Someone Like You: Wild Widows Series, Book 1

by Marie Force

  This is the part of the day that’s the most difficult for me, crawling into a big, empty bed and longing for a time when I wasn’t here alone. I miss my beautiful, sweet, funny wife and how much fun we always had together no matter what we were doing. It’s been hard to reconcile that she was deceiving me at the beginning, that our magical connection was really a big fat lie. At first. What started out as a deception became a love match, which Vic confirmed in the letter she left for me.

  That letter is everything to me. I bought a special fireproof safe to keep it in so there’s no way anything can ever happen to it. When Maeve someday hears the story of how her mother died, I want her to have that letter to know who her mother really was. It’ll be just as important to her to have that information as it’s been for me. Poor Vic never stood a chance in life once the Patterson family “took her in” after her parents’ tragic deaths, which were later tied to Arnie and his diabolical sons.

  As I stare up at the dark ceiling, reliving the darkest days of my life, I realize it’s been a while since I thought about this stuff. Meeting Roni and hearing about what happened to her and her husband has brought back my crap, which is probably a sign that I need to stay away from her. The fact that she has the same dark-haired, brown-eyed coloring as Vic is another oddity, although she honestly doesn’t look anything like my late wife.

  Wallowing in this shit isn’t good for me or Maeve, and I need to keep myself strong and balanced for her. Thinking about Vic and what happened to her—and why—isn’t healthy for me. Just like having inappropriate thoughts about a new colleague, who also happens to be a friend of the first lady and a recent widow, also isn’t productive.

  She’s recently suffered the most devasting loss of her life, which means she’s in no way available to me or anyone else. I could barely tie my shoes three months after Vic died. That she’s even functioning is admirable.

  Allowing my mind to wander down any path that leads to Roni is a waste of time that could be better spent on taking care of my daughter and helping one of my best friends have the most successful presidency in history.

  I don’t have time to be thinking about a new widow, or how pretty she is, or how sad I felt when I heard what happened to her husband, or how cute she was while telling me why she was following me, or how she fully took the blame for being a weirdo, all of which was rather adorable.

  I just can’t go there.

  9

  Roni

  I arrive at Dr. Gordon’s office shortly before my four o’clock appointment, my nerves shredded by worries about how the ultrasound will go and whether my baby is okay and how I’m going to have to tell people after this if everything checks out. I’m not sure how I feel about sharing this secret with those closest to me. Part of me wants to keep the news to myself for a while longer, because once I tell my family and Patrick’s, the baby won’t be just mine any longer.

  Not that I want the baby to belong just to me once it’s here. No, I definitely don’t want that. I’m going to need all the help I can get, but for right now, while the baby is the size of a little peanut (I read that online), part of me wants to keep him or her all to myself.

  And that is so not me. Pre-disaster Roni would be telling everyone about the baby by now. She couldn’t keep anything to herself. I told Patrick everything, and my mom and sisters heard most of it, too. It’s weird that I haven’t told them about the baby yet, but I’ve already proven I’m weird by the way I behaved with Derek Kavanaugh.

  Ugh.

  I was such a dork Monday telling him he reminded me of Patrick from behind and apologizing for following him. I cringe every time I recall that conversation, and now I have to work with the guy, although hopefully, our paths won’t cross often at the White House.

  I didn’t see him yesterday or today, not that I was looking. I wasn’t!

  If I could make one little confession, however… I’ll just say that meeting him and finding out he’s widowed, too, has given my spirits an odd lift that I can’t really explain. There’s no way I’m interested in him as a man, because it’s way too soon, but knowing he’s out there and that he gets what I’m going through has made me feel better.

  It’s not lost on me that I’m getting weirder with every day that goes by. One of the widows I follow on Instagram wrote that after you lose your person, you become a whole new version of yourself without them. That’s definitely happening to me, and apparently, this new version of me is going to be a total weirdo who follows strange men around because they look like my late husband from behind.

  Where in the hell is the doctor, anyway? The gown the nurse gave me isn’t enough to keep me from shivering in the exam room while I wait for him. I take the time to check my first posts on the FLOTUS Facebook and Instagram accounts, where “Sam” wrote about her kids going back to school after their winter break and how she hopes all of America’s schoolchildren are off to a great start back to school in the new year.

  We went with a fairly innocuous message for our first post, and as I skim through the responses, I realize there’s no such thing as innocuous when it comes to the first lady. One person commented that it must be nice to be able to send your kids to a fancy, expensive private school, which is annoying. The twins still attend the school they went to when their parents were alive, which was in their best interest since they had enough changes in their lives. Scotty attends a public middle school, but no one bothers to mention that.

  I dash off a text to Sam. We’re getting some pushback on the twins being in a swanky private school. Do you want me to respond to that?

  Dr. Gordon knocks on the door and enters the room. “Hi, Roni, so sorry to keep you waiting. I had an unexpected delivery first thing this morning that’s thrown off my whole day.”

  I toss my phone into my purse on the chair next to the exam table. “Babies are unpredictable that way.”

  “You have no idea how unpredictable they are. How’re you feeling?”

