Lester stands up. He’s a tall man, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a deep, booming voice that most people find intimidating. I suspect that’s why he’s always been able to get away with such bad behavior. People are afraid to stand up to him.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Zack says.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Are you shy? Come over here, and shake my hand like a man.”
Zack gives me a brief look and crosses the room toward Lester, who grabs his hand, pumps it hard, and pulls him roughly into his arms for a bear hug. He ruffles his hair and says, “He’s not so big and tough. Captain of the hockey team, eh? What’s all that for? What are you trying to prove? You probably get checked into the boards every ten seconds. At least that’ll toughen you up.” He turns to me. “You watching him for concussions? They say hockey and football players are getting brain damage and can’t play no more.”
I stand motionless, staring at him in shock. “We’re keeping an eye on things.”
“I saw a movie about that,” Bruce adds. “But I think it’s a big pile of horseshit. It’s just the drug companies trying to make money.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s the case, Bruce.”
Lester punches Zack in the arm. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Zack replies with an uncomfortable chuckle, rubbing his arm.
“Why not? What’s wrong with you? You don’t like girls? You like boys instead?”
“No. I just haven’t the met the right girl yet, I guess. I’m pretty busy.”
“The right girl. Humph. You oughta be sowing those wild oats while you’re young.” Lester regards my son with a suspicious, sinister look that causes all the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand up.
I move forward to urge Zack away from Lester toward the chair on the opposite side of the room.
Meanwhile, Winston is standing in the doorway, his head hung low, panting heavily as he watches the exchange. His behavior concerns me because it’s not normal for my boisterous golden retriever to remain in a doorway when we have guests. Normally he’s a tireless social butterfly and always enjoys meeting new people. I wonder if it’s the pain medication that’s causing him to feel groggy. Or maybe he’s sore, or self-conscious about the cone.
“What in the world is that thing?” Lester asks, turning his attention to Winston. “What did he do to himself?”
Feeling instantly protective, I move closer to my dog. “He was injured in the accident with me. He was thrown out the window, actually. He had surgery that night, and he’s still recovering.”
“Oh, poor baby,” Verna says in a saccharine voice.
I stroke Winston’s back and encourage him to lie down next to me as I take a seat in the chair.
“Your mother tells me you’re involved in student government,” Verna says politely to Zack.
Her tone is sweet as syrup, and there’s a charming sparkle in her eye. For a moment, it’s hard to believe she could ever have been a loveless stepmother when Alan was a boy, but I don’t doubt the truth of what Alan told me. The syrup is clearly artificial.
Zack answers her question, and I’m proud of how well-spoken and respectful he is. He also talks about his plans to attend university after high school.
“That’s a good way to rack up a whole lot of debt,” Lester says contemptuously. Then he hacks and coughs into his fist. “But I suppose you can afford it with two rich doctors for parents.”
“It’s just one parent now.” Zack lowers his gaze to his lap, and I give Lester a searing look because it kills me to see my son in pain, reminded of how he’s missing his father and knowing he’ll never see him again.
I sit and stroke Winston’s smooth golden coat and pray that Lester won’t stick his foot in it again. Which he probably will.
Mom—who I swear has some form of radar when a distraction is needed—enters and lets us know that lunch is served.
We all head into the kitchen, where I do my best to keep the conversation light over big, hearty bowls of beef and barley soup with warm rolls and butter.
I suggest a few restaurants my in-laws might enjoy for dinner, making it clear that I’ll be busy preparing for the gathering at the funeral home and I want them out of my hair until then. Verna asks if there’s anything she can do to help, but I assure her that I have everything under control and her presence at the wake is all that’s required.
My mother serves apple pie for dessert, and when we’re done, we all rise from the table. Verna thanks us repeatedly, but as we make our way to the door, Lester spots one of Winston’s toys—a stuffed duck that quacks—on the floor next to his food bowl.
He bends forward and picks it up. “What’s this now?”
