The After Wife

by Summers, Melanie

  I trudge over and set it down just as Peter comes out of the kitchen. His face falls when he sees me, and I know Nettie must have told him what happened. I scratch my forehead, then sigh, wishing the right words would pour out of my mouth right now, but finding myself sorely disappointed. Nettie comes around behind the bar and starts loading her tray again.

  “Nettie, I want to—” I start but she raises one hand without looking up.

  “No need. You tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.”

  Peter picks up a rag and starts wiping the clean bar top. “We didn’t think you were serious about all that ‘wanting to be left alone’ stuff, but clearly you are so we’ll let you be. You’re always welcome here, but we won’t be stopping by at your place again.”

  I close my eyes for a second, regret vibrating through my bones. “I didn’t mean … no, well I did mean … I was mean.”

  They both stop and stare at me.

  “I was rude to you earlier and there’s no excuse for it.”

  Shaking her head, Nettie says, “No, I get it. You’re busy. I have to stop mothering everybody.” Her voice cracks when she says this, then she turns abruptly and disappears into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her.

  Peter closes his eyes for a second, looking pained, and I suddenly have the idea that this isn’t all about their bitchy neighbor.

  “Peter, is she okay?

  Shaking his head, he says, “Did you ever wonder why we don’t have children?”

  “I just assumed you didn’t want any.”

  He tilts his head a little, then says, “We did. Very much, especially my dear wife. After four miscarriages—the last one at seven months along—we decided to find a different way to make a home for someone.”

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, she’s doesn’t mean to meddle. She just needs people to take care of,” he says, tapping his fingers on the bar. “I think she figured since you’re alone and all…”

  Nettie walks back in with a large bag of napkins. She walks past me, straight to the nearest table to refill the metal napkin holder.

  I walk over, grab the holder from the next table and start to fill it. “I’m sorry, Nettie. All you’ve done since I met you is be welcoming and kind. And I … haven’t treated you the way I should have.”

  “Nope, that’s fine. I’m too nosy for my own good.” She moves on to the next table and I follow her.

  “The thing is, for a long time, I’ve gotten used to being on my own and it’s become very comfortable for me. And today was just sort of bad because a lot of little things happened that added up to me being in a terrible mood—which was in no way your fault.”

  “What happened?” Nettie asks, her face filling with concern.

  “Oh, it’s all so stupid,” I say, glancing out the window and reaching for Isaac’s ring. “I turned forty today, and I feel really old even though I know I’m not. And it just made me miss my husband because he would have made it a really special day, you know?”

  “Oh, love,” Nettie says, her facing crumpling. “Of course you’d be in a pissy mood today. No one likes turning forty. It’s the absolute worst.”

  “It is,” Peter adds.

  “And you’ve got no one to celebrate with.” She pulls me in for a big hug, and this time, I don’t recoil. I accept, knowing it’s for both of us.

  When it’s over, she pulls out a chair for me, then takes a seat. “Come sit and tell me what your husband would’ve done to make it special.” I sit down and start talking, first about Isaac, then I move onto the other petty little things that upset me this morning—the email from Lauren, the FedEx guy, Colton making me face the fact that I’m not writing, and my fear that I never had any talent in the first place. By the time I unload it all, I feel much lighter. “I mean, if even Colton can see I should be writing, I probably should be writing.”

  “Yes,” Peter, who joined us at the table sometime around me complaining about Liam thinking I’m forty-two, says, “You probably should.”

  Nettie slaps his arm. “It’s not that simple, you dolt. She’s scared that she’s no good at it.”

  “Well, sitting here crying in her soup isn’t going to help, is it?” he asks her. Turning to me, he says, “There’s really only one way to find out.”

  “It’s her fortieth birthday! Quit nagging her, for God’s sake,” Nettie says. Turning to me, she smiles. “How about you stay here for a nice supper on the house? We can sing to you and ...” Her voice trails off, then she says, “And you would hate every minute.”

  “But just the thought is so sweet of you, really.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll pack you a supper to go and some cake. You get home and get your arse to work.”

  I nod. “Okay, that sounds perfect.”

  A few minutes later, Peter comes out of the kitchen with a large brown paper bag. “Now, get going and don’t come back ‘til you’ve written something you’re proud of,” he says as he hands me the bag. “Oh, unless you need something. Then call or stop by.”

  “Or if you’re hungry,” Nettie says.

  “Or it’s Thursday night and you could use a break and some good music,” Peter adds.

  I chuckle. “Okay. Thank you, both.” Looking at Nettie, I swallow, guilt still eating at my insides. “I really am sorry about this afternoon.”

  She waves her hand. “Think nothing of it. It’s our first row as neighbors and we’re over it now.”

  “Good to just get it over with. It would have happened sooner or later anyway,” Peter says, gesturing with his head toward Nettie. “Especially with this one.”

  “Arsehole.”

  “Cruel wench.”

  “You’re both lovely,” I say. “And I’m lucky to live next door to you.”

  Peter narrows his eyes, but the smile never leaves his face. “Are you still here? I thought I told you to get going.”

