The After Wife

by Summers, Melanie

  “So, he wasn’t exactly a dullard.”

  I chuckle a bit. “Not exactly. He was very well-spoken and well-read.”

  Liam nods, and I realize it feels nice to talk about Isaac with someone who didn’t know him. It’s almost like I can rediscover him again for myself. “Isaac was always the first person to read anything I wrote. He had a way of asking me just the right questions to uncover the hidden potential in each of my stories. Then I would dive back in, and when I was done with the second draft, it would be so much better than the first.”

  “Who reads for you now? Since he’s been gone?”

  “There’s been nothing to read.”

  Liam makes a little ‘hmm’ sound that is neither dismissive nor judgmental. “You’ll get back to it when you’re ready.”

  Gratitude fills me at not having been told to ‘get back on that horse.’ “I hope so. I really love it.”

  He gives me a thoughtful look. “If you love it, what keeps you from writing again?”

  “Guilt.” The word pops out of my mouth before I have time to process or censor it.

  “That you’re alive and he isn’t.” Liam takes a sip of his coffee.

  “Yes,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “I take it you feel like that sometimes, too.”

  “Every damn day.” His words are thick with emotion. “She’s missing it all, and she would have loved being Olive’s mom. Malcolm’s too.”

  I blink hard to keep the tears at bay. “Do you ever think maybe she’s watching somehow?”

  “I have to believe she is.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I could do it if I thought otherwise. The pain of being separated from your child is …” His voice trails off, then he says, “Indescribable.”

  The word hangs there for a moment, then he says, “What about you? Do you think there’s something else after all this?”

  I sigh for a moment, considering the question. “I never used to, but now, I don’t know. I dream about him a lot. Long conversations about things I’m going through, decisions I have to make. He always knew what to do, and somehow he still does.” I suddenly feel naked, having shared something with Liam I have told no one else. “That probably makes me sound like an insane person.”

  He shakes his head. “Not to me. Sarah comes to me in my dreams sometimes too. We talk about Olive. I tell her all about what’s happening, and she gives me her advice in that same gentle way she did when she was alive. It used to be all the time, but the last few years, it’s only when something big is about to happen.” Turning to me, he says, “Now who sounds crazy?”

  I chuckle a little. “We probably shouldn’t tell this to anyone else.”

  “Agreed,” he says with a sad smile.

  I turn away from his gaze and stare out at the blue water in the distance. There’s a lump in my throat now, and I know there’s no point in taking another bite because it’ll be a long while before I can swallow. Walt seems to know I need him, and he climbs onto my lap, reaching his head up to rub it against my chin.

  Liam speaks up. “It’s hard being the one left behind, isn’t it? So many questions unanswered. So many ‘if onlys’ and ‘what ifs’ and ‘I should haves.’”

  I nod. “Does any of that go away?”

  “I don’t think so. People believe you should grieve for a period of time—and I’ve noticed that most seem to think the appropriate amount is about three months—then you’re expected to get over it and move on.” His tone is matter of fact when it could be bitter.

  “I’ve actually had people ask which stage of grief I’m in and how long it’ll be until I’ve reached acceptance,” I say, rolling my eyes. “As though I have it penciled in on my calendar or something.”

  “It’s because we were more fun before and they want the old version of us back.”

  “As if we don’t want things to be how they used to be.” We exchange a look that shows we both understand the absurdity of it.

  Liam stares out at the water. “Then they start pushing for you to find someone new. There isn’t a person I know who hasn’t either set me up on a date or suggested I get back in the game. Not one.”

  “Except me,” I say, bumping his arm with my shoulder.

  He chuckles and turns to me. “True. You’ve been a breath of fresh air, Abby.”

  Oh my, that felt nice to hear. I clear my throat and put on a formal voice. “I, Abigail Carson, hereby promise to never try to set you up with anyone.”

  “And I, you,” he says with a nod.

  We stare at each other for a moment too long, erasing the words we’ve just said and opening the door of possibility. He glances at my lips, then back up into my eyes and I feel a pull from somewhere deep inside to lean toward him. Instead, I quickly stand, shocked at myself for even considering whatever I was about to consider. Clearing my throat, I say, “I better clean up that mess I made.”

  * * *

  The sun has almost set, and I sit on the deck, sipping a glass of chardonnay. Walt sits next to me, his body pushed up against my leg while I rub the top of his head and listen to the waves lap against the shore. I haven’t been able to get the conversation with Liam out of my mind since it happened. I’m confused by what I feel for him—this horrible attraction that shouldn’t be there. Shaking my head, I look down at Walt and say, “It’s not real. It’s just the result of feeling understood on such a deep level. And the fact that he’s a man and I’m a woman, which makes friendship somewhat complicated.”

  There. Now that I’ve said it out loud, it’s true.

  I sit for a while longer, still unable to put my finger on what’s bothering me. Then suddenly, it pops into my mind. His words about the pain of being separated from your child. I sigh, thinking of my mom, knowing I’ve caused her pain I never intended. Picking my phone up off the step, I send her a text. I’m sorry I upset you on your birthday. I know you’ve always wanted me to be happy and you deserve better than to spend your days worrying about me. I’m getting stronger—I promise. I love you and I’ll call you every Sunday from now on.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The real power of a man is in the size of the smile of the woman sitting next to him.