He squeezes its belly to make it quack, then biffs it into the front hall. “Fetch, boy!”
Winston lifts his head, but his ears press back under the cone.
“What’s wrong with ya?” Lester asks, stomping his foot repeatedly in front of Winston’s nose. “Are you a wuss? Go get it. It’s a duck!”
I squat beside Winston and stroke his shoulders. “No need to get up.”
Again, Lester kicks at Winston’s bed with the toe of his boot to try and rouse him. “Is he a dog or a pussy?”
Despite my vow to ignore certain misbehaviors today, I can’t deny a heated surge of anger. I grab hold of the toe of Lester’s boot and shove it away. He loses his balance and stumbles backward.
“He just had surgery,” I explain.
Lester chuckles meanly. “You’re his mommy, are you? I always figured that’s why Alan married you. He loved being a mama’s boy.”
I rise to my feet, look Lester in the eye, and speak matter-of-factly. “You should probably go now.”
Verna is quick to gloss over the altercation. “Thank you so much for lunch. The soup was delicious.” She moves toward the door, tugging at Lester’s sleeve.
Lester and Bruce stride into the foyer, and my mother moves quickly to retrieve their coats from the closet. Winston stands up, watching intently from the kitchen, where he pants as if he’s just run himself to exhaustion.
“We’ll see you at the funeral home tomorrow,” I say, fighting the urge to shove Lester out of my mother’s house like a bouncer.
As soon as I close the door behind them, I peer discreetly out the window. Verna is slapping Lester’s arm and scolding him as they move down the walk to their rental car.
I turn to see Zack leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, shaking his head. “What an ass. No wonder Dad left home and moved across the country. I would have done the same thing if he was my father.”
I pull Zack into my arms and hug him tight. “Thank goodness he wasn’t. You were lucky to have such a great dad.”
In that moment, I think of my own upbringing and how I, too, was blessed to have a happy, perfect childhood with two kind and loving parents who never said an unkind word. Suddenly, I miss Alan desperately. How will we get through the rest of our lives without him?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The following night, my body feels heavy and cumbersome, as if I’m sinking into an abyss—an impenetrable fog of exhaustion and trepidation. Tonight, I will view my beloved husband in an open casket. I’ll no longer be able to imagine that this is just a bad dream. It will be painfully real for all of us.
My anxiety is amplified by the fact that Zack will see Alan in the casket as well and I’ll feel my son’s pain on top of my own. It’s impossible not to worry about how this tragedy will affect the rest of Zack’s life. Up until now, he’s been a well-adjusted, optimistic young man. I don’t want this loss to change him or break something inside of him, but I know I can’t shield him from everything. His father is dead. We have no choice but to accept it and surrender to the fact that nothing will ever be the same again.
It’s a terrible chore to stand in front of the mirror and put on makeup, because my eyes are burning, my legs feel sore and weak, and honestly, I couldn’t care less about how pre
tty I look. I stare at myself and slap my cheeks a few times to pull myself out of the haze I’m in, and then I try to force myself to care, because Alan wouldn’t want me to give up on myself. He would want me to stand proudly in the funeral home and be strong. Not just today but every day afterward.
When it’s time to go, I leave my bedroom and slowly descend the stairs.
Mom drives Zack and me to the funeral home, while Carla, Braden, and their daughters follow in their minivan.
We arrive fifteen minutes early to pay our respects privately ahead of the other guests. Mom pulls over in a spot across the street from the funeral home, and we get out of the car together.
It’s a clear night with a full moon and bright stars in the sky. Most of the ice and snow has melted.
I notice a woman walking out of the funeral home. She wipes tears from her cheeks as she hurries down the steps, then jogs down the street to her car, which is parked at the far end of the block.
I watch her for a moment with a frown, for there can be no mistaking her. It’s Paula Sheridan, the hardware store owner who called Alan in the hospital on the night of his death. What is she doing here, and why is she so upset? Unless she was making arrangements for someone of her own that she may have lost . . .
