2
It’s been two days since Ben issued the challenge of finding me someone else to love, and I hope by my pretending he didn’t
say it, he will let it drop.
But Ben is someone who needs a project. As if losing his fight with cancer isn’t all-consuming enough, he wants to ensure I fall in love while he’s still here. I haven’t even tried to explain all the reasons that will
never work, how it isn’t physically possible to fall in love with someone while you’re still madly in love with someone else.
That it will probably be years before I feel even an iota of normal, and the last thing on my mind is finding a new husband.
I make coffee, leave Ben a note, and head out for work. Today is the last day of school before summer. While I wanted to take
a leave of absence at the start of Ben’s diagnosis, he insisted I keep working so I could have some semblance of a normal
routine.
“Kids put life into perspective,” he often says.
To which I always reply, “Have you ever met a teenager?”
Truthfully, I adore my students. They give me a sense of purpose and have kept me motivated this past year while Ben endured
treatment.
I take the elevator to the main floor of our building, say good morning to our doorman, Randy, and step outside. It’s a perfect Chattanooga day, not a cloud in the sky. I lift my coffee to my lips and take a big gulp, indulging in a fleeting moment of joy. This happens sometimes. I can appreciate the smallest things—a chirping bird, the glistening water of the Tennessee River, the majesty of the Appalachian Mountains—and then I feel bad, as if I can’t be sad about Ben and happy about life. Ben insists these moments are the moments that matter most, because he finds beauty everywhere now too.
Before cancer, we were both moving so fast, working hard and making future plans, and now that’s all been wiped away. It’s
been one of the most surprising effects of his diagnosis, how we are both finding glimpses of beauty in the grief.
“Hey, hey.” Jenna falls into step beside me, and I realize I passed the front of her building without even slowing for her
to join.
“Sorry.” I stop, turn, and give her a hug. She smells like flowers. “Lost in thought.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
We both laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I will cry. Jenna has been with us during the entire ordeal and is one of the few
people who doesn’t treat Ben with pity. She still jokes around, busts Ben’s balls, and tells him to get it together when she
stops by and he’s too sick to get out of bed.
“So did you know?” I ask. I don’t even say what I’m referring to, because if she does know, I’ll be able to tell.
“I know nothing.” Her cheeks redden as she tucks her wild, curly hair behind her ears. Jenna teaches French, knows five languages, has a gorgeous partner, Wren, and two hairless cats. She’s sharp as a tack, and her answer tells me everything I need to know.
“Wait,” I say. “When did he come up with this stupid plan?”
She shrugs. “You know Ben. He needs something else to focus on besides...” The truth hangs between us. “I told him it was
ridiculous, but when has he ever listened to me?”
“Good point.” I laugh.
“Well, if you think this idea is insane, just wait until you talk to him and Wren.” Wren owns the Terrington art gallery downtown.
For years, she’s encouraged me to take my craft more seriously, though I always claim I don’t have enough time. At first,
it was because of work, then it was because of Ben.
I stop her. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
“Really, Jenna? You’re just going to dangle that carrot?”
“Yep.”
At the high school’s entrance, I hold the door open for her as a crush of students barrel inside before the morning bell.
“Have a good day!”
I roll my eyes as she heads off to her classroom. What are Wren and Ben up to? I stand in the foyer and listen to the chatter around me as I make my way to my classroom.
My seniors stripped their work from the walls earlier this week. Before they flood in for first period, I stare at the husk
of this room, which has contained so much creativity this year.
The walls are studded with putty and nothing more. The room seems cold and bland without their wild, colorful, abstract creations clogging up every available surface. Though I claim not to have favorites, my seniors are easily that, mainly because they remind me of what’s possible in the world.
They pile in now, excited about the last day of school. I let them grab their supplies and tell them we are doing one last
project, which is free choice.
Once they settle down and find their rhythm, I close my eyes for a moment and hear the quick swish of brushes and graffiti
pens being shaken and pressed to fresh canvases. There’s the tap, tap, tap of bristles in water, the long, smooth strokes of thick acrylic, mingled with a stray cough or sneeze. When the kids are
locked in and focused, not distracted by their phones or each other, the energy swells. I absorb the vibration of it now,
that strong creative force of being in the groove while time disappears.
Though I teach art, I pretty much gave up on my own dreams because my one big shot didn’t happen in New York. An image flashes
through my mind that stops me cold: of me, the gallery, of him ... but I promptly swipe it away, like always. That is the past. I know now, more than ever, that there is no point in playing
the what-if game.
Classes whip by, one after another, and before I know it, it’s the end of the day. I gather my supplies and rush through the
hallways, waving at kids, wishing them a good summer, and absorbing all the raucous sounds of young teenage life. Seniors
whoop through the halls, excited to be free from this place for good, with its metal detectors, security guards, and active
shooter drills. School, like so much of the world, has become such an unpredictable place.
At the teachers’ lounge door, I feel the familiar curl of excitement at the promise of summer. No matter how old I get, it’s still my favorite season. But the moment I think about it, I remember what could happen this summer. This might be the summer I lose Ben. This might be the summer my whole life changes. This might be the summer I become a widow.
Before I can let those thoughts go, Jenna yanks me inside the lounge and starts chatting my ear off. The emotions from the
day leak out of me slowly, like a gently pricked balloon. I am tired. I want to see Ben. Instead, I plaster on a smile and
spend time with my colleagues.
But my brain keeps drifting away. When I leave here for the summer, I am stepping into an unfamiliar world in more ways than
one.
Though I am excited for the break from work, I also know that what I’m facing with Ben will no longer be a hypothetical anymore.
I won’t have work to scurry off to. I won’t be able to morph into Harper the teacher and bury my problems for seven hours
every day.
Instead, I will face it head-on—this new reality of losing my favorite person.
The big question isn’t if anymore... it’s when.