  When I get home, I flop down onto my bed and draft a text to Colton. I’m sorry I was such a grouch today. I didn’t mean what I said about you being nosy. You’re not. You were just curious, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

  I read it over a few times before I send it. Then I wait. A minute later I get back a message from him. No worries. Everybody has their bad days. I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.

  ~ George Burns

  It’s been weeks since I’ve spoken to my mother. I let her call to me on my birthday go to voicemail, for fear of saying something I meant. Later that night, I texted a lame excuse that my cell phone battery had died and thanks for the message. We haven’t really spoken since I ‘up and moved to Canada’ instead of coming home so she could bake cookies for me and pretend she’s sorry Isaac died. This isn’t the longest we’ve gone without speaking. Our first cold war took place when I told them I was madly in love and was about to move in with a much older man. The second was right after Isaac’s death. My parents assumed I’d return to Portland with them and went as far as making arrangements while I was still picking out photos for his memorial. They were shocked when I told them I wasn’t coming home. An ugly scene took place in the lobby of my building when we returned from the service. I screamed that there was no way I could live with them while I grieved for a man they both hated. It wasn’t entirely fair, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either. But today I have to make peace. It is my mother’s sixty-fifth birthday, and if I don’t call, it would be the equivalent of unlocking the case on the red button.

  And I really should do it now while I have some privacy. Although things have been going smoothly since the dreaded day of the greenhouse, Colton isn’t coming by to work on the yard for the rest of the week. He texted late last night to say he was super sorry (how Canadian), but ‘something important came up that he has to deal with.’ He must have forgotten he told me the new season of Fortnite comes out today, and they were going to ‘destroy the map�
�� and create a whole new one. Whatever the hell that means. Liam is upstairs laying the tile for my bathroom floor, so I should just get this call over with before I have any witnesses.

  I sit down on one of my new black wooden kitchen chairs and dial her number. When her phone starts ringing, I take a deep breath, telling myself to be patient and let things slide, no matter what she says.

  “Hello?”

  I muster as much enthusiasm as I can. “Hi, Mom, happy birthday!”

  “Oh, Abigail. I was wondering if you’d remember.”

  Here we go. First shot across the bow. “Of course I’d remember your birthday. Did you get the flowers?”

  “Yes, they’re lovely. Thank you.”

  “Good. I’m glad you like them. How are you?”

  “All right. I’ve been getting migraines again, and the doctor doesn’t seem to know why they’re coming on so frequently. Your father said it’s stress-related. He’s probably right.”

  Stress caused by their only daughter moving so far away, no doubt. “That doesn’t sound good. Has he referred you to a specialist?”

  “No. He wanted to, but I told him not to bother. I’m sure it’s just because I worry so much.”

  I suppress a sigh. “What are you worried about?”

  “Oh, you know, lots of things. Mothers worry. That’s just what we do from the moment we find out we’re going to be blessed with a child. The worrying starts, and it doesn’t stop until we die.”

  Neither does the guilt trip. “Is something wrong with Chad? Because I’m fine. Really.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your brother. He’s here where we can help if he needs us.”

  It’s her birthday. It’s her birthday. “I know it’s hard for you to have me so far away.”

  “I don’t think you can possibly know what it’s like to have one of your children ...” She stops herself. “It’s just hard not knowing where your daughter lives.”

  “You and Dad should come see for yourselves. The house isn’t quite ready for guests, but there’s a lovely bed and breakfast next door.”

  “Oh no, there’s no way we can get away. Who would watch the dogs for us? Plus, we need to be here for Grandma.”

  “Well, you could kennel the dogs and Uncle Jay can check in on Grandma for a couple of weeks, can’t he?”

  “No. He’s completely useless. He’d say he’ll look after her, but there’s just too much he doesn’t know. What if she ran out of one of her meds?”

  “I’m sure you can refill them before you leave. Besides, she’s doing well, isn’t she?”

  “Compared to other people her age, maybe. But honestly, Abigail, anything could happen.” She gives an audible sigh that sounds almost like a moan. “You should really come and see her before it’s too late.”

  Oh wow, she’s really going for it today. “You’re right. I should.”

  “Are you doing okay there?”

  “I’m all right. Better than I was doing in New York. It’s hard, though. Everything new is something I wish Isaac could experience.”

  “Well, he had a lot of experiences before he met you. Nearly two decades of them before you were even born.” There it is. Don’t feel sorry for him. He had his life.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you really want to say?”

  “I have nothing to say that you’ll listen to.”

  She’s not wrong. I can’t remember the last piece of advice I took from her. When I was a teenager, she once told me that indigo was my color and I’ve never worn it since. “Go for it. It’s your birthday. I promise I won’t fight back.”

  There is a long pause, and I know she’s considering it. “I just wish you had listened to your father and me. You wouldn’t be alone right now. You could be happily married to someone closer to your own age, probably with a few kids.”

  I screw up my face and clench my teeth together to suppress the scream inside me. Then I take a deep breath and force my voice to be calm. “Young men die too, Mom. Life offers no guarantees.”

  “Well, the older they get, the closer they are to death. That’s just a fact.”