  ~ Anonymous

  Liam and I are setting up my new bed in my newly renovated, lovely bedroom. To look at us, we could be in a commercial for a mortgage broker—two casually dressed happy people sharing lots of inside jokes while we set up our bed for later (eyebrow raise here). At some point, probably sometime around the mattress going onto the box spring, things started to feel a little awkward because now this is a bed and he’s a man and I’m a woman, and I really shouldn’t have an attractive man in my bedroom. Not if I don’t want to get confused.

  Actually, now that I think about it, mounting the headboard to the wall was sort of intimate, requiring us to stand so close together, our shoulders were touching for a minute, followed by him on his knees, screwing it into the wall next to my thigh. Neither of us has said a word for a full five minutes, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s finding this as weird as I am.

  Finally, he thinks of something to say. “I thought I’d move on to the roof since we’re supposed to have several days without rain.”

  “Sure,” I say, holding the box for my nightstand still while he lifts it out.

  God, he smells good for a guy who’s been working all day. Nope, Abby. Just nope.

  “It’ll get real noisy, so you may want to work somewhere else for a few hours each day. Also, you won’t want to be doing any gardening near the house because you might get hit with a nail or an errant shingle.”

  I open the second box while he carries the first night table over to the side of the bed. “If this keeps up, I’ll have you out of my hair by Halloween.”

  He winces and for a second, I worry that I’ve offended him.

  “About that, I’m afraid I might have to slow down a bit. The woman who watches Olive after school called last night. Her mother is sick, so she wants to l
eave for Newfoundland right away to go look after her. It means I’ll have to shorten my days by quite a bit until I can find another sitter.”

  Damn. That does not fit with my plans. “What if she comes here until you can find someone? I know there isn’t much to do, but if she can keep herself amused, it could work out.”

  Liam tilts his head, his expression both surprised and relieved, and I can’t help noticing those blue eyes of his are sparkling a bit. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure,” I say, looking down at the box so as not to gawk at him so close up. “The hermit of the sea needs to get you the hell out of here as soon as possible,” I say with a grin.

  “Hermit of the sea rock,” he answers, grinning at me as he removes the Styrofoam from the nightstand. “Anyway, thanks. I’m sure it won’t take long to find somewhere else she can go. In the meantime, she won’t be any trouble. She loves to read and draw. She’d probably spend her time here with a sketch pad on her lap. Or Walt, if he’d put up with her. She loves anything soft and furry.”

  “Well, I don’t know if he likes kids or not, but we can give it a try.”

  We both stand on opposite sides of the bed, staring at each other until my face heats up. Then, at the same moment, we both start cleaning up the boxes and plastic.

  Once everything is in a manageable pile, he picks it up, glancing at the bed again. “You need any help with the sheets?”

  “I don’t think that was part of your estimate,” I say with a half grin.

  “That’s why I like to be vague. So I can do what needs doing.” A panicked look comes over him and he says, “Not like that. I only meant I like helping people.”

  “Sure, buddy,” I say, pretending I don’t believe him.

  “No, seriously, Abby. That would have been creepy, if I meant it like that.”

  I shrug and make a tsking sound. “I know what I heard.”

  He picks up the garbage and shakes his head while he walks out the door. “Okay, very funny.”

  I call after him, “Is that what you meant by a jack of all trades?”

  “Hilarious!” he shouts up the stairs.

  I hurry to the hall and yell, “Is that the thing you do a little of or a lot of?”

  * * *

  The next day, Liam leaves at three o’clock to pick up Olive from school. As I wait for them to come back, a sense of anxiousness overcomes me. I have absolutely no experience with children. Other than having been one a long time ago, and having spent a few hours here and there with my brother’s kids, I really don’t know what to say to a child. I know enough not to treat her like a baby, but that’s about it. I try to think back to what I was like as a young girl. I remember that after school, I was tired and cranky and starving.

  By the time I hear Liam’s truck pull up, I have a spread of sliced apples, some Camembert, and water crackers set out for my new guest. I place a napkin and a cheese knife next to it. It’s just the sort of snack Isaac and I would offer company. “Perfect.”

  I hear the door open and Liam’s voice. “Abigail, we’re here.”

  I peer around the corner while I wipe my hands on a dishtowel and take in the sight of a waif of a girl with unruly long brown curls that look like they might just spring right off her head at any moment. She’s standing slightly behind her dad, holding his hand and looking up at me with huge blue eyes behind a pair of red-rimmed glasses. I now get what he meant about her looking like she lives alone in the woods. She’s wearing a denim dress with striped green and yellow leggings under it that look like they’re two sizes too small, on account of how high up they come on her skinny legs.

  Liam looks down at his daughter, then back at me. “Olive, this is Ms. Carson.”

  I cross the room and hold out my hand to her. “Nice to meet you, Olive. Please call me Abby.” I look at Liam. “Oh, that’s if it’s okay with you.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t get too fussed about being formal,” he says. “Say hello, Olive.”

