Someone Like You: Wild Widows Series, Book 1

by Marie Force

  “I was so naïve before this happened. It never occurred to me that something like this could take Patrick from me with no warning.”

  “I was the same way, blissfully going through my life with my awesome husband and beautiful kids and lovely life with no idea whatsoever how quickly it could all be gone. We’ve had some great debates in the group about which is harder—seeing a partner through a fatal illness and knowing the end is coming or having it happen suddenly.”

  “As bad as they both are, the sudden death comes with no warning or chance to say goodbye. But then there’s also no long, drawn out suffering for the one you love the most. Actually, I’m not sure which is worse.”

  “It all sucks, but there’re added layers of trauma for people who’ve been caregivers to terminally ill partners. We also have a woman whose husband has been charged with rape and is going on trial soon. We invited her to join the group because that’s like a death of sorts, of the life she thought she was going to have with a man who’s not at all who she thought he was.”

  “Ugh, that’s awful.”

  “She’s been through a terrible ordeal, but she’s doing a little better now that she’s had some time to wrap her head around it. I hate the expression ‘time heals all wounds,’ because some wounds will never heal, but time does have a way of softening some of the edges and making a loss more bearable.”

  “I suppose that’s true. As bad as I still feel every day, it’s not like it was at first.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. You’ve still got a long road ahead of you, but deciding to survive your loss is an important first step.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “I’ve heard of instances where widows decide they’d rather not continue on after losing the most important person in their lives.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “It’s terrible, but part of me understands why that path would be tempting. Some days, especially at first, I thought how that would be so much easier than going on. I had kids to think about, though, so that path wasn’t something I could allow myself to get too enamored with. However, I certainly get why people would want a way out of the awful grief.”

  “I do, too. I never in a million years would’ve ever thought that way before I lost Patrick, but for the first few weeks, I thought about it a lot. My family probably suspected where my mind had gone because someone was with me around the clock for weeks.”

  “My family was the same way. They got me through the worst of it, and by the time they decided I was strong enough to stand on my own two feet again, I’d moved past those grim thoughts.”

  “I can’t tell you what it means to me to speak to someone who truly understands.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. Having that saved me once upon a time, and I try to pay that forward now to people like you, who are just starting this journey. There’s one more thing I need to tell you about our group before you decide for sure to join.”

  “Okay…”

  “We have one rule, and that is everyone who joins us has to be open to the idea of what we call a Chapter 2, or a second chance at love. It doesn’t have to be something you’re actively pursuing when you join, but being open to the possibility is something we all agree to as a general philosophy that keeps us hopeful about the future. I would totally understand if you’re not there yet, or if that’s too much to even consider at this point—”

  “No, it’s fine. I think that’s a wonderful ‘rule’ to have, and keeping the focus on hope for the future is something that resonates with me. My husband never would have wanted me to be alone mourning for him for the rest of my life. He’d want me to live with as much joy as I can find.”

  “Mine was like that, too. He’d tell me, ‘Iris, quit your moping and get back to living.’ That’s sometimes easier said than done.”

  “For sure.”

  “You’ll always mourn him and the life you planned to have with him. Nothing will ever change that fact of your life, but that doesn’t have to mean you’re going to be sad and lonely forever.”

  “That’s good to know. I’d love to be part of your group, and thank you again for reaching out to me. It means so much.”

  “You’ll do it for someone else someday and pay it forward. That’s how this works.”

  Iris promises to keep in touch and to send me info about their upcoming meeting early next month.

  I end the call feeling optimistic for the first time since Patrick died. To know there’s a group of fellow travelers out there who understand my experience is so huge. I send Rebecca a text.

  Talked to Iris. She’s amazing. Thanks for the connection. I think it will definitely help.

  I’m making scrambled eggs and toast when she responds half an hour later. So glad to hear that! She’s awesome. We all admire her so much for her strength and fortitude after losing her husband. Not sure how she does it with THREE kids to care for on her own, but she makes it look easy. Are you going to join their group?

  Yes, I think so. It sounds like a great resource, and Iris was so nice to reach out to me and chat on the phone for an hour.

  I’m glad you have that kind of support. It’s so hard for everyone who loves you to know how to help.

  You help just by being there. I’d be lost without you guys to lean on. And Patrick’s family, too. They’ve been so great, worrying about me during such a hard time for them.

  They’re good people.

  How are things there?

  Pretty good except for a baby who won’t sleep at night when I want to.

  Ugh, that makes for some long days.

  Yep. Thankfully, she naps! You going to be okay by yourself tomorrow?? We can come there to hang with you if you want.

  I have to think for a second about what tomorrow is. Oh shit. Christmas. I’ll be fine. It’s just another day this year. I’ll be back to celebrating next year.

  I can’t help but think about “normal” years when I’d be running around buying presents for everyone in my life and obsessing about what to get Patrick. Last year, I got him a subscription to a bourbon-of-the-month club that he loved. The last two boxes are sitting unopened on his desk at home.

