few weeks ago? I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
His face softens, hand reflexively reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear before resting on my cheek.
“Of course,” he says softly. “C’mon, tuck in.”
I slide under the covers as he moves to the other side of the bed, sidling up next to me and slipping his arm under my head. I burrow into his chest, reaching across his torso to hug him close. It should feel wrong, to have someone else in Aaron’s spot on our anniversary.
It’s becoming increasingly clear that nothing with Jack feels the way it should–and nothing about any of this feels wrong. In fact, some days it feels like nothing has ever felt more right.
Lying next to him in bed, I think about what he said.
“Beautiful and cruel.” That can be said about so much of the human experience.
But I think it’s worth it. Even if there are moments where I feel I might not survive it, I wouldn’t trade the years I spent being loved by Aaron for anything in the world.
I fall asleep with tears on my face and a smile on my lips–a tangible expression of that coexistence of joy and grief.