Chapter 33 Blythe
BLYTHE
Waking before Sam feels like a reward for good behaviour. What that behaviour is specifically, I don’t know.
He’s on his stomach, one arm bent under the pillow, the other hooked around my waist. His back rises and falls with deep, steady breaths, totally peaceful.
My bladder is screaming at me, but I can’t bring myself to move and possibly disrupt him.
I know mornings are the hardest time for him.
It’s when he’s quietest, when the heaviness he’s carrying around shows itself most openly.
I remember the days of waking up every day feeling like existing was a burden.
Those first few minutes of being alone in bed after sharing one with Eric for so many years.
I told a therapist about it, and they asked if I ever thought about not existing.
A covert way of asking if I ever had suicidal thoughts.
I’d been appalled by the insinuation and got defensive.
But no, in the end I was able to say with confidence that I had never had any such thoughts.
Would I have if I didn’t have Maggi? It’s impossible to say for certain.
I can’t imagine it but then again, I couldn’t imagine life without Eric.
Sam isn’t at all like Eric in bed—Eric wasn’t a cuddler.
Sure, he’d hold me after sex or if we were watching a movie, but he never fell asleep holding me, and I never woke up in his arms. Sam, on the other hand, is in constant contact.
His hand finds my body even in sleep, feet tangle with mine, and fingers brush absently across my skin, unconsciously cuddling me as if he can’t get enough. Getting his fill while he can.
I shouldn’t let myself become so comfortable with it.
It’s like getting attached to a temporary tattoo but being afraid of getting a real one.
Although, maybe that’s not the right comparison.
I’m not afraid of pursuing something real, especially with someone like Sam.
It’s just impossible, our lives are too different.
He shifts, rolling onto his side so he’s facing me, and the arm that has been draped over my waist tightens, dragging me closer to his body.
I let myself go, curling my arms in so my hands rest on his chest where I can feel the steady beat of his heart.
I expect to see his eyes open, but they remain closed, his breathing a giveaway that while his actions seem conscious, he’s still very much asleep.
He asked about life with Eric while we were sitting by the fire last night, his voice as genuine as his inquisitive expression, and so I told him.
Eric was calm, unless watching rugby. He was a whiz with numbers but was a lazy speller.
He could carry a tune, often singing Scottish folk songs to Maggi when I was pregnant and then to her at bedtime.
On Sunday mornings he always got up early and went to our favourite bakery for cinnamon buns, often buying more than we needed in case we felt like something sweet later in the day.
He was kind and generous to a fault, often taking on more work than he was paid to do to help a colleague and then coming home tired.
Even on those days he’d clean up after dinner, which he said was his job since I did the cooking.
Dishes were his least favourite chore, but he hated cooking even more.
It had been the perfect trade-off because while I also hate to do dishes, I do love to cook.
I watched Sam carefully as I talked, waiting for him to put an end to my ramble about all the ways Eric made me happy and enriched my life.
But he smiled openly and laughed at all the right moments.
He asked follow-up questions that weren’t just about rugby things, like what my favourite thing to make was: soups and stews.
He wanted to know what Eric did in place of getting me flowers since I owned a flower shop.
I let him know that Eric would slip into the shop when I wasn’t there and get one of the employees to make the most ridiculous thing they could and then pay full price.
I thought I’d cry, but talking about Eric has never made me sad in the way people expect, and I was so grateful that this man, who was stepping into some pretty big shoes, even for a short amount of time, did so with such grace.
I told him that Eric would like him, and he made this weird face, like he was struggling not to laugh or cry, before a cocky smile replaced it.
Then I waited for him to say that Eric probably wouldn't have liked that his wife was now calling out “Sam” in bed, which cracked me up because I had never once done such a thing.
“Good morning, Rosie,” Sam’s gravelly morning voice pulls my attention to his lips and then to his eyes, which are still closed.
“Morning,” I whisper, willing him to open his eyes. When he does I’m rewarded with their warmth, like the sun that’s trickling in beneath the curtain.
“How long have you been awake?” he rasps, pulling me harder against his body, pushing a leg between mine while he presses his lips against the top of my head.
