Chapter 38 #2
The month passed quickly and it seemed like all of a sudden it was the night before we were moving back to our apartment. After I put Lucy to sleep, I asked William to drop by the guesthouse.
Five minutes later, he knocked on the door and I invited him to sit on the couch.
“What’s this?” he asked as I set down a box on the couch next to him.
“It’s a present for you,” I said with a bittersweet smile.
“Remember all those Saturday afternoons when she-who-shall-not-be-named was at her weekly pickleball game and you used to come hang out in the guesthouse with me and Lucy?” I waited for him to nod before continuing, “Well, I always knew there was another reason you were there. I’d catch you staring wistfully at my ‘Sam shrine,’ as she used to call it. ”
William lifted the lid, and a smile spread across his face as he registered the box’s contents: a collection of what I knew were some of his favorite photos and trophies.
He looked at me with misty eyes. As we unpacked the box item by item, we lost ourselves in stories about Sam.
Some made us laugh. Other memories cut to the quick.
But it was cathartic to be united in grief.
It struck me—this was what I’d been missing all along.
Maybe if I hadn’t been alone with my grief over my sister’s death, or my parents’ divorce, or Sam, I wouldn’t have resorted to such, ahem, unconventional coping strategies.
After we’d had our fill of emotion for the night, William painstakingly repacked the box, until he held the last item—Sam’s NCAA Individual Singles Champion trophy.
Before Rebecca redecorated a year after Sam died, this trophy—a crowning accomplishment, and one that symbolically marked Sam’s graduation from collegiate player to professional—had occupied a place of honor in the family room of the main house.
“Thank you for this,” he said. “I’m going to put it back on the shelf where I can see it every day.
Rebecca couldn’t bear to be surrounded by his things.
She said it was too painful. But I think I needed it more than I realized and I let her .
. . I don’t know . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Stunt your own grief process?” I supplied the words he was searching for now that I was an expert in therapy with all of six weeks under my belt.
He nodded.
“I get that,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about how she was always on my case for being stuck in grief.
But I’ve had some interesting discussions with my therapist about this.
She explained to me that Rebecca and I—and maybe you, too?
—have probably been suffering from different forms of the same malady.
It’s called complex grief disorder, but there are several ways it manifests.
She believes I’m experiencing chronic grief.
But there’s another type of complex grief called delayed grief.
Whereas I’ve been unable to let go of my grief, continuing to blame myself for anything and everything, even if it meant making up stories to support my need to self-flagellate, Rebecca was probably unable to even begin to grieve because of the secret she kept.
Obviously I always knew she loved Sam ferociously.
That’s why I could never understand her lack of outward emotion.
But now I’m starting to see it in a different light. ”
William was watching me intently as I experimented with “grief-speak.”
“Because of this one enormous lie,” I continued, “my therapist explained that Rebecca’s grief and guilt must have felt like intertwined threads.
Like if she pulled on one, it would also unravel the other.
So instead she froze in a state of denial.
It’s not an excuse, but it is an explanation.
I also learned from my own mom’s experience how impossibly painful it is for a parent to face that they may have been a proximate cause of their own child’s death.
My mom was unable to say my sister’s name out loud for the better part of two decades. ”
As angry as I was—and for fuck’s sake, I was still angry—the irony was not lost on me that I was more equipped to empathize with Rebecca now thanks to my time with Dr. Field, which was a direct result of her threat to petition for guardianship if I refused to get help.
She’d been right about my needing therapy, and her reasons for pushing me were rooted in love and concern for Lucy and me, but it was also true that she’d needed the same type of help all along.
Maybe that was how it was supposed to work, though?
Maybe we all needed a little push now and then from the people who loved us?
“Have you talked to her?” I asked him.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he shook his head. “She calls me every day and leaves multiple voicemails begging for forgiveness. I haven’t been ready to talk about it.”
“Yeah, she’s been leaving me the same messages.
And emails. And texts. It’s pretty brutal.
And Lucy’s been asking for her almost every day.
I’m still miles away from being ready to talk to her, though.
I think my brain is stuck in retribution mode for the time being.
Like, she doesn’t deserve the joy of being with Lucy.
I know that’s kind of mean and small, but then again, it pales in comparison to lying for six years and causing me to question my own sanity.
So there we are,” I said with a resigned shrug.
William sank back into the couch. “I’ve also been doing a lot of thinking these past couple of weeks.”
I waited for him to speak.
“I just can’t understand how I was so oblivious that my wife was lying to me.
How could I not have picked up on anything?
I keep thinking this is somehow my fault for being so trusting.
Maybe if I had paid more attention, it wouldn’t have brought Sam back, but it might have eased your burden, and mine. I feel so ashamed.”
“Whoa there, William,” I said, holding up a hand.
“Take it from someone who’s an expert player in the self-blame game.
This is not your fault. I repeat: This is not your fault.
It’s one hundred percent on Rebecca. But also—and this is difficult for me, too, right now—if I take off my retribution hat for a second, I suppose we might one day have to consider weighing this one big mistake against all her good qualities.
And by ‘mistake,’ I’m referring to the cover-up, not the part about her being upset over the pregnancy.
I can excuse the fight she had with Sam over the sonogram.
We all say regrettable things now and then, but most of us aren’t unlucky enough to have them be the last words we ever say to a loved one. That must have really sucked.”
William nodded. “Maybe. But I’m not quite ready to see it that way. I guess I need to give it some more time.”
“Same. OK, the retribution hat is back on.” I mimed pulling a cap over my head. “At least for now.”
The corner of his mouth lifted and he turned to face me.
“One other thing I’ve been thinking about is why I’ve been so invested in Lucy playing tennis.
I know you thought she was my do-over. But the truth is, I did it because I craved being around people who knew Sam.
Even after all these years, they still wanted to tell me stories about him. And god help me, I needed that.”
In that moment my perspective shifted like a kaleidoscope, twisting to reveal an entirely new pattern. Lucy playing tennis was filling an emotional hole for William, but not in the way I’d assumed. She was his ticket into a world that allowed him to grieve for his son mostly outside Rebecca’s view.
“If Lucy doesn’t want to play tennis,” William continued, “I have absolutely no problem with that. It’s entirely up to you. You’re her mom. And you’re a damn fine one.”
I nudged him with my shoulder. “That’s sweet, William. But not to worry, I’ll never let you steamroll her into more tennis than she wants. Unless, of course, I have another book deadline and need lots of free babysitting,” I kidded.
William threw an arm over my shoulders. “This is hard. But we’re going to be all right. We’re family.”