Hello Love
ONE
The little dog waited, ears rising expectantly with the passing of every car, her eyes never leaving the door. Dan stood and watched her for a second before whistling to break the spell, but she still didn’t move. “Come over here, girl,” he urged. “No point in waiting.”
Anni heard him; he was sure of it. He even suspected she understood every word. She was one smart dog, more intuitive than a lot of people. Anni was a mixed breed, with the floppy ears and nose of a beagle, and the short coat and tan coloring of a dachshund. A mutt by design, but a champion at heart. If Anni knew the futility of waiting by the door, she just didn’t want to believe it.
Dan crouched down and rubbed behind her ears, and when she looked up at him with her big, compelling liquid eyes, there was understanding between them. “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. The idea that Christine was never coming back just wasn’t right. His wife had been the hub of their lives; the house had been ingrained with her footsteps, the walls still held echoes of her laughter. And there had been a lot of laughter. But that was before.
Proof of her existence was everywhere: the grocery list stuck to the front of the refrigerator; her jacket on the hook by the back door; the book she’d been reading still askew on the end table, a tasseled bookmark holding her place. He’d flip the kitchen calendar and see appointments written in her handwriting and reminders to visit her former boss Nadine, a difficult woman who’d had a series of strokes and now lived full-time in a medical care facility. Christine was good that way, loyal, always thinking about others. “It’s no big deal,” she’d say when Dan would call her a saint. But he knew it was a big deal. Most people couldn’t be bothered, but Christine wasn’t most people.
The funeral had been unreal, a nightmare he hadn’t been able to wake up from. Life wasn’t supposed to go like this. He’d always envisioned that he’d be the first to die, and with that in mind had made sure there was enough life insurance for Christine and their daughter, Lindsay, to be financially secure. But of course, he’d also imagined that would be far in the future, when they were old. Very old with hearing aids and walkers—not while they were still young, or youngish anyway, Christine only thirty-nine and he a year older.
She would always be thirty-nine now, while he would grow older every day, always alone, every passing year a little further from when they’d been together. The grief came in waves: sometimes so intense it almost kept him from functioning; other times lurking in the background, like a dull headache.
A year. More than a year, really, since she’d been gone. Unthinkable that time kept passing without her. In the evening, Anni still waited by the front door for Christine’s return, and whenever Anni was outside, she would wander to the end of the driveway to look down the road. The sight of the dog sitting patiently, watching for the sight of Christine’s car, was a real heartbreaker.
Dan understood what Anni was waiting for because he wanted the same thing. If life were fair, any minute they’d hear Christine’s key in the lock, and she’d come through the door, just the way she used to. It would turn out that she hadn’t really died at all, that there’d been a mix-up at the hospital. Some other patient, one who looked a lot like her, had died, while Christine had made a miraculous recovery. You thought I was dead? Christine would say incredulously, dropping her purse to the floor. They’d laugh and then cry and finally feel terrible for the other family, the one who’d been on the other end of the mix-up—those poor people who’d really lost a mother and wife, but didn’t know it yet. Dan knew the pain those people would feel when they found out the truth.
The day after Christine had died the seasons changed, like nature itself had acknowledged her passing. Summer was over. The autumn air was brisk, the leaves changing color before dropping to the ground. Winter loomed ahead.
There was a time when dinner on the table at six o’clock was a given. Now he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten that evening. He wasn’t hungry, though, so it didn’t matter. Lindsay was at a friend’s house working on a group project for her psychology class. The house felt empty, the air heavy. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. What did he used to do on weekday evenings back before the funeral? He couldn’t remember.
It wasn’t really cold enough to light a fire in the fireplace, but it was something to do, so he set to work painstakingly arranging the logs and putting kindling beneath the grate. He crumpled some newspaper and shoved it underneath. Lighting a match, he held the flame to the paper and watched as the fire flickered and spread. Once he was sure it wouldn’t burn out, he closed the glass doors. Still facing the door, Anni whined and lowered her body, her nose over her front paws. The sight was like his own grief displayed in front of him.
