by Marie Force
“Stop. I can’t hear that. Patrick was my great love.”
“Patrick is gone, sweetie.” She says that in the gentlest possible tone, but it’s devastating nonetheless. “And you’ve got a great big, long life to live without him.”
“I don’t want to live without him.”
“I know.” After a long pause, she says, “If I can just add… I’ve gotten to know Derek fairly well, and he’s a truly wonderful man, not to mention handsome as can be.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed that.”
Iris howls with laughter. “Now you’re just lying, girl.”
“Is it weird that I have no problem telling you about this… whatever it is… with Derek, but I’d be mortified to tell my family or friends out of fear they wouldn’t understand it?”
“It’s not weird at all. You’re telling someone who’s been where you are and who truly gets the conflict that comes with developing feelings for someone who isn’t your late spouse.”
“I don’t have feelings for him. I just like being with him.”
“Isn’t that how these things begin?”
“Are you trying to piss me off?”
“Nope,” she says, laughing again. “I’m just trying to make you see that whatever you’re feeling is normal. You may not be ready to see that yet, but it is normal.”
“Nothing is normal anymore.”
“It’s the new normal.”
“I don’t like the new normal.”
“None of us do, sweetie. But what choice do we have but to embrace what is while honoring what was?”
The question is so profoundly moving that it takes my breath away for a full minute.
“Roni? Are you there?”
“I’m here. What you said…”
“It’s the crux of our dilemma as widows.”
“I’m going to write that down.”
“I’m honored that you want to remember something I said.”
“I do want to remember it.”
“While you’re busy remembering it, how about you live it, too? Embrace whatever this is with Derek while continuing to honor Patrick with every breath you take.”
“You’re like a widow whisperer.”
“Haha, whatever you say. I’m all about every one of us doing whatever we can to move forward with hope and optimism.”
“I want to do that. I really do.”
“Then do it, Roni. Do it with your whole heart and soul and with your arms wide open to anything that might come your way. Anyone who matters knows you would’ve been with Patrick for the rest of your life if he hadn’t been so cruelly taken from you. Please don’t feel like you have to explain anything you do next to anyone.”
“I feel like I say thank you every other minute lately.”
“You’re welcome, and if you’re saying thank you a lot, it’s because you’re surrounded by people who want to help.”
“And I’m grateful for every one of you. How are things with you?”
“I’m having a somewhat chaotic week with two of my kids sick with strep throat as of this afternoon, and the countdown on to the third one getting it.”
“Ack, that’s awful. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine. I got a grocery delivery yesterday. We’re hunkering down until the storm passes. I just hope I didn’t expose you guys to the crud when you were here last night.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“I sure hope so.”
“I’ll check on you tomorrow to see if there’s anything you need,” I tell her.
“You’re a sweetheart. Thanks.”
“Please. I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know.”
We say good night, and I go into the bathroom to shower. As I’m blow-drying my hair, I think about what she said about embracing what is while honoring what was. That’s what it’s all about now, I suppose. I can be friends with Derek without that friendship taking anything away from the love I’ll always have for Patrick.
The widows I’ve met so far are full of hard-earned wisdom and so willing to share what they’ve learned with those of us just beginning this journey.
I put on my warmest flannel pajamas and get into bed, glancing as I always do at Patrick’s side of our bed and wishing with all my heart that I could go back to that last night with him. I’d plead with him to call in sick, to stay home with me, to not be walking on that sidewalk at the exact wrong moment.
Turning to face his side of the bed, I reach for him and find only the empty space he used to occupy so fully.
Eventually, I drift off to sleep, and as I do, my last thoughts are of Derek.
* * *
I wake to a text from him. Ugh, I’m freaking SICK with a crazy sore throat and fever. Just texted Terry to let him know I won’t be in today.
Oh crap, I respond. I talked to Iris last night, and two of her kids have strep.
Greatttttt… At least I know where it came from.
Is Maeve okay?
So far so good, but I won’t be surprised if she gets it, too. It pains me to keep her home today bc I feel like SHIT, but I can’t send her to daycare when she’s been exposed to this.
What can I do for you?
We’re fine. Got an appointment at my primary care doc at noon.
I’ll check on you later.
Hope you don’t get it. He adds the fingers-crossed emoji.
Crap, I hope I don’t get it either. As I schlep my way to work on the Metro, I miss Derek’s heated seats and his company more than I probably should.
Lilia and I spend the morning strategizing social media posts for Sam to make on her FLOTUS accounts, supporting issues she’s passionate about, such as law enforcement, learning issues, infertility and spinal cord research in honor of her late father, who was a quadriplegic after being shot on the job.
The goal of our efforts is to show the world she’s an active, engaged first lady even as she holds a full-time job outside the White House.
At one thirty, I send a text to Derek. How are you feeling? What did the doc say?
