73 EVIE
E VIE
“I wrote a song for you,” he’d said, once upon a time a long time ago, with a shy smile as the fire glistened off the golden flecks in his hazel eyes. He pulled out his guitar and started playing as I lay next to him, one lazy morning toward the end of that first tour years ago.
I’ll sing you safe, my love
Though it’s time to say goodbye
I know we’ll make it anywhere
Sleep peaceful tonight
Darkness cannot touch, my love
My arms around you here
Just listen for my voice, my love
I’ll be right beside you dear
When he finished the song, he’d whispered in my ear.
“It’s a lullaby. So you can always feel me with you when you sleep.
” On the night of his memorial, I curled up on his bed, wrapped in his covers, and felt the words he’d written to comfort me in the dark of night, recorded on an old cassette.
From a quiet place inside came the comforting thought that somehow, I would be okay, though I knew it would take a long time.
But I had been so intensely, and so exquisitely, loved by this one man that even in his loss, I could feel nothing but amazement and gratitude.
On that warm afternoon, in the summer of 1998, my life had changed forever.
Carter had seen me, and I had seen him—and I smiled at the certainty that in that extraordinary instant, the universe must have paused in song and held its collective breath, privy to the exact, precise moment of a lifetime of love being born.
Just as I was drifting off, in the mysterious space that hovers between awake and asleep, I felt his arms around me and heard him sing quietly in my ear. I’ll be right beside you, dear.
I stayed in his house for three days before finally returning home and realizing that nothing in my life felt like mine anymore.
Bake sales and block parties had never suited me, anyway, and I was done trying to fit the mold.
White picket fences were overrated. And then everything that had once been the light of my life was replaced by the darkness of a depression so deep that I thought it might never release its grip.
Lucas, you were young enough that you didn’t quite get what was happening, but Lainey, I know you felt the loss of the warm mother you once knew.
The one who once played Peter Pan in the backyard.
You grew up a lot then. For a while, the two of you lived with your dad most of the time. It was better that way.
There is a certain stillness that happens in the aftermath of great loss, when one is given a choice—to travel on in the path of darkness and pain, locked in a sight turned only to the past, or to emerge into the light and celebrate all that has been.
It was a long time before I was able to find that light again.
And when I finally did, it seemed like I never could quite get back that innocence of young motherhood that I’d once loved so much.
It seemed like I’d missed so much with you both.
Belly laughs and small toes, kitchen counters covered in chocolate batter and milk-mustached children—it felt like a distant past that belonged to someone else.
But little by little, eventually, things started to get better.
You probably don’t remember this, but I took you to see my father right around that time, encouraged by a therapist I’d begun seeing.
He had become unwell. Developed Alzheimer’s.
He didn’t recognize me but said I reminded him of his daughter.
“I have a little girl. She lives with her mother, so I don’t see her much.
Cutest little thing you ever did see, though.
Has these big, round eyes. And whip-smart, my Evie.
She’s a good kid. You’d like her.” Sometimes we find forgiveness in the most unexpected ways.
Throughout it all, the currents of life went on, taking me with them, barely perceptible to the eye, yet powerful beneath the surface.
As time moved forward, the raw wounds began to scar, and little by little, the chasm that existed between your dad and me began to close, bridged initially by the love of our children, but also by the strand of compatibility that had joined us in the first place.
One morning, just over two years from the day of Carter’s death, I was unpacking the kids’ bags when I found a letter tucked among their things.
It was the only letter he had ever written me, aside from all those silly notes from grade school, and I knew how difficult it must have been for him to find the words.
Dear Evie,
For all those years, he had your heart. I know that now.
But I also had something equally wonderful.
I had your Christmas mornings and prom night.
I had the births of our children, the worries over high fevers and the joys of first words.
I had your first and only wedding dance.
I had the home we created, your Sunday mornings and Friday-night movies.
So while I know that he was the love of your life, please know that you have been the love of mine.
Steve
It seemed that the path of my life had not only been destined to be intertwined with Carter but with Steve as well.
In some strange way, one that I can’t begin to comprehend, the cords of our three paths were tangled forever.
Carter’s presence never left our lives, but like one might acquiesce to the idea of sharing their home with a ghost, we learned to go on with acceptance of all that had transpired and the unusual path we’d taken.
“Love comes in many forms,” I had told Steve on the night I’d received his letter.
I had been gifted with the mating of souls with one man and a lifetime of loving companionship with another.
A woman is blessed to receive either of these experiences in her life, yet I had been given both and was profoundly grateful.
Along my journey, I had discovered a powerful truth—the one we love the most in life may not be the one we love the best. The realization brought with it renewed faith and provided the foundation to begin anew.
Eventually, your dad and I formed a new bond that was based on honesty and respect as he got to know me once again.
He moved back into the house, and we returned to being the family we had once been.
In turn, I was able to give him all of what was left of my fractured heart.
Unlike the exotic and explosive connection I shared with Carter, the relationship that your dad and I enjoyed was a quiet, steady one, suited for traveling the years with grace and contentment.
It was in those early days of the rebirth of our family that he asked that we never tell you the truth about everything that had transpired. Fearing the unnecessary pain it might cause you, I agreed.
We never spoke of it again, until just a few days ago, before he died.
It was a quiet night in the hospital when he opened his eyes, likely knowing that this moment would come after he was gone.
“Let her know that no matter what, she was always my daughter. And I was always her father.” I took his hand and gave him the assurance that he needed.
I’m so sorry if we made the wrong decision, but please know it was done with love.