“Between ten minutes and three hours,” I ponder.
He chuckles before rolling away from me, and I miss him instantly. “I bet your bladder is screaming at you,” he teases, groaning as he rolls out of the bed and stands, coming to my side and offering me a hand.
“I’m not sure it’s screaming, but it’s definitely been muttering obscenities at me for a while.”
He levels me with those eyes I’d happily get lost in any time of day. “Why didn’t you get up?”
I shrug. “I didn’t want to disrupt you. You’re very peaceful when you sleep, did you know that?”
He tugs my hand, leading me around the bed and toward the bathroom. “Isn’t everyone peaceful when they sleep?”
I laugh, because Maggi sometimes looks to be having some kind of epic battle. Eric used to laugh while he sang “Kung Fu Fighting” under his breath when she slept in our bed.
“No,” I confirm before walking into the bathroom and promptly putting an end to my morning of admiring Sam’s face.
“I got you something,” Sam says after we decide to have another picnic, but this time with less of a hike.
“When?” I spin around, away from the bag I’ve been packing sandwiches into.
I catch him rubbing the back of his neck nervously, peaking my interest further. “Um, the day of the wedding,” he admits sheepishly. “We’d gone into the village, and I got distracted on the way to the pub.”
He pulls his other hand out from behind his back, and in it are multiple books. Old books, by the look of it. Sam steps closer, and I hold my hands out.
“Sam…” I look from the books to him and back again.
Three copies of Pride and Prejudice and one of Emma, all different versions but all printed well before either of us was born.
“Where did you find these?” I run my hand over the covers delicately, afraid of damaging them.
The oldest copy I currently own is the one I bought in high school that matched the copy my English teacher had. An early 1990s edition.
“There was this little shop.” Sam shrugs.
“I wanted to see if they had any other editions of Animal Farm. Our conversation in the library got me remembering how much I love that book. Anyway, I got those, then sort of asked if there were any editions of Pride and Prejudice. Emma was sitting right next to them, so I told her I’d take all of them. ”
“These must have cost a fortune.”
I should really offer to pay him back. I looked up a copy that had been printed in 1930 once and nearly swallowed my tongue. These all have much older dates on the copyright page.
He shrugs again, and I release a frustrated huff. “Would you stop shrugging as if this isn’t one of the nicest gifts someone has given me?”
“Really?”
“Really? Are you being serious right now?”
Sam nods, and I lose the battle to not roll my eyes at this man, which only seems to speed up the tears that begin to well up.
It’s not even the material objects that have me blinking rapidly.
It’s the fact that before anything had even happened, he remembered what I said.
It’s that before I kissed him, he thought of me when he saw these books.
He was thinking about me when he was out with all the guys.
“This means a lot, Sammy,” I tell him as forcefully as I can manage considering how I’m now full-on crying now.
He pulls the books from my hands and wraps his arms around me. “I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he murmurs into my hair.
“It’s just…” I hiccup over my words, unable to get my breathing regulated in time to say all the things I’d like to say.
No one is buying me random gifts. My best friend Lisa has taken Maggi to get me a gift for all the gift days since Eric died, but no one is coming over with random things because they saw something and thought of me.
Eric did things like this on occasion. Flowers were pretty consistent, but there was one time he came home with a painting he’d seen on his walk to work because he thought I’d like it, he was right.
It’s not the gift; it’s knowing someone was thinking about me.
It’s something else I hadn’t realized meant something a bit more.
Something maybe I hadn’t allowed myself to even consider because it seems almost selfish.
Sam rocks me gently as I try and regain my composure, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other does slow circles across my back.
He makes me feel safe, and it’s not that I ever feel like I’m in danger, but I haven’t felt like this in years, and it’s not going to last, and for that reason, I start sobbing even harder.
“This is how all systems of government should be taught,” I say, peering over the copy of Animal Farm I’m reading.
“Agreed,” Sam replies without looking up from the copy of Pride and Prejudice he brought. It’s one from the rental because he refused to bring one of the old editions, much to my delight.