I feel like death, and it’s strep. He gave me an antibiotic. My mom came and got Maeve *THANK GOD* even if I feel guilty about exposing them.
So sorry you feel so lousy. Can I bring you anything after work?
No, I’m good, and I don’t want you exposed any further even if I’d love to see you.
My heart does this weird little boogie skip when he says he’d love to see me. I hope you feel better soon. I’ll check on you later.
Will look forward to that.
Again with the little jolt to my battered heart. Get some rest!
That’s about all I feel like doing.
I feel so bad for him and wish there was something I could do for him. On the Metro home from work, I decide there is something I can do. I pop into a pharmacy near my house and pick up throat lozenges and spray, a couple of magazines and some Popsicles and ice cream. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to decide if he’s a Chunky Monkey or Cherry Garcia kind of guy. I grab one of each and head for the checkout.
As I walk the short distance to his house, I’m elated in a way I haven’t been in months. And I’m not even going to get to see Derek.
I hang the bag from the store on his back door and text him. Are you awake? Brought you a care package that requires refrigeration.
Be right down.
Only out of concern for my unborn child do I take a step back from his stoop to keep some distance between us when that’s the last thing I want to do.
He comes to the door, and I immediately note that his hair is standing on end, his jaw is covered with whiskers, and he in no way resembles the pressed, polished work-day professional I’ve come to know. If possible, he’s even handsomer when he’s disheveled.
He takes a look inside the bag. “This is very nice of you.”
Shrugging, I say, “I wish I could do more. Are you feeling any better?”
“A ti
ny bit. My throat is the worst. Like I’m swallowing razor blades.”
“Ouch.”
“Sucks.”
“I won’t keep you. Just wanted to say hi.”
“I’m so glad you did. You’re feeling okay, right?”
“So far.” I hold up crossed fingers.
“I hope you stay that way. This is the worst.” He pauses, seeming to catch himself. “Well, we both know it can be worse than this, but it’s damned unpleasant. My mom says I haven’t had this since I was in fifth grade, and funnily enough, I remember that.”
“I used to be prone to it when I was a kid. If it was anywhere near me, I got it.”
“I sure hope you’ve outgrown that.”
“Me, too. Call me if you need anything?”
“I will. Thanks again for this. You got my favorite.”
“Which one?”
“Cherry Garcia for the win.”
I pump my fist into the air. “Yes! The Chunky Monkey is my favorite.”
“Good to know.”
An actual shiver goes through me when he says that. “All right, mister. Back to bed with you. Talk to you later.”
“Thanks again, Roni. I really appreciate this.”
“It’s payback for your heated seats.”
Smiling, he waves as I turn to leave. I feel him watching me until I’m out of sight, which is when I release the deep breath I’ve been holding. I’ve got a red-hot crush on Derek Kavanaugh three short months after my husband died.
I’m going straight to hell, but what a way to go.
* * *
Derek
I’m totally digging Roni Connolly, and it feels better than anything has in a very long time. It was so sweet of her to bring me a care package. The orange-flavored throat lozenges she brought are awesome and give me the first bit of relief I’ve had all day.
Naturally, I text her to tell her that. These throat lozenges are magic.
Yay! So glad to hear they’re helping.
I can actually swallow after a very long day of resenting my own spit.
LOL, it’s the little things, right?
Definitely. Did I miss anything at the WH today?
Didn’t hear much from the West Wing today. We worked on Sam’s social media and the planning for some appearances and interviews.
I hope she can juggle all that on top of her day gig.
We’re trying to keep it as manageable as possible for her. I’ve been spending an hour or two a day dealing with Skippy the dog’s Instagram account!
How much is she paying you for that?
She pays in dog biscuits. I told her I like the chocolate ones.
I send the laughing and dog emojis. It sure is cool to have one of my best friends and his wife as our new POTUS and FLOTUS. They’re awesome people, and our country is so lucky to have them. Nick may be young, but he’s smart, savvy and really wants to make a difference.
Has he said any more about whether he’ll run for reelection?
As of right now, the answer is no. He doesn’t want to be away from his family to campaign.
I don’t blame him. What a grind that must be.
It is. I did it with Nelson the first time around, and it was brutal. Nonstop travel, events, demands. And it goes on for months.
Ugh, that sounds awful.
It is, and I’m with Nick. I don’t want to be away from Maeve like that, which was why I sat out the traveling for Nelson’s most recent reelection campaign.
Did you know about the affair? The former president’s affair with an ex-campaign staffer had come to light shortly before the woman was murdered, plunging the Nelson administration into yet another scandal.
The senior staff suspected something was going on… It was all so sordid, especially because we knew his wife was undergoing cancer treatment at the time. It was infuriating to those of us who truly adored her.
She seems like a lovely person.
She’s the best, and I feel so bad for her that he died when they were estranged. Ah, enough about that. Tell me more about you—and I’d call you if it didn’t hurt to talk.
