by Marie Force
“I’ll do that. Love you, Ronald McDonald.”
Hearing my childhood nickname makes me smile. “Love you, too, Becs.”
When I end the call, I find a text from my brother, Corey, the eldest of our foursome. He works for a tech startup in San Francisco and is married with two kids. When he got the call about Patrick, he jumped on the first flight he could get to be there for me, and I’ll never forget that.
Happy to hear you’re getting a break from it all, he wrote just to me. Think of you and Pat every day. Toni and I send you all our love, kid.
His heartfelt words bring tears to my eyes. He’s twelve years older than me and left for college when I was six, so we didn’t really grow up together. But he’s always been there for me.
I type out a response. Thank you! Miss you guys and love you.
Hoping to get there for a visit during the kids’ spring vacation. Will keep you posted. Xo
They have such a busy life in the Bay Area that I doubt they’d be coming home if it wasn’t for me and my loss, but I still hope for the chance to see them. His kids are six and eight, and I haven’t seen them in a year, since Patrick and I spent a weekend with them last fall during a vacation to California.
The reminder of that trip has me looking at the pictures we took with Corey’s family and all the sights we visited in California. We drove down the Pacific Coast Highway in a convertible, with the top down and the radio blasting.
As I zoom in on Patrick’s smiling, handsome face, I’m filled with yearning that’s every bit as intense here in this new location as it was at home. There are some things a change of scenery simply can’t fix.
* * *
That first night at the lake, I dream about having sex with Patrick for the first time since he died. It’s vivid and real, so real I wake up gasping and on the verge of orgasm. As I stare up at the dark ceiling, breathing hard and reeling from the memories, it occurs to me that Not-Patrick was there, too.
Okay, that’s super weird and probably proof I’m losing my mind.
Why would I dream about Not-Patrick being there when I was having sex with real Patrick? And what is even real anymore?
I think about finishing what my dream lovers began, but I can’t work up the enthusiasm it would take, so I get up, use the bathroom and go downstairs to get a glass of ice water, taking it with me to stand at the back door that looks out over the lake. The moon leaves a trail of light on the dark water, and a hint of frost has gilded the lawn. Winter stretches out before me as an endless season of frosty mornings and early, dark, lonely nights.
What a depressing thought.
I’m surrounded by a sea of people who’d drop anything for me, but the only one I want is the one I can’t have. The dream has me wondering when or if I’ll ever have sex again.
Here’s a true confession for you—I’ve only ever been with Patrick.
My college friends used to joke that I was in possession of the last twenty-year-old V card in America. They thought it was hysterical that I hadn’t done it by the time we reached our junior year and set out—as a group—to ensure I didn’t start my senior year still holding the dreaded card. They were relentless in their efforts to find me a penis, any penis would do, they said.
The memory makes me laugh as I recall the huge bouquet of flowers they sent after Patrick died. They know he was my one and only, but not too many others do.
It took forever for me to go there, but once I did, Patrick and I more than made up for lost time. We were insatiable from the beginning, and the spark between us never waned in the almost ten years we were together. How will I ever do that with anyone but him? Would I rather never do it again than do it with someone other than him?
I’m not even thirty! That’s a long time to live without sex, but the thought of any man ever touching me the way Patrick did makes me sick.
When the sun begins to peek through the trees at five o’clock, I’m still there, still contemplating these huge questions and not finding the answers I need.
That’s when I decide to reach out to Iris.
If anyone knows the answers to these questions, another young widow would.
I wait until the respectable hour of eight to text her. Hi, Iris, this is Rebecca’s sister Roni. She told me you reached out to her, and I’d love to connect at some point. Thank you for the kind offer of support. I need all I can get right now. Look forward to hearing from you.
Iris writes back five minutes later. Are you free for a call in an hour or so? Got to get my kids settled with a movie so I can get a bit of quiet.
I’m free all day!
Talk soon.
I’m strangely energized knowing I’ll be talking to another young widow. I take a shower, make some tea and toast, and after I have something in my stomach, I take a prenatal vitamin, praying it all stays down. While I wait for Iris to call, I check my email for the first time in days, again avoiding the nuclear bomb wedding video message that’s still marked as New in my in-box. A message from the managing editor at the Star catches my attention.
Hi, Roni,
Hope this finds you doing as well as can be expected. We’re all thinking of you and Patrick and sending our love. I hate to have to talk business at a time like this, but I was wondering if you have an estimated date for a return to work. NO RUSH. Mr. Jestings has directed accounting to continue paying your full salary and benefits for as long as you need to be out of work. Whenever you’re ready, we’re here. Please let me know when you can.
All the best,
Don
The reminder of Ray Jestings’s generosity brings tears to my eyes. He took over the ownership of the Star after his wife was arrested for orchestrating the murders of two players on the D.C. Feds baseball team that they also own. That was a story and a half when it happened.
