During the day, I can’t go anywhere in the house without being reminded of Alan because his personal possessions are everywhere—his bicycle in the garage, his shoes piled in the front hall closet. It hurts to look at them, and when I do, I find myself staring in a daze, not knowing what to do with his things or how not to feel this pain, which is more confusing than ever now that I’m home, because I’m so angry with him for cheating on me, yet I can’t bear his absence and wish he were here.
I’m not ready to return to work yet because I still feel completely drained and worn out from the accident and getting through Alan’s funeral. Zack is more resilient than I am, and he goes bravely off to school.
When he comes home after his first day back, he tells me that the guidance counselor pulled him out of class to ask how he was coping. She encouraged him to seek help if he needed it—whether that meant talking to someone or being granted an extension on a project. He was both surprised and touched by how caring everyone was, asking him how he was getting along and expressing how sorry they were.
As for me, I spend the next four days on the sofa, feeling lethargic and depressed. There are moments when I hate Alan for destroying our beautiful life together. How could he have done it? How could he have squandered it all?
Then I cry like a baby because I miss him so much and want him back. I sleep a lot. And I call Carla, and we talk and talk. She wants to come and stay with me for a while, but I don’t let her because she has a family she needs to take care of.
The only thing I manage to accomplish that first week, besides taking Winston for a daily walk after lunch, is a trip to the grocery store to buy food so that Zack and I won’t starve or be forced to eat toast and canned beans night after night.
But shopping for groceries only makes me feel more depressed. I move through the store like a zombie, and people stare at my bruised face as I slowly push my cart up and down the aisles. What makes it worse are the festive holiday decorations that start to appear in the stores on the first of December. Songs like “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” are piped through the overhead speakers. The lyrics make me want to grab a jar of salsa off the shelf and smash it on the floor because my husband won’t be home for Christmas this year—or ever. I resist the urge to destroy nonperishables, however.
Later in the week, I try to ignore Alan’s things in the same way that most of us don’t see clutter after living with it for months or years, thinking that will help. I force myself to glance unseeingly over his books on the shelf and his power tools in the basement, which is much easier than making a decision about when I’m going to get rid of everything—including that apartment in Bridgewater.
I tell myself it’s going to take some time before I’m ready, and I just need to be patient. Time heals all wounds, right? But every once in a while, when I go into our closet, I flirt with the idea of burning his belongings in a massive pile in the backyard and spitting on the ashes. Or I could wait for the simmering anger to pass and rummage through every item lovingly, thinking carefully about where it should go and to whom.
Will that day ever come? Will the anger ever pass? I have no idea.
After a week of pure wretchedness, I watch Zack leave for school and decide that it’s time for me to pull myself together too. First, I need to cancel the lease on Alan’s disgusting apartment. Then buy a new car with the insurance money from the accident and get rid of the rental. Zack will be thrilled to help me pick something out. Then I’ll need to return to work. It’ll do me good to be around people again, because I can’t stay at home forever feeling sorry for myself and avoiding my responsibilities.
I drink two cups of coffee and examine my banged-up face in the mirror—it’s looking somewhat better. A thick coat of foundation hides most of the scars and what’s left of the bruises.
Then I look down at Winston and realize he’s doing much better too. I kneel down and give him a scratch behind the ears. “I think we’re over the hump, buddy—at least physically.”
He sits still while I examine his incision, which appears to be completely healed. “That looks really good. In fact, I’m going to text the vet and give him an update.”
Rising to my feet, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, find Nathan in my list of contacts, and begin typing: Hi there. I just wanted to let you know that Winston is doing really well and his incision is healed. Thank you again for everything you did for us last month.
I’m pleased when Nathan texts me back immediately. Hi, Abbie. It’s nice to hear from you. I’m glad Winston is on the mend. How are you doing?
I smile and respond, Oh . . . you know . . . pretty good, all things considered. Taking it day by day.
His reply comes in a few seconds later. That’s all you can do. Just remember not to put too much pressure on yourself to feel normal again. That will take time.
Don’t worry, I reply. Normal is not in my periphery at the moment.
He replies, LOL.
I smile and send one last text: Have a nice Christmas if I don’t talk to you, and say hi to Ruby for me.
He responds, I will. Take care, Abbie!
You too, I reply.
With renewed purpose, I search through my list of contacts again and call the chief of surgery at the hospital to let him know I’m ready to return to work.
“Are you sure, Abbie?” he asks. “Because if you need more time . . .”
“No,” I reply. “It’ll do me good to get out of the house. I need to be with people.”
Especially with the holidays coming. The distraction will be good for me.
He admits he’s overjoyed to hear it because a number of cases have been bumped over the past few weeks. I’ve been sorely missed.
I take a long shower and feel thankful that I have a challenging, rewarding career that I love. I pray that it will help to bring me back to the world of the living.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Zack and I decide that we’ll keep Christmas low-key this year. Personally, I would have preferred to skip it altogether and start fresh next year, but I can’t do that to Zack, so I force myself to get a tree at the farmers market on a Saturday afternoon, drag it home, and stick it in the metal stand.
Together, we agree to keep up the tradition of opening a box of chocolates and listening to holiday music while we hang the lights and decorations, but it’s impossible to act cheerful when every ornament we touch is a reminder of Christmases past.
The “World’s Best Dad” trophy is especially disheartening, because Zack gave that to Alan just last year.
As soon as we hear the song “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by the Carpenters, we exchange a look. Zack nearly trips over a box of garland as he scrambles to shut off the speaker, because we both know that Alan had a secret childhood crush on Karen Carpenter, which we used to tease him about every time this song came on.
“How about I turn on TV instead?” Zack says.
“That’s a great idea.”
He picks up the remote control and tunes in to the Weather Channel. “This should be safe.”
We continue hanging ornaments while Winston lies on the carpet with his chin on his paws, looking depressed as he watches us. So much for being merry.
“So have you made any decisions about college next year?” I ask Zack, feeling a somewhat desperate need to talk about something other than our Christmas memories.
Zack bends to withdraw a little wooden snowman from a box and turns to hang it on the tree. “Actually. I’m thinking I might just go to Dal and live at home.”
I gape at him in shock. “Dal. But I thought you wanted to go to Queen’s or Western.”
It has always been Zack’s dream to go away to college and live in a new city, on his own. Dalhousie is an excellent school, but it’s just down the street.
“What changed your mind?”
He glances at me briefly before he bends to pick up another ornament. “I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Zack. We’re always honest with each other.” Well . . . maybe not always. “What’s going on?”
“We just lost Dad. And I . . . I don’t want you to be all alone.”
While I hate the idea of my son feeling responsible for my happiness when he should be excited about his own, I’m proud of him for thinking of others and not just himself.
Then suddenly, I wish that we’d had another child so that Zack wouldn’t feel as if he were deserting me now.
It isn’t the first time I’ve wished I could have gotten pregnant again. Certainly when Zack was little, he often expressed his desire for a baby brother or sister, but it just wasn’t in the cards. But now, with Alan gone, I see how much pressure this puts on Zack, my only child, to be the center of my world. It’s a lot of responsibility for a seventeen-year-old.
“Don’t worry about me,” I assure him, since the last thing I want is for him to sacrifice his dreams because he doesn’t think his mother can handle solitude. “I have Winston to keep me company, and you know how busy I am with work. I have a full life, Zack. It would break my heart if I thought I was holding you back.”
“You’re not holding me back,” he replies without looking me in the eye as he combs through the box for another ornament. “Lots of my friends are going to Dal, and Dal has a really good science program.”