The little dog waited, ears rising expectantly with the passing of every car, her eyes never leaving the door. Dan stood and watched her for a second before whistling to break the spell, but she still didn’t move. “Come over here, girl,” he urged. “No point in waiting.”
Anni heard him; he was sure of it. He even suspected she understood every word. She was one smart dog, more intuitive than a lot of people. Anni was a mixed breed, with the floppy ears and nose of a beagle, and the short coat and tan coloring of a dachshund. A mutt by design, but a champion at heart. If Anni knew the futility of waiting by the door, she just didn’t want to believe it.
Dan crouched down and rubbed behind her ears, and when she looked up at him with her big, compelling liquid eyes, there was understanding between them. “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. The idea that Christine was never coming back just wasn’t right. His wife had been the hub of their lives; the house had been ingrained with her footsteps, the walls still held echoes of her laughter. And there had been a lot of laughter. But that was before.
Proof of her existence was everywhere: the grocery list stuck to the front of the refrigerator; her jacket on the hook by the back door; the book she’d been reading still askew on the end table, a tasseled bookmark holding her place. He’d flip the kitchen calendar and see appointments written in her handwriting and reminders to visit her former boss Nadine, a difficult woman who’d had a series of strokes and now lived full-time in a medical care facility. Christine was good that way, loyal, always thinking about others. “It’s no big deal,” she’d say when Dan would call her a saint. But he knew it was a big deal. Most people couldn’t be bothered, but Christine wasn’t most people.
The funeral had been unreal, a nightmare he hadn’t been able to wake up from. Life wasn’t supposed to go like this. He’d always envisioned that he’d be the first to die, and with that in mind had made sure there was enough life insurance for Christine and their daughter, Lindsay, to be financially secure. But of course, he’d also imagined that would be far in the future, when they were old. Very old with hearing aids and walkers—not while they were still young, or youngish anyway, Christine only thirty-nine and he a year older.
She would always be thirty-nine now, while he would grow older every day, always alone, every passing year a little further from when they’d been together. The grief came in waves: sometimes so intense it almost kept him from functioning; other times lurking in the background, like a dull headache.
A year. More than a year, really, since she’d been gone. Unthinkable that time kept passing without her. In the evening, Anni still waited by the front door for Christine’s return, and whenever Anni was outside, she would wander to the end of the driveway to look down the road. The sight of the dog sitting patiently, watching for the sight of Christine’s car, was a real heartbreaker.
Dan understood what Anni was waiting for because he wanted the same thing. If life were fair, any minute they’d hear Christine’s key in the lock, and she’d come through the door, just the way she used to. It would turn out that she hadn’t really died at all, that there’d been a mix-up at the hospital. Some other patient, one who looked a lot like her, had died, while Christine had made a miraculous recovery. You thought I was dead? Christine would say incredulously, dropping her purse to the floor. They’d laugh and then cry and finally feel terrible for the other family, the one who’d been on the other end of the mix-up—those poor people who’d really lost a mother and wife, but didn’t know it yet. Dan knew the pain those people would feel when they found out the truth.
The day after Christine had died the seasons changed, like nature itself had acknowledged her passing. Summer was over. The autumn air was brisk, the leaves changing color before dropping to the ground. Winter loomed ahead.
There was a time when dinner on the table at six o’clock was a given. Now he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten that evening. He wasn’t hungry, though, so it didn’t matter. Lindsay was at a friend’s house working on a group project for her psychology class. The house felt empty, the air heavy. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. What did he used to do on weekday evenings back before the funeral? He couldn’t remember.
It wasn’t really cold enough to light a fire in the fireplace, but it was something to do, so he set to work painstakingly arranging the logs and putting kindling beneath the grate. He crumpled some newspaper and shoved it underneath. Lighting a match, he held the flame to the paper and watched as the fire flickered and spread. Once he was sure it wouldn’t burn out, he closed the glass doors. Still facing the door, Anni whined and lowered her body, her nose over her front paws. The sight was like his own grief displayed in front of him.