Well, no time like the present to share my plans with the boss who’s been so good to me since I started at the Star two years ago.
Hi, Don,
Thank you so much for your kind note and for checking in. Please pass along my thanks to Mr. Jestings for his incredible generosity. It has meant so much to me during this difficult time to have your support and his as well as that of my wonderful colleagues. Which is why it pains me to have to give you my notice, although the reason is something positive that has come out of this tragedy. I first met Sam Holland Cappuano when she came to the office to notify me about Patrick’s death. Since then, we’ve forged a new friendship, and to my great astonishment, she’s asked me to join her first lady team at the White House.
As you can imagine, I never expected anything like this to happen! I’ve been deeply torn about leaving the Star after having had such a wonderful experience there, but please accept this as my notice, effective December 31. Since I’m still out on bereavement leave, I hope you’ll forgive me for giving you less than two weeks’ notice. I remember a past job telling me that it’s better for accounting purposes to leave at the end of a calendar year than to roll over into the new year for only a week.
Thank you again for your kindness during this difficult time. I’ll never forget it.
Sincerely,
Roni
I reread the message twice before I press Send. My belly flutters with butterflies as I make the first major decision in my life without Patrick. Imagining what he’d have to say about me working at the White House makes me smile until I’m reminded that it never would’ve happened if he hadn’t been killed.
Part of me feels sick for being excited about something that’s come from his death, but he’d tell me to knock it off and celebrate my new job.
Since I’m giving notice and making it official, I send a text to Sam.
Hi there, thanks for checking on me through Darren. Darren Tabor, my Star colleague and friend who covers Sam and her homicide cases, has kept in close touch with me since Patrick died. Sorry to be out of touch. Things have been a bit crazy, as you can probably imagine. I’ve given notice to the Star as of 12.31, and i
f you’ll still have me, I’d love to join your team in January. I’ve been keeping tabs on you guys as you make the transition to the WH, and I’m so proud to say our new first lady is my “shit” friend.
I chuckle as I recall Sam telling me she’s a shit friend because she doesn’t have time to breathe, let alone make new friends. But she reached out to me anyway, and the friendship of a woman I’ve long admired has been an unexpected gift in this season of sorrow.
Please let me know what I need to do to make things official, and thanks again for giving me this lifeline. You’ll never know what it means to me to have something exciting to look forward to. Happy holidays to you and your family. xoxo Roni
Sam replies a few minutes later. I’m so happy to hear from you. I’ve been thinking of you and hoping you’re doing okay. January is perfect! I’ll have Lilia get in touch about paperwork, security checks and other fun things. We’ll be at Camp David (haha—still can’t believe I’m saying that!), from the 26th to the 1st, but please feel free to give me a ring to catch up before your start date!
Will do, I reply. I also meant to say that I thought you and Nick handled the tragedy in Des Moines with grace and class and empathy. I was so proud of you both. Have the best time at Camp David (so cool) and have a wonderful Christmas with the family. I don’t want to bother you while you’re with your family, so call me if you get a spare minute. I’m not doing much of anything right now, which is what I need for a few more weeks. I’ll have my head together by the time January rolls around. At least I hope so—haha. I’m also thinking of you at the first Christmas without your dad. I know that will be hard for you, but I have to believe he and Patrick are keeping close tabs on us and want all the best things for us in the new year. Your friendship has been such a gift to me in the midst of this tragedy. Thank you again for being you and for reaching out to me the way you have. Hugs.
I’m surprised when she writes right back. Isn’t she the busiest woman in the country with two full-time jobs, one of them being first lady? Ugh, Des Moines was brutal. How can someone shoot innocent babies lined up to see Santa??? It makes me sick to think of those poor families having to get through Christmas after that. Sigh. I’m so happy to have made a new friend this year. I’m not known for such things, so… LOL! I can’t wait to work with you at the WH and to get to know you even better. Thank you for thinking of me and my dad. I sure do miss him. I’ll be thinking of you, Patrick and your families this Christmas and hoping for peace for all of you. Hang in there, and I’ll definitely try to check in from Camp David (STILL SURREAL—haha).
I love how real she is, how she hasn’t let her lofty new status go to her head. She’s exactly the same person she seemed to be when her husband was “only” the vice president. I don’t know her all that well, but I followed her career as the commander of the Metro PD’s Homicide division long before I had the misfortune of actually meeting her after my husband was killed.
Sam was so caring and empathetic as she broke the life-changing news to me. She’s helped me so much in the aftermath of catastrophe, including inviting me to participate in her new grief group for victims of violent crime, that my regard for her has only increased tenfold. Not to mention she’s a freaking badass with the shit she does on the job and now as the country’s first first lady with a full-time job outside the White House. My friends are going to die when they hear I’m going to work for her.
5
Roni
I’m rereading the exchange with Sam when my phone rings with a call from Iris.
“Hi there.”
“Hey,” she says, “is this a good time?”
