“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Your story about Emmie having monkey toes—how she can pick up almost anything with them.”
“What about it?” I question.
“Just love that I have a monkey toe girl, too,” he says, and I watch as he closes his eyes, a deep exhale pushing out of his body.
“Are you feeling better?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he moans, not opening his eyes.
“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” I say softly. “I just want you to know that.”
He nods; I can feel him drifting off to sleep in my arms. I decide to give him a few minutes before we get out. I rest my other arm around him and lean my head back, closing my eyes for a moment. I’m not one to pray, but here in this moment I find myself asking for just a little longer before this new stage becomes our norm.
Two Months Later ...
THE CURTAINS ARE closed. I am careful to make sure they overlap one another, not allowing any sunlight to sneak in between the folds. It seems like the only way this makes any sort of sense is when the place Henry and I had created together, as a home, is shrouded in darkness. I can hear Emmie’s mother in the kitchen, busying herself cooking more food than I will ever be able to eat.
“Can I get you anything, sweetie?” Emmie asks behind me.
I shake my head no. It doesn’t even feel right when I hear my voice. It’s hard to explain, but when I talk, it’s almost like I expect Henry to answer me. None of this new reality seems right. It feels like something I’m going to wake up from at any moment.
Henry’s grandmother has taken care of the funeral details—where his body was to go—but all of the styling options are left to me. I wonder how people do this all the time. Choose a casket, a color for the fabric inside; do you want an image on the tombstone or just words? What music would you like at the funeral? Will there be any special words read at the service? I was his friend for four years and his wife for seven months. How can I possibly answer all of those questions? How could he leave me?
I watch as Emmie reaches up to open the curtains I’d so carefully pulled closed the day before.
“Leave them,” I gasp desperately, reaching up with one hand. Emmie stops and turns to look at me. I know this is hard on her, too. I can see she wants to fix it—that’s what Em does. She fixes everything. But you can’t fix this. It’s like the hole that Henry’s mother warned me about. It’s so deep your body aches, wanting to find something to fill it, and you know nothing ever will.
“Colin called this morning to let me know he and Olivia made it back okay,” Emmie says as she walks to the chair next to me and sits down.
“That’s good,” I reply, staring at a picture on the coffee table of Henry and I on our honeymoon. He looks like my Henry, not the man I said goodbye to. I want to tell Emmie to leave, but I know she won’t understand. It’s hard to be around someone who has her person still, after you lost yours. I never knew I could feel anything except love for Emmie, but somewhere inside me, there lurks a scarier version … a version of me who hates her. I hate Colin, too. I hate anyone who has what I lost.
“He was a good man, Paige.”
I turn my head, glaring at my friend. “Was there ever any questioning whether or not he was a good man?” I snap.
“No,” Emmie quickly replies, trying to find the words to state what she meant. “That’s not what I was saying.”
“Then what were you trying to say?” I ask coolly.
Emmie bows her head, exhaling deeply. “Just that I know you’ll miss him.”
I shudder, my shoulders folding in as I pull my legs close to my body. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.” My voice cracks as the tears begin rolling down my cheeks once again. I’ve cried so much since Henry died, that most of the time, I don’t even notice when it starts.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” Emmie says, reaching out and placing an open hand on my arm. “Nobody can understand what you’re going through but you. You’re twenty-seven years old, you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“I didn’t know you could hurt this much.” As I speak, the nasal sound consumes my voice. The pressure in my head clicking and popping as the congestion from the hours of sobbing shifts in my head. “I miss him so much.”
Emmie doesn’t speak; she falls to her knees, and like the perfect friend she is, pulls me into her embrace. I wish I hadn’t had such terrible thoughts only moments ago. I can’t hate her—I hate the pain. Emmie rocks me until I lose track of time, the tears now dry on my swollen cheeks.