Chapter 15
“I’m so pissed you get to spend Chloe’s birthday with her.” Standing in front of the most unfathomable site on October twenty-fifth, I whisper the irrational words while tears stream down my face.
Placed in the ground before me are three plaques representing the three loves and losses of my life.
I stretch my foot to rub off some dirt collected in the corner of Steve’s grave marker.
When the soil doesn’t clear, I huff frustration and drop to my knees, ignoring the pain from the bruise I know I just caused.
My attention focuses on clawing away the muck.
As soon as the plaque is once again clean, I settle on my haunches and rest my hands on my hips.
I angle my head and shrug my cheek onto my shoulder, using my shirt to soak up the tears.
Maneuvering to sit cross-legged, I lean forward and place two hands on the marker in front of me.
“Hi.” My eyes cloud over, but I beat back the despair.
“I know if you were here, you’d tell me I’m being ridiculous.
But seriously, Steve, grief isn’t logical.
And right now, I’m so mad at you because you three are together celebrating her, and I’m . . . here.”
Twenty feet away, a peaceful creek manufactured by the cemetery runs through the back half of the property. The sound of two ducks quacking draws my attention away from my family, and I glance up. Each duck pecks at something in the water with aggression.
“Do you mind?” I admonish Donald and Daffy. “This is supposed to be a peaceful place.”
Lord help me, I’m a little more loony today than usual.
I anguished over choosing these plaques for Steve, Clayton, and Chloe.
Should I put the kids together so I can talk to them at the same time?
Should Steve be first because I pictured him leading them into heaven?
Should all three be on one marker, or should they each get their own? It felt so final.
It was. So final.
Surveying my selections, I’m pleased. Steve’s bronze gravestone is in the middle, with Clayton’s and Chloe’s smaller ones flanking it.
It’s perfect. I can lean down, place my cheek on Steve’s grave, and imagine it being his chest while my arms outstretch to grab hold of the children through their markers.
But now I’m sitting in my anger. My ridiculous, displaced anger, protecting me from the deep cavern of profound sadness.
“I wish you were here.” Something in my grief-filled brain wants to negotiate.
Okay, I lost my husband. Could I just borrow him for a little bit to be the father of our children?
“It’s like I wish you were here to help me deal with Chloe’s birthday, then I’ll send you back.
” I shake my head. “She’s our child. It’s our loss.
” My voice shakes. “But I’m the only parent who shoulders the burden.
And today I’m beyond mad at you for not being here to share it with me. ”
The ducks in front of me quack louder. It’s a toss-up whether they agree with me or think I’m warped.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wisps of hair tickling my face. Taking a deep breath, I gather the strength to study the small gravestone to my right.
Chloe Abigail Harper.
I lie down on my stomach, my body lined up with her grave, and my hands frame the name on her plaque.
“Hi, sweetie.” The iceberg of grief bursts through the glassy water surface, and shards of emotions escape.
The sobs of sorrow rack my body, and I rest my face in my palms. Each inhale is a gasp, and the metallic scent of the bronze marker fills my senses.
Several minutes pass, but once my breathing normalizes, I prop myself up on my forearms. “Happy birthday, Chloe Girl. I’m so very glad you were born.” A few tears drop to her birth date. My smile wobbles as I remember her pronunciation. “I brought you a bwoon, honey.”
I have no idea if five-year-old Chloe would have still liked pink balloons. But I honor the toddler I knew.
Pushing my body up, I lean back to grab the small Mylar balloon from my purse.
They last longer than the latex ones. Despite my daughter not being here, I feel like a good mother by picking the higher-quality decoration.
I shove the plastic stick in the ground above her marker, and the rose-colored ornament stands at attention.
Crawling over to the far end of my trio, I arrive at Clayton’s site.
I stay on my knees but lean over and put my face right up to the engraved race car.
My draping hair creates a cocoon of intimacy.
“Hey, Speedy. I love you, buddy.” I picture him going in for a quick kiss on my cheek, then running away with giggles of pure joy.
I move back to the middle of the three graves and stretch to snag my purse again. Thankful I remembered Kleenex, I blow my nose and wipe off mascara remnants from my cheeks. Once I gain a little control, I sit with my feet on the ground, arms hugging my shins, chin resting on my knees.
Looking over, I notice the ducks have made peace with each other. They glide back and forth over the water.
“Hey, baby.” I sniff. “I need to tell you something.”
This time I want to borrow Steve to be my friend. And then, I negotiate again, I will send him back.
I exhale. “Stanley’s been calling a lot lately. I think he might have feelings for me.” I can almost catch Steve’s laughter in the wind. “Stop making fun. You always said he had a crush on me.”