  We’ll miss you—and Patrick.

  Thank you for including him. It means a lot to me to know he was loved by so many people.

  Oh God, he was! I’ll never forget his group of friends at the wedding or how much fun they were. Or how heartbroken they were at the funeral.

  Yeah, they’re great. They check on me all the time. Which reminds me, I need to reply to their texts before they send a search party after me. Hope you have a wonderful day with the fam today and tomorrow.

  Can we FaceTime with you tomorrow?

  Sure. That sounds good.

  See you then. Xoxo

  Surprisingly, the eggs and toast taste good to me, and the nausea seems to have given me a day off. Or is it two days off? Yesterday wasn’t too bad either. I’m not sure if it’s the change of scenery, or if I’m through the worst of the morning sickness, but whatever the cause, I’m thankful to feel better and to be able to eat somewhat normally.

  Iris sends me the link to the Wild Widows Instagram account, and I spend half a day immersed in the heart-wrenching stories other widows have shared, along with photos of their lost loved ones. So many of the things they write about resonate with me, such as trying to decide whether they should still wear their wedding rings now that their spouse is gone, or whether they should remove their rings before their first post-loss date, or how to feel okay about having sex with someone new.

  They talk about the perils of bringing a new partner into the lives of their children, how to talk to their kids about what happened to their mother or father, how to answer their questions about the cancer, ALS, aortic dissection, brain tumor, accident or whatever it was that killed their parent. I read story after story from widows and widowers alike about close friends, the people you think are ride-or-die, who disappear after a tragedy, never to
be seen or heard from again. I sit up straight when I read some of the stupid shit people say to widows, stuff I heard myself in the early days of my loss, such as “at least you didn’t have kids,” “everything happens for a reason,” and my favorite, “You’re so young. You’ll meet someone else.” As if Patrick was a pair of shoes that can be easily replaced with a new pair.

  The issues confronted by widows are endless, and it’s a huge relief to know that others out there understand my plight.

  I lose myself in their various accounts, reading story after story about their grief, their joy, their victories and the defeats that come with rebuilding a shattered life. As I read, I laugh, I cry and I commiserate. These are my people, and I can’t wait for the opportunity to get to know them.

  Just thinking the words I can’t wait is a huge improvement from where I was only a few weeks ago when the thought of another day without Patrick, let alone a lifetime, was inconceivable. Now I have a baby on the way, an exciting new job to look forward to and a new group of friends to make. The only thing that dulls my optimism about those things is that I can’t share them with Patrick.

  With the sun heading toward the horizon, I decide to take a short walk to get some air and exercise before it gets dark. As I walk along the dirt road that circles the huge lake, I can see families inside homes with brightly lit trees celebrating Christmas Eve. I feel strangely removed from my favorite holiday, happy to sit this one out so I don’t have to face the empty chair at the table. I’ll miss the time with my family, but being here is the right thing for me this year. It’s one Christmas out a lifetime of them.

  The next day, I’m inundated with texts and emails from family, friends and colleagues letting me know they’re thinking of me and hoping I’m doing okay. I respond to every one of them, letting them know I’m doing as well as can be expected and that I appreciate them checking on me.

  I receive a lovely note from my boss, Don, congratulating me on my new job and wishing me all the best, which is a huge relief.

  I have a long call with Patrick’s parents and get to say hello to his brothers and sisters-in-law, all of whom are gathered at his parents’ home in Richmond, Virginia. I was invited to join them, and that was one of many invitations I declined.

  “We love you so much, sweetheart,” Patrick’s dad, Pete, says.

  “I love you guys, too. Thank you for calling, and Merry Christmas.”

  One of the text messages I receive is from Sarah, the bridesmaid who couldn’t cope with my loss. I’m thinking of you today more than I do every other day, and I’m sorry for bailing on you when you needed me. I hate myself for not being strong enough to support you through this. I hope you can forgive me. I love you, and I loved Patrick.

  Old Roni would’ve written right back and told her not to worry about it, that shit happens, etc. New Roni, the one who’s going through the hardest time of her life, isn’t so forgiving. Hers is the only message I don’t respond to right away, even though she can see that I read it. Let her suffer a bit in her selfishness.

  Does that make me sound vindictive? I can live with that. She was one of my closest friends since my freshman year of college. That’s more than ten years of sharing everything. She totally bailed on me in my darkest hour. I have no idea how to go about forgiving her for that.

  I love the Maya Angelou quote, “When people show you who they really are, believe them the first time.”

  I’m not here to make her feel better about being a shit friend, a thought that makes me laugh as I remember Sam describing herself as a shit friend. I met her the day Patrick died, and she’s been a better friend to me through this nightmare than Sarah.

  I FaceTime with my brother and his family in San Francisco and then my parents and sisters, who are gathered at my parents’ home in Alexandria, Virginia, where the four of us grew up. The kids are in high spirits, making it hard for me to talk to the adults, so I just enjoy a little holiday family time.

  My mom takes the phone into the kitchen, where I get to watch her stir some stuff on the stove before she returns her attention to me. “You’re really all right?”