  “Yup. You got me there. You win.”

  “It’s not a game, Abigail, and if it were, it’s not one I ever would’ve agreed to play.”

  “I just meant you were right. I thought Isaac and I would grow old together, but it didn’t work out.” I close my eyes while I talk. “He loved me, Mom. He was an amazingly supportive and encouraging partner to me for over fifteen years, and I would never have given any of it up, even if I had known how things would end. It was the best part of my life.”

  “You say that like you’re never going to have anything good again.”

  “That’s because I won’t.”

  “You don’t know that. You’re still young. You can move on.”

  I close my eyes and slump down in my chair. “Oh, God, Mom, can you stop?”

  “What happened to listening and not fighting back?” Her tone is clipped.

  “Sorry, I tried.” I let out a long sigh. “I’ll let you go. I’m just upsetting you, which is the last thing I wanted to do today.”

  “This conversation isn’t what’s got me upset, Abigail.” Her voice becomes quiet as she speaks. “It’s the distance between us. And I’m not talking about the miles of land.”

  My heart aches at her words. No matter how crazy we drive each other, she’ll always be the only mom I’ll ever have. I try to look out the window, but my sight has grown blurry. “I love you. You know that.”

  “But?”

  “But I wish you could accept my choices. It’s not like I moved to the big city and became a stripper or something. I got my masters, found a wonderful husband, and became a reasonably successful writer. Maybe my dreams weren’t the ones you and Dad had for me when I was a little girl, but I wish you could be proud of me anyway. For being strong enough to go against the tide and do what I was meant to.”

  She’s crying now, and I know I’ve done it. She’ll probably spend the rest of the day in bed, and tomorrow, my brother, the perfect son with the perfect family, will send me an angry text about upsetting her on her birthday.

  She sniffles, then she finally speaks. “Of course I’m proud of you. I just wish I still knew you. I used to know everything about you, and now you’re like a stranger to me. Do you know how hard that is? To be a stranger to your own child?”

  It’s her birthday. Let her win today. “Okay, Mom,” I say with a sigh. “You’re right. I need to make a better effort. I’ll come home for a visit as soon as I can.”

  “Promise?”

  I resent the doubt in her voice until I realize who put it there. “Promise.”

  After I hang up, my skin crawls as swirls of guilt and anger course through me. I go outside, letting the screen door slam behind me. I stand on the wood deck for a moment, breathing in long, deep breaths. Then I walk over to the still-untouched, overgrown garden and start yanking weeds, not bothering to get my hat or gloves first. Frustration fuels my body as I choose the tallest, toughest weeds to tug on, tossing them into a pile behind me as I go. The sun grows hot and my hands hurt but I continue, working furiously until I hear the screen door creak.

  I straighten up, slapping my dirty hands on my jeans and turn in time to see Liam settling himself on the steps with his lunch pail and a thermos of coffee. Walt has come out with Liam and is sitting next to him, watching me intently.

  Liam surveys the garden, then says, “You look like a woman on a mission.”

  “Impromptu weeding session brought on by an irritating phone call,” I say, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm.

  Nodding, he says, “Anything you want to talk about?”

  I shake my head. “Only to say there’s a reason I live on the opposite coast from my mother.”

  “Gotcha. I’m a healthy distance from my family as well,” Liam says, unwrapping his sandwich. “Do you want to stop for some lunch, or do you still have some ra
ge to work out?”

  I let my shoulders drop, realizing my anger has led to aching muscles and an empty stomach. “I think I’m about done. I’ll just get cleaned up.”

  A few minutes later, I join Liam on the steps, with clean hands and a pre-made quinoa salad. I sit next to him and sigh, a sense of calm coming over me. Walt trots over and settles himself between us, then watches as a robin hops along the grass in search of food. His black ears prick up and he juts his head forward, but he doesn’t spring into action.

  “Your cat’s not much of a hunter,” Liam says.

  “He’s used to eating Fancy Feast on fine china. He’d never lower himself to eating a live bird.” I pat Walt on the head. “I think he’s scared actually. I thought he’d love having the freedom of a big yard, but so far he hasn’t left the deck.”

  “He’ll come around when he’s ready. Won’t you, buddy?” Liam scratches him behind the ears and is rewarded by Walt rubbing his head against his leg.

  We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Liam eating his second sandwich, and me, my salad. A slight breeze kicks up, cooling my feverish skin. I stare at the mess of weeds tossed around the garden, dreading the idea of bagging them.

  Liam speaks up out of the blue. “My daughter, Olive, is a lot like your Walt. She doesn’t rush into things. Her grandparents think she’s too scared of new things, but I don’t think that’s it at all. She takes the time to properly assess a situation before deciding what she’s going to do.”

  “She sounds smart.”

  He smiles, his pride obvious. “She is. She’s just like her mother. Thoughtful and intelligent. Sarah was an artist. She painted and sculpted.”

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I just nod my head and wait for him to say more.

  Instead of sharing more about himself, he brings the conversation back to me. “What did your husband do?”

  “He was an English professor and a freelance editor.”