  She takes my hand, and we shake. Her fingers feel so light in my palm, it’s hard to believe she’s an actual human being. “Hello, Abby.” She gives me a tentative smile, and I can see she gets her smile from her dad. And her eyes. But the rest of her—the mass of thick curls and the slight frame—must be her mother.

  “Are you hungry? I made you a snack.”

  Her eyes light up, and she gives a quick nod.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Abby,” Liam says.

  “It was no trouble. I just remember being really hungry after school when I was growing up.”

  “Well, that’s very kind of you.” Liam puts his hand on Olive’s shoulder. “I’ll show her where the bathroom is so she can get washed up.”

  A minute later, she follows Liam into the kitchen. I watch from my position in front of the sink as she slides into the chair in front of the fruit plate. “Do you like camembert and crackers?” I ask.

  She stares at it blankly. “I don’t know.”

  I see Liam eying the plate and the two of them exchanging a look. I may have overshot the whole snack thing. Perhaps peanut butter and jelly would have been better. “I have orange juice, water, milk, or Guinness. What would you like?”

  She gives me a surprised look, then seems to understand that I was joking and smiles. “Milk, please.”

  Liam watches her for a moment, then seems to decide she’ll be all right with me. “I’m going to be up on the roof if you need anything. Just call from down here though. I don’t want you on the ladder.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “And remember what I told you on the way here. Abby is a very busy person, so you’ll need to sit quietly and color so she can get her work done.”

  “I remember,” she says, glancing at me nervously.

  Guilt tugs at my chest for reasons I don’t understand. “I have a bit of time this afternoon, so why don’t I hang out with you a bit, since it’s a new place for you?”

  “Okay.”

  I smile reassuringly at Liam as I cross the room with a glass of milk. I’m too busy feeling smug about how naturally good I am with children to watch where I’m going. This results in me stubbing my toe on the table leg which causes the cold milk to splash all over my gray T-shirt, soaking me in the process. I follow it up with, “Oh, shit on a stick!” for good measure.

  Olive’s eyes grow wide, and she erupts in a fit of giggles behind both hands.

  “Oh, sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. I meant crap on a stick.” My face grows hot and I look at Liam. “That’s not much better, is it? Now you’re going to think I’m a bad influence. Which, to be honest, I probably am.”

  Liam’s trying not to laugh as he stares at me.

  “Crap on a stick,” Olive says, then bursts out laughing again. What a cute sound. I think I could listen to it for days. Her laughing, I mean. Not her saying ‘crap.’

  “All right, Olive. Mind your manners.” He gives her a stern dad look, but I can see by her response that she’s not going to stop being amused by the clumsy American lady.

  “Okay, let’s try this again.” I walk back to the fridge to retrieve more milk. This time, I make it to the table without incident. I hand her the glass and sit down across from her. “I probably should change, but I’m covered with dirt from the garden anyway, so what’s a little milk?”

  She quietly munches on her snack, careful not to touch the camembert. I sip my tea and watch her. A shell necklace catches my eye. It looks like something from a booth at a music festival or a farmer’s market. The shell is white with light purple swirls and is attached to a braided hemp string.

  “I like your necklace. It’s very beautiful.”

  Olive smiles and touches the shell with one hand. “It belonged to a mermaid.” She says it like she’s telling me the greatest secret ever told.

  “Really?” I hope she can’t tell that I have an urge to laugh.

  She nods. “Yes. My dad found it on the shore up on Seal Island. That’s where all the me
rmaids on the hot days, so it must have belonged to one of them.”

  She’s so sincere that if I didn’t know better, I’d grab my phone and Google it. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.” Her eyes are wide open behind the thick lenses. “Mercedes at school says there’s no such thing as mermaids, but she’s doesn’t know anything. She didn’t even know that if you mix blue and red, it makes purple.”

  “Oh, well, then ...” I offer, as though she has just provided ironclad proof.

  She gives me a knowing look, and we’re immediately co-conspirators.

  “How old are you, Olive?”

  “Seven and three quarters.”

  Her answer instantly reminds me of how badly I wanted to grow up when I was her age. “So you’re basically eight already.”

  She nods, and the grin she gives me shows that she’s happy I get how important those extra months are.

  “What grade are you in?”

  “Grade three.”

  “How do you like school?” How many boring questions can I ask in a row?

  “I like it all right,” she shrugs.

  “What’s your favorite subject?” Apparently quite a few.

  “Art class. Oh, but I also adore science.” She selects a cracker and bites the tiniest bit off the corner.

  “I liked those classes too.” I look out the window for a minute. I have no idea what else to say to her. “Do you play any sports?”

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither.” I stare at her for a moment. “Grown-ups ask the worst questions, don’t we?”

  She nods at this universal truth, and we both laugh together at the acknowledgment of it.

  I imitate myself. “What grade are you in? How old are you? Do you like school?”

  She seems to like this and is now covering her mouth with one hand while she giggles away. “You’re funny.”

  I blush a little, surprised by how good it feels to be on the receiving end of this small compliment.