  How long will it be before she stops asking me that every time she sees or talks to me? “I’m really all right and feeling a little better. I actually ate food today, so that’s a step in the right direction.”

  “I hate that you’re alone on Christmas.”

  “I was thinking yesterday that it’s one Christmas in a lifetime of them. I’ll be back next year. Try not to worry, okay?”

  “Easier said than done, my love.”

  Because I’m tired of talking about myself, I ask, “What did Dad get you for Christmas?”

  “Twelve months of massages and facials at my favorite spa.”

  “Oh, well played, Pops.”

  “I was very pleased with it. I got him some new waders and flies.”

  “Which he loved, right?” My dad enjoys nothing more than fly fishing, which he calls his religion. He taught Patrick the fine art, and he loved it as much as my dad does. They bonded over their shared love of fly fishing.

  “He did, although he still hasn’t been since Patrick died.”

  “He’ll get back to it eventually.”

  “I’m sure he will, but he’s not ready yet.”

  I’m deeply humbled to realize how Patrick’s death has affected so many people, which is a testament to how loved he was.

  We talk for another half hour before we say our goodbyes. A few minutes later, the doorbell rings, which makes me nervous for a second before I get up to see who’s there.

  6

  Roni

  I take a quick look outside, am relieved to see Chelsea holding a big basket and open the door. “Hey. Come in.”

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all.”

  Chelsea follows me in and puts the basket on the kitchen counter. “I thought you might enjoy some Christmas dinner. We had tenderloin, potatoes, creamed spinach and some delicious chocolate cake.”

  The smell of the food makes my mouth water and my stomach rumble with hunger for the first time in longer than I can remember. “That’s so sweet of you. Thank you so much.”

  “No problem at all. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I will.”

  “My girls and I are going out for happy hour tomorrow night, our annual thank-God-it’s-over after-Christmas celebration.”

  I laugh at the grimace that accompanies her comment.

  “Christmas is a lot for the mommies,” she says.

  “My sisters say that, too.” I guess I’m going to find that out for myself.

  “Anyway, we’d love to have you join us if you feel up for it.”

  “I’d love to go, but can I ask a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Can you not tell them my situation? It would be nice to be with people who don’t know about my tragedy.”

  “I completely understand. I won’t say a word, and I’ll ask them to keep the questions to a minimum.”

  “I’d really appreciate that. Thank you for the invite.”

  “Of course. Happy to have you join us. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  “I won’t drink, so if you want a designated driver, I’d be happy to pick you up.”

  “Ohhh, I might take you up on that. My kids were up at four o’clock this morning and have been nonstop all day. I’m going to need all the drinks by tomorrow night.”

  “I gotcha covered.” I walk her to the door. “Thank you again for bringing me dinner.” The kindness of friends and strangers alike has been astonishing. After the way Patrick died, I needed to have my faith in humanity restored, and people like Chelsea have seen to that.

  “My pleasure. I’m right up the road if you need anything.” She gives me a quick hug before she departs, leaving my heart full to overflowing with gratitude for her kindness and friendship.

  The generosity of others has kept me from descending into despair over the explosi
on of gun violence that resulted in my husband’s death, the murders of innocent children waiting to see Santa and countless others whose lives have been changed forever by guns. Hearing our new president vow to tackle that issue with the full resources of the federal government soothed my broken heart.

  Dinner is delicious, and there’s enough for two more dinners as well as a massive piece of chocolate cake that’ll last me for days. As I settle in to watch HGTV after dinner, I feel better than I expected to feel after having survived my first Christmas as a widow.

  “I wish you were here,” I whisper to Patrick, hoping that wherever he is, he can still hear me. “Love you more than anything.”

  * * *

  The day after Christmas, I watch a clip of Sam, Nick and their family walking across the lawn at the White House to board Marine One, which will transport them to Camp David. “After spending their first Christmas at the White House, the president and his family are headed to Camp David for the first time to spend the holiday week at the presidential retreat in Catoctin Mountain Park in Maryland,” the news anchor says.

  Sam, wearing a long red wool coat, walks next to her husband, holding hands with Aubrey while Aubrey’s twin brother, Alden, runs ahead, eager for the ride on the helicopter. Eli and Scotty bring up the rear, with Scotty’s dog, Skippy, on a leash. Sam’s issues with infertility have been well documented, so it’s a thrill to see her and Nick surrounded by the children they’ve acquired through adoption and guardianship.

  I spend a week in total at the cabin and enjoy a fun night out with Chelsea and her friends, during which, for the first time in months, I’m not the victim of a senseless tragedy. That’s a huge relief.

  A few days after Christmas, I finally reply to Sarah. Thanks for getting in touch. It’s nice to hear from you. Since I don’t know what else to say, I leave it at that.

  I’m not surprised when she calls me a few minutes later.

  After an initial hesitation, I take the call, summoning the deep inner well of strength I’ve discovered inside me the last few months. “Hey.”