“Yes, it’s perfect.”
“Well, hello, and welcome to the worst club you never wanted to join.”
I laugh at how she phrases that. “No kidding, right?”
“It’s the worst. No sugarcoating it. I hate to even ask this stupid question, but how’re you doing?”
“Not terrible days, really bad days, weird days, sad days.”
“That sounds about right. It’s been two months?”
“Yes, two and a half this week.” How have I gotten through seventy-five days without Patrick?
“The good news, if there is good news, is the beginning is the absolute worst. The shock, the people, the mourning, the funeral… You’re through the worst of it, even if it doesn’t seem that way from where you’re sitting.”
“I can sort of see that, although I’m feeling confused about how I’m supposed to do so many things without him.”
“I understand that. I make decisions for myself and our kids every day and think to myself, is this what Mike would want me to do? Would he agree with sending them to that preschool or having them on that soccer team?”
“I can’t begin to imagine how much harder it has to be when you have kids old enough to realize something terrible has happened.”
“That’s been the hardest part for me. Explaining over and over again to my two-, four- and six-year-old kids why Daddy can’t come home ever again.”
“That has to be brutal.”
“It really is. People must be saying the dreaded ‘be glad you didn’t have kids’ thing to you.”
“A few have, but I found out yesterday that I’m pregnant.”
“Oh wow.”
“You’re the first person I’ve told because it doesn’t seem real to me, so how can I tell my family or Patrick’s?”
“You don’t have to tell anyone until you’re ready, but I hope you can sort of see this as a gift.”
“I can, even if the thought of being a single mother is beyond scary.”
“You won’t have to do it alone. I know Rebecca well enough to say you have a wonderful, supportive family and friends. And I hope maybe I can convince you to become part of our group, too.”
“It’s an official group?”
“Yep. We call ourselves the Wild Widows.”
The name makes me laugh. “Okay…”
“The name was inspired by the Mary Oliver quote, ‘Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’”
“I love that.”
“We do, too. It’s intended to convey that while we may have lost our partners, we still have a great big wild life left to live. Our goal is to help each other through all the various challenges that only other young widows would understand.”
“That sounds like something I need. I had a dream about Patrick last night…”
“The sex dream?”
I’m astounded. “How’d you know?”
“It’s happened to quite a few of us.”
“Wow, that’s interesting. It just made me realize I’m not even thirty, and I’ll probably have to do that with someone else at some point, and God, how do you do that, and how do you know you’re ready, and… I’m rambling. So many questions.”
“We all have them, and it’s important to know that the timeline on this is yours and yours alone. We’ve had people hook up with someone else very soon after their loss just to get that first time out of the way so they don’t have to dread it. Okay, so that was me.”
“How was it?”
“Every bit as horrible as I expected it to to be. But at least I don’t have to dread the first time anymore.”
“True.” Doing that with someone other than Patrick is unfathomable to me.
“Others have been widowed for several years and haven’t been on a date yet. We’re a judgment-free zone. Everyone has to do what works for them because each widow’s journey is unique to that person.”
“I really like that. Judgment-free is the way to go.”
“You’re going to run into tons of judgment as a young widow, because when people think of widows, they picture women with white hair and the best part of their lives behind them. Our experience is different in that we’re young enough to potentially have a whole other life with someone else. Often, young widows start looking for that Chapter 2 a lot sooner than people think we should, which is, o
f course, no one’s business but ours. People have trouble wrapping their heads around that.”
“I’m having trouble wrapping my head around that.”
“You will for a while yet, until it sets in that you’ve got a long life left to live, and there’s a very good chance you’re going to live that life with someone new.”
That’s almost too big for me to process at this point. “Have you dated yet?”
“I’ve been on three dates in the last six months, all of them nice, but there were no second dates. When I have time, I check the online profiles I’ve set up, but I haven’t really gotten serious about it yet.”
“How long ago did you lose your husband?”
“Eighteen very long months ago.”
“I’m so sorry for you and your kids.”
“Thanks. He was one of the good ones. We miss him, especially now that it’s Christmas, and with Des Moines on top of it…”
“It’s extra horrible.”
“It sure is. My friend Taylor and I started the group shortly after we both became widowed and were desperate for some support from people who understood what we were going through. Everyone tries so hard to help, but there’s something special about connecting with people who’ve been where you are.”
“I can already see how that will be true.”
“It really is. Our core group ranges from twelve to fifteen, with people cycling in and out as their needs change. We meet on Wednesday nights and rotate among our various homes in the DC, Maryland, Northern Virginia area. We also have an Instagram account that I’ll send you a link to where you can check out some of the members’ stories. We take turns posting there, and it’s gained quite a following from people outside of our immediate group.”
“It’s kind of a shock to realize there’re so many young widows.”
“It was for me, too. People associate the word ‘widow’ with older people, but we know all too well how you don’t always get lucky enough to grow old with your spouse or partner.”