Briefly, I’m tempted to call out her name, but I don’t want to cause a ruckus. This whole situation is difficult enough as it is. I can’t be thinking about Paula Sheridan now. I need to focus on what matters most: keeping Zack at my side and saying goodbye to Alan.
The evening passes in a blur. People come and go: doctors we’ve both worked with, patients who loved Alan, and friends, old and new. They all offer the same messages of sympathy and condolence. Nobody mentions that he was drinking and driving, and for that, I am grateful.
I shake their hands and thank them for coming.
Eventually, the visitors stop arriving, the room slowly clears, and it’s time for Zack and me to say our final goodbyes. Zack moves forward and kneels before the open casket. Carla and my mother chat in hushed tones, but I’m not listening to them because my heart is breaking apart as I watch my son bid farewell to his father forever.
When he returns to me, his eyes are wet as he squeezes my hand. “It’s your turn, Mom.”
I nod, kiss him on the cheek, and slowly approach the casket. Alan looks peaceful, but perhaps that’s not the right word, because there is very little left of the man I have loved for the past twenty years. That man is long gone from this body, and it’s excruciating to see him this way—so devoid of life. Part of me wants to look away, to not see him like this. I want to remember him as he was. Yet I know I can’t squander this time with him, because this is my last chance. As soon as I walk out that door, I’ll never see my husband again.
My breath catches in my throat, and I kneel down to whisper words of love and to share memories of special times. Eventually, Carla lays her hand on my shoulder. “Abbie . . . it’s time.”
No. Not yet.
I blink hard over tears that burn my eyes and run my knuckles gently down Alan’s cheek, but he’s so cold. He can’t feel the warmth of my touch. He’s not here anymore.
My hands shake, and my body trembles as I force myself to rise and step back. The whole experience leaves me weak and depleted. I have to fight to keep my emotions under control as we walk out the door—at least until I can return to my mother’s house, shut my bedroom door, and allow myself to fall apart completely.
I rise at dawn the following day before anyone wakes, having slept very little through the night. Only Winston is at my side in the kitchen, with the plastic cone still fastened around his neck. He rests quietly on his bed in the corner by the table.
As I make a pot of coffee, I try to prepare myself for the church service and burial that afternoon. I just need to get through it, and then everything, I pray, will get easier.
Winston rises from his cushion and ambles to his food bowl by the back door. I realize it’s empty, so I get up from my chair to fill it.
“How are you doing, by the way?” I ask as the kibbles clank into the stainless-steel bowl.
He drinks some water but doesn’t have much of an appetite, so he simply follows me back to the table, where I sit down to finish my coffee. He stares at me with those big brown eyes, looking concerned.
I set down my mug. “I know. You can see that I’m upset, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And you don’t like wearing that silly collar. I wouldn’t like it either. But don’t worry. You won’t have to wear it forever. Just a few more days.”
He lies down and rests his chin on his paws, and I understand that it’s more than just the plastic cone around his neck or a headache or pain from the surgery that’s causing him to look so depressed. Somehow, he knows we’re all suffering, and he’s feeling it too. He’s wondering where the fourth member of our pack has gone and why he’s not here.
Paula Sheridan makes a sudden appearance in my mind. I realize that I was so exhausted after I returned home last night that I hadn’t given any more thought to her tearful presence at the wake.
I’m still curious about why she was there. Alan was just a customer, so I don’t see why she would be so upset.
Unless she knew Alan better than she let on . . .
I raise my coffee cup to my lips and think about the obvious implications of that, and then I shake my head at myself. Stop it, Abbie. That’s just crazy.
Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder if Paula will be at the funeral service today. If she comes, will she bring her husband and stay for the reception in the church hall afterward?