  “Better than I was. The nausea seems to have let up some, which is a relief.”

  “That’s good news. You’re eating for two, and we’ve got to keep you healthy. I’m glad to see you’re up two pounds since your last visit.” He types something into the computer and then looks up at me. “Are you ready to see your baby?”

  “Before I do… If there’s anything wrong, you’ll tell me, right?”

  “I will. That’s one of the reasons we do ultrasounds.”

  Part of me doesn’t want to know if there’s anything wrong. I can’t take any more bad or sad news, but I also have to keep things real. I’m going to be a mother to this child, and as such, I need to know everything about him or her. Speaking of that… “Will you be able to tell the sex?”

  “Probably not yet. That’s usually a bit later, like fourteen to eighteen weeks along.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Are you ready to take a look?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring someone with you for this.”

  “I haven’t told anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanted to do the ultrasound first.”

  “Well, then, let’s get that taken care of for you. I’ll be back in a few.”

  A nurse comes into the room to prep me by placing a sheet over my bottom half and folding my gown up to reveal my abdomen.

  She explains how the doctor will put gel on my stomach and then run a wand over me. If he can’t get a good look at the fetus, he may need to do the exam vaginally.

  I swallow hard at the thought of that. “That sounds pleasant.”

  “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “Oh, good.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Just relax and try not to worry. The ultrasound is painless and often very exciting, as you’ll get to hear your baby’s heartbeat for the first time.”

  I’m on pins and needles at the thought of hearing my baby’s heartbeat.

  The doctor returns a few minutes later
and goes right to the sink to wash his hands before donning gloves. “All set?” he asks me.

  “I think so.”

  “Just try to relax. All of this is perfectly routine.”

  “To you.”

  That makes him laugh. “Here we go.” He squirts a big glob of gel onto my belly and then runs the wand back and forth, all while intently watching the screen.

  All of a sudden, I hear it… The thudding sound of my baby’s heartbeat.

  “There we go.” He smiles as he points to an image on the screen that doesn’t really look like much of anything to me, until he begins to narrate what I’m seeing. “The head is there, an arm, hand, leg and foot.”

  I can barely see it through my tears. There’s really a baby in there. Patrick’s baby. “Is he or she… Are they… Okay?”

  “Everything looks good. I’d say you’re right around thirteen weeks.”

  “How could I be that pregnant and have no idea until you told me?”

  “Your mind has been otherwise occupied, Roni. Trauma does strange things to us, and it doesn’t surprise me at all that you hadn’t put this together until I told you.”

  While he finishes the exam, I start thinking back to where we were three months ago. Oh my God. That was the early October weekend we went to the beach in Rehoboth, Delaware, with two couples we’re friends with from college, the last weekend we had together before Patrick died. It was so unseasonably cold that we couldn’t stand to be outside, so we hunkered down in the house we rented with the fireplace and our books and some movies. It was a fun, relaxing weekend, during which our baby was conceived.

  Tears roll unchecked down my face as I stare at the screen, watching its little heart flutter frantically. Every aspect of my life has changed since that weekend at the beach. I barely recognize myself in a life that no longer includes Patrick.

  “Is there someone I can call for you, Roni?” Dr. Gordon asks gently.

  “No, thank you. I’m okay. It’s just a lot on top of a lot.”

  “I know, but the good news about babies is they give you lots of time to prepare for their arrival.”

  All the time in the world wouldn’t be enough to prepare myself to raise this child without its father. “That is good news,” I tell the doctor, mostly so he won’t worry about whether he should let me leave here on my own.

  He wipes the gel off my belly and helps me sit up. “Based on the info we have and the size of the fetus, I’d put your due date around June 25.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief at realizing he’s right. I do have time to prepare myself for this.

  “I know it seems really overwhelming right now, Roni, but I have every faith that you’re going to be a wonderful mother to this little one.”

  “Thank you,” I say softly. “I hope so.”

  “We’ll see you back here once a month until we get close to your due date, when I’ll want to see you weekly.”

  “Okay.”

  He hands me a printout from the ultrasound. “I’ll leave you to get dressed.”

  When I’m alone, I stare at the black-and-white image with the white thing in the middle that is my baby.

  I’m having a baby.

  By myself.

  I break down into deep but silent sobs at the sheer unfairness of Patrick missing this, all because two idiots fought over a woman, and one pulled a gun. I cry so hard, I can’t breathe. I’d give everything I have for Patrick to wrap his arms around me and tell me everything is going to be all right, the way only he could.

  As much as I love my new job and the people I’ve met since I lost him, I’d go back to before I lost him in a heartbeat if it meant more time with him, if it meant he’d get to meet his child.

  It’s just so sad and unfair. It’s ridiculously unfair.

  I grab some tissues from a box on the counter and dry my face before removing the gown and getting dressed in the leggings and long T-shirt I brought to wear to the Wild Widows’ meeting. I fold my work clothes, stuff them into my tote bag and run a brush through my hair. When I’m as pulled together as I ever am these days, I emerge from the exam room to find Dr. Gordon waiting for me in the hallway.