My words and the smile on my face must make me appear odd. I’m glad the ducks are my only companions today.
I drop one of my hands, pick at some grass, and start a pile of blades.
“The thing is, Steve, I might have . . . met someone.” I shake my head.
“I don’t think anything will happen with him.
But I . . . I guess I needed to say it out loud to you.
” Tears prick my eyes, and my chin wobbles. “I know you would want me to be happy.”
I hate grief. It toys with your logic and has its way with the playground of your sanity. It feels like I’m breaking the family up to find someone new. I know it’s not logical. I know it’s not true. But my feelings vacillate between reality and distortion. I want off the seesaw.
I repeat the earlier truth to myself. He would want me to be happy.
“You’d love this part. He’s a celebrity.” My unseeing gaze aims at the birds swimming toward me. All I can picture is what Steve’s reply would have been. “You don’t need to remind me about Rachael Ray’s book-signing debacle. I agree. I can’t do famous people.”
One of the ducks rises from the water and ruffles his wings in a grand gesture I can only assume is agreement. If only they knew.
After the Apple store, I gave up ignoring Harlan’s messages. Not that there have been many. I don’t know why I’m dragging out the inevitable, but when Harlan texts me, I text back simple replies.
He’s left me two voicemails. One last week, filled with exhaustion and talk of something unexpected that came up.
The other a few days ago, garbled and left while he was sitting on an airport runway.
“Hey, you might be good at Skee-Ball, but you are terrible at phone tag. That was a lame joke. So, we’re about to take off and my phone is dying.
I accidentally packed my charger in my checked luggage .
. . Man, I really want to talk to you . .
. This isn’t how I wanted to do this. Okay. Take care of yourself.”
This isn’t how I wanted to do this.
That felt confusingly final. Which leads me to say to my husband’s grave, “None of this matters. He’s not interested in me.
” My fingers dig into the bald spot I created on the ground.
“But someday someone will be. And I want to thank you for loving me well.” The words are almost indistinguishable through my tears. “I won’t settle for anything less.”
My gaze hits his name, and I sigh.
The wind blows my grass pile away.
On my stomach again, I press my face to Steve’s chest, grab hold of Clayton’s and Chloe’s hands, and breathe in as I embrace my family. “I love you guys.”
Arriving at my house, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus. As I insert the key into my door, I spot dirt shoved into the beds of my fingernails. I glance down to confirm the additional green and brown marks of earth covering my sweatshirt and jeans. A wave of satisfaction washes over me.
Somehow the stains on my body and clothes legitimize today’s grief. I stared it in the face, honored it, got dirty with my efforts, and came out on the other side. When I leave the cemetery with a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil I’m in, my pain is validated.
I realize my shoes are muddy—another affirmation—and toe them off to dry on the porch. As I scoot them aside with my foot, something stops them.
A package.
Wow. I’m so out of it, I almost missed the delivery altogether.
I pick up the brown box, open the door, and enter my house.
After I throw my purse on the red bench, I make a beeline for my bedroom.
I grab my favorite pair of worn-out UT sweatpants off the top of my hamper and change into them.
There’s a slim hole next to the monogrammed U and T.
Upon noticing this one day, Molly burst out laughing and deemed these my UTI pants.
Molly.
I heave a sigh. She’s called a few times today. My phone’s now in my purse. I’ll text her later.
The closest shirt, also on my hamper, is a long-sleeve gray Henley. My arms protest with exhaustion as I drag my soiled top off and pull on the cleaner-but-not-clean replacement.
I climb up on the bed with the grace of an elephant and sit cross-legged with my back against the headboard. Turning my head to study the postal box on the table, I wonder if I have enough life left in me to open it.
With my last morsel of energy, I pull scissors out of my bedside table drawer and run the sharp edge down the sides of the package. When I unfold the top, I find a white card with handwritten red block letters resting on tissue paper.
Meredith—I’m not going to send you flowers, as if those could make you feel better. Instead I hope you can wrap yourself in this blanket and take some comfort. I hate that you have to go through today. I am thinking of you, sweetheart. Harlan.
As I read the words, a solitary tear, the last piece of emotion I can expend today, escapes down my cheek.
Drawing the delicate pink tissue paper open, I uncover a treasure. I skim the palm of my hand over the exposed layer of velvety fabric, the deep color of the predawn ocean.
Scooting down in my bed, I curl my body into the fetal position while pulling the blanket out of the box to cover myself in the sea of solace.
I have no energy to analyze Harlan and his confusing embrace with Olivia. No interest in dissecting our sporadic texts or his voicemails.
Instead, as I fall asleep, my only thoughts are of the sweet embrace he sent to me.