I hope so, because if she tries to sneak in unnoticed like she did at the wake, I’m going to consider that to be very strange and suspicious behavior, and I can’t handle strange and suspicious right now. There are enough unanswered questions on my mind, like why my husband was driving drunk on the night he died. I’m still craving an explanation for that, and the question won’t leave me alone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As it turns out, Paula attends Alan’s funeral service, but just as I feared she might, she arrives at the last minute, sits at the back of the church—without her husband—and disappears before the organist begins to play the recessional.
Later, at the cemetery, as Alan’s casket is lowered into the ground, I spot her watching from a distance, high up on the hill. Only family members have been invited to attend the burial, so I’m acutely aware of her presence while the minister reads from the prayer book.
Afterward, as we slowly make our way back to our cars, I glance toward the crest of the hill, but Paula has disappeared again. I can’t help but wonder if she thinks I haven’t noticed her lurking around during these times of heightened grief.
By now, I’m quite certain that she wants to be seen and she wants me to reach out to her, but I don’t know why, and I don’t want to suspect the obvious—that she knew my husband in an intimate way. It could be something else entirely.
Either way, my family has been through enough. We’ve had to deal with the press asking questions about whether Alan had a serious drinking problem and if he’d ever lost a patient under suspicious circumstances. Of course, I will continue to deny those accusations because Alan was an excellent heart surgeon, the very best in the city. I never saw him drink excessively, and certainly not a single drop when he was headed for the OR. He would have lost his license ages ago if he had done something like that.
But clearly I didn’t know everything about Alan, because I have no idea why he was drunk on the road that night, nor was I aware of his connection to Paula Sheridan and the possibility of a friendship—or something more. My poor broken heart is demanding answers, and I know I’m not going to be able to simply let it go.
“It was a lovely service,” Verna says to me as we reach our vehicles. She touches my arm, and suddenly I find myself wanting to lay aside my frustrations from the previous day when Lester behaved so atrociously.
This is Alan’s family. The
y traveled a long way to be here. I should be mindful of that, and I don’t want to harbor any ill will. Not today.
“Thank you, Verna,” I say. “Would you like to come back to the house? We’re just going to sit around and talk about happy times.”
“That would be lovely,” she replies. “I’ll tell Lester, and we’ll see you soon.”
As she speaks my father-in-law’s name, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, but I quickly shake the worry away. Lester is Alan’s father. Though he’s an insensitive brute most of the time, I can’t imagine that he’s not grieving in his own way today, especially because of how he and Alan parted ten years ago. I suspect Lester must have some regrets that he keeps buried under the surface.
“We’ll see you soon,” I say to Verna as I get into my mother’s car, feeling proud of myself for taking the high road today.
“Do you have anything decent to drink around here?” Lester asks the second we’ve walked through the door of my mother’s house.
I glance up at him as I remove my coat. “I’m not sure. What would you like? We have wine and beer.”
“No, not that,” he replies as if I’m stupid. “Do you have any rum? Vodka? Gin?”
I feel my blood pressure rising, but I swallow hard and work to find my inner Zen. “I’m not sure. Let me check and see what Mom has in her cupboards.”
Soon, I’m in the dining room on my knees, rifling through the china cabinet, where I find half a bottle of Drambuie and a full, unopened bottle of Canadian Club whiskey.
“Perfect!” Lester says, snatching both bottles from my hands. “We can make a mean Rusty Nail with these. Got any ice?”
“In the freezer.” I point toward the kitchen and stand slowly, grimacing at the ache in my legs. Lester doesn’t stick around to help me up, and I wonder why I’m so conscientious about being a good hostess when he has no qualms about being a terrible guest.
An hour later, he’s a third of the way into the bottle of whiskey, the Drambuie is gone, and he’s getting loud. I feel badly for my sister’s husband, Braden, who’s stuck in the kitchen with him and Bruce, listening to Lester rant about the Toronto Blue Jays. I suspect Braden is sacrificing himself just to keep Lester and Bruce out of the living room, where the women are sitting quietly with the children and Zack, talking about Alan and sipping tea.
A Curve in the Road Page 8