Let’s see… I grew up in Alexandria, went to UVA, met Patrick, moved to the District for work after college, lived together for years before bowing to parental pressure to tie the knot.
Why do parents care so much about that?
No idea. We were happy to stay as we were, but I do have to say… The wedding and the vows and all that… It made something great even better, but don’t ever tell my mom (or his) that I said that.
Haha, your secret is safe with me.
What about you? How did you meet Vic? Or is that a painful subject?
It’s not as painful to think about as it used to be… We met at the gym. Nick, Andy and Harry used to work out with me, and they were the ones who had to clue me in that she was into me. I thought she was a goddess. I was afraid to even talk to her. LOL
Aw, that’s so cute.
I was a mess. They had to shove me toward her before I could work up the nerve to talk to her. Later, when I found out the truth about her and why she happened to show up at my gym… I questioned everything. But I have her letter, and that’s the truth I hold on to.
I can’t imagine how much worse all that made losing her.
It was brutal, but enough about the sad stuff. We’ve both had enough of that.
Yes, we have.
Tell me something else about you.
You want to hear a confession?
Uh, yeah?!?
I feel kind of guilty.
About?
Talking to you this way. (Now I’m going to hide in the closet because I feel so stupid.)
Aw, don’t feel guilty or stupid. This stuff is so hard for people like us. We all struggle with it.
“This stuff.” What is “this stuff” to you?
Does it need a label? Can’t we just be friends and enjoy spending time together without guilt or judgment from ourselves when we’ll get enough of that from others?
We can. It’s just that… I’m not ready for it to be anything more than friends.
I know that, Roni. Even if you freaked me out by stalking me at first (haha), I’m so happy we’ve become friends. I don’t want you to worry about anything.
Thank you for understanding.
I do. I get it, and I mean it when I say don’t worry. Things will work out the way they’re meant to, and we’ve both had enough heartache to have earned the right to be happy in whatever way we can.
She gives that text a thumbs-up. I’m happy we’ve become friends, too. I should let you get some sleep. Talk to you tomorrow?
Sounds good. Thanks for keeping me company.
Anytime.
Sleep well.
You, too.
16
Roni
For a long time after I put down my phone, I think about Derek and how nice he is, how normal—which, according to my single friends, isn’t as easy to find as one might think—and how great it is to be able to talk to someone who understands the many pitfalls of widow life. Anything I’m dealing with, he’s already experienced, and there’s comfort in that.
When I’m brushing my teeth, I notice my throat feels funny. “Ugh, do not do this to me,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. “I have no time for this, so you can just skip right over me and go give your plague to someone else.”
I find vitamin C in Patrick’s jammed medicine cabinet, which is a reminder of something else I need to deal with, and take two, hoping it will stave off any potential sickness. I should’ve taken it the second I heard Derek was sick.
Crap, I really hope I don’t get it.
That turns out to be wishful thinking. I wake up at two in the morning in a blaze of heat so intense, I worry for a second that my apartment is on fire. The apartment isn’t, but I am. I stumble from the bed, my head spinning and my stomach churning with nausea. Then I make the mistake of trying to swallow and instantly regret it.
Son of a bitch.<
br />
I find the thermometer and take my temperature. When it registers as one hundred and five, I figure the thing has to be broken. I take it again and get the same result. Shit, that’s bad, and I’m so dizzy, I can barely remain standing.
All I can think about is the baby.
This can’t be good for him. Or her. I sit on the bed, hoping that will keep my head from spinning. It doesn’t. I’m scared. I’m not sure what, if anything, I can take for the fever, and I’m certain one-oh-five is dangerous. I’ve never had a fever anywhere close to that. I want to call my parents, but if I call in the middle of the night, they’ll panic.
I find my phone in the damp bedclothes and open my messages. The first one I see is the recent message from Derek. Of all my friends and family, he lives the closest to me, so I text him. Are you awake by any chance?
I release a sigh of relief when I see him responding.
What’s up?
I’m sick. Like, really sick. 105 fever. Scared. Do you think I should I call 911?
I’ll come get you and take you to the ER.
No! You’re sick, too. You don’t have to do that!
Get ready. I’m coming. He texts again a few minutes later. Can you get downstairs by yourself, or do you need help?
I can do it.
Be there in two min.
When he pulls up outside, I’m waiting at the door.
He jumps out of the car and rushes up the stairs to the front door of my building to help me down the stairs.
“This is way above and beyond the call of new friendship.”
“It’s no problem. Hold on to me. I’ve got you.” He helps me into the car and leans over me to put the seat belt on. “Christ, Roni, you’re burning up.”
“Worried about the baby.”
“Just hang on. I’ll get you to the ER in a few minutes.”
I’m comforted by his assurances, his presence and, of course, his heated seats as I shiver from the fever. Everything hurts, especially my jaw from trying to control my chattering teeth.
Derek places his hand over mine. “You’re going to be okay, and so will the baby.”