  “Are you okay?” he asks with that kind expression that makes me want to hug him.

  “I will be. Eventually.”

  “Have you found a good therapist?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Might not be a bad idea. You’ve had a lot to contend with. I can give you some names if that would help.”

  “I’ll take the names.”

  “If you give me an email address, I’ll send them to you.”

  I take the prescription pad and pen he hands me and write down my Gmail address.

  “I’ll be in touch in the next day or two.”

  “Thanks.”

  As his receptionist hands me an appointment card for my next visit, she gives me a sympathetic smile. I’m sure he didn't tell her about my loss, but somehow she knows. Maybe she read about it in the paper or heard about it on the local news. The story got a lot of attention when it first happened.

  I leave the doctor’s office shortly after five and step into frosty darkness outside. I think about skipping the widows’ meeting, but I need the support more than ever after seeing my baby on the ultrasound, so I summon an Uber for a ride to the garage to get the car.

  I’m nervous about driving at night, but determined to get to Fairfax to meet this group of people who’ve already been so good to me. Traffic is, as always, a bitch on the way out of the District. I’m stopped for fifteen minutes on the 14th Street Bridge, which gives me time to check my messages. The one from Sam in response to my earlier query makes me laugh.

  Fuck no, I don’t want you to respond to those idiots. We’re not giving them any of our energy. Although don’t quote me on the “fuck no” part.

  God, I love her. She’s so funny and real and cares so much about the people in her life.

  You got it, and for what it’s worth, I agree. People need to mind their own business.

  It’s worth a lot, and yes, please with the MYOB. I’m probably in the wrong marriage if I hope other people aren’t going to mind my business.

  That, too, makes me laugh. Probably so.

  Thank goodness he’s worth it, because if he wasn’t…

  LOL

  How did your second and third days at the WH go?

  Very well. Everyone is super nice and helpful.

  Sorry I haven’t been around. Work is crazy, as always. I’m here if you need me for anything.

  All good. We’ve got you covered.

  That’s a huge relief to me, Roni. Seriously.

  Glad to be able to help. I’ll check in tomorrow.

  I’ll be here.

  I send her a thumbs-up when I really want to ask her about Derek Kavanaugh, but I never would. That’s just too weird, and I’m weird enough these days without making it worse. Besides, judging from the meltdown at the doctor’s office, it’s far too soon for me to be asking anyone about any guy. The thought of dating someone else is preposterous to me, even as I recall Iris telling me it’s perfectly normal to be having such thoughts as reality sets in, reminding me I have a very long life left to live without Patrick. It doesn’t feel normal to me at all, and I can’t fathom a time when it ever will.

  “Oh, by the way,” I say out loud, “I’m pregnant with my dead husband’s child, but other than that, I’ve got no baggage.”

  I giggle to myself at the ridiculousness of it all. I’m sure guys would line up to take on me and my unborn child and all the mess that goes along with someone who’ll forever be in love with someone else. I wonder if there’s a special category on the dating apps for widows still in love with the person they lost. I need to ask the group about that.

  Widowhood is so freaking bizarre. One minute you’re on the bathroom floor sobbing your heart out over your lost love and the next you’re wondering about a guy you met who seems interesting. However, you have no space in your life t
o accommodate an interest in anything other than getting through the next five minutes. I’ve read accounts from many young widows who talk about this strange new world of coping with life-altering grief while keeping one eye on a future that will most likely involve a new love at some point.

  It’s overwhelming and depressing because the only love I want is the one I lost. And I’m right back around in the never-ending circle of grief that makes me feel like a stranger inside my own mind.

  I’m about thirty minutes late by the time I finally arrive at Iris’s two-story home in Fairfax. Since there are quite a few cars parked outside, I find a spot farther down the street and grab the bottle of wine I brought from home for this meeting. Since I can’t drink it, I may as well share it with others. I stop a little short at the realization that I planned ahead to that extent. As far as I can recall, this is the first time I’ve done something like that since Patrick died. For a while there, I wondered if my brain had simply stopped functioning at that level. A bottle of wine proves otherwise.

  Look at me, making tiny bits of progress that are juxtaposed with the ongoing grief. The incident in the doctor’s office proves I’m a long way from healed, but hey, I remembered to bring wine for the widow meeting, so I’ll take the progress where I can find it.

  I’m suddenly nervous as I take the steps to Iris’s front door and ring the bell.

  Iris smiles widely as she opens the storm door for me. I recognize her from her Instagram profile. She’s petite, with light brown skin, luminous brown eyes and curly hair contained by a colorful headband. She hugs me like we’re old friends, which puts me immediately at ease about coming into a room full of strangers. “I’m so glad you came,” she whispers when she finally releases me.

  “I told you I would.”

  “A lot of people say that, and then when the time comes, they don’t show, which is totally fine. I was just hoping you’d make it so we could meet in person.”

  “Your home is lovely.”

  “Oh, thanks. If there’s one saving grace of widowhood, it’s life insurance. Mike’s was exceptional, and it’s allowing me to stay in our home and not have to work until my kids are all in school. That’s a huge blessing.”