A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  I’m not ready to return to work yet because I still feel completely drained and worn out from the accident and getting through Alan’s funeral. Zack is more resilient than I am, and he goes bravely off to school.

  When he comes home after his first day back, he tells me that the guidance counselor pulled him out of class to ask how he was coping. She encouraged him to seek help if he needed it—whether that meant talking to someone or being granted an extension on a project. He was both surprised and touched by how caring everyone was, asking him how he was getting along and expressing how sorry they were.

  As for me, I spend the next four days on the sofa, feeling lethargic and depressed. There are moments when I hate Alan for destroying our beautiful life together. How could he have done it? How could he have squandered it all?

  Then I cry like a baby because I miss him so much and want him back. I sleep a lot. And I call Carla, and we talk and talk. She wants to come and stay with me for a while, but I don’t let her because she has a family she needs to take care of.

  The only thing I manage to accomplish that first week, besides taking Winston for a daily walk after lunch, is a trip to the grocery store to buy food so that Zack and I won’t starve or be forced to eat toast and canned beans night after night.

  But shopping for groceries only makes me feel more depressed. I move through the store like a zombie, and people stare at my bruised face as I slowly push my cart up and down the aisles. What makes it worse are the festive holiday decorations that start to appear in the stores on the first of December. Songs like “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” are piped through the overhead speakers. The lyrics make me want to grab a jar of salsa off the shelf and smash it on the floor because my husband won’t be home for Christmas this year—or ever. I resist the urge to destroy nonperishables, however.

  Later in the week, I try to ignore Alan’s things in the same way that most of us don’t see clutter after living with it for months or years, thinking that will help. I force myself to glance unseeingly over his books on the shelf and his power tools in the basement, which is much easier than making a decision about when I’m going to get rid of everything—including that apartment in Bridgewater.

  I tell myself it’s going to take some time before I’m ready, and I just need to be patient. Time heals all wounds, right? But every once in a while, when I go into our closet, I flirt with the idea of burning his belongings in a massive pile in the backyard and spitting on the ashes. Or I could wait for the simmering anger to pass and rummage through every item lovingly, thinking carefully about where it should go and to whom.

  Will that day ever come? Will the anger ever pass? I have no idea.

  After a week of pure wretchedness, I watch Zack leave for school and decide that it’s time for me to pull myself together too. First, I need to cancel the lease on Alan’s disgusting apartment. Then buy a new car with the insurance money from the accident and get rid of the rental. Zack will be thrilled to help me pick something out. Then I’ll need to return to work. It’ll do me good to be around people again, because I can’t stay at home forever feeling sorry for myself and avoiding my responsibilities.

  I drink two cups of coffee and examine my banged-up face in the mirror—it’s looking somewhat better. A thick coat of foundation hides most of the scars and what’s left of the bruises.

  Then I look down at Winston and realize he’s doing much better too. I kneel down and give him a scratch behind the ears. “I think we’re over the hump, buddy—at least physically.”

  He sits still while I examine his incision, which appears to be completely healed. “That looks really good. In fact, I’m going to text the vet and give him an update.”

  Rising to my feet, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, find Nathan in my list of contacts, and begin typing: Hi there. I just wanted to let you know that Winston is doing really well and his incision is healed. Thank you again for everything you did for us last month.

  I’m pleased when Nathan texts me back immediately. Hi, Abbie. It’s nice to hear from you. I’m glad Winston is on the mend. How are you doing?

  I smile and respond, Oh . . . you know . . . pretty good, all things considered. Taking it day by day.

  His reply comes in a few seconds later. That’s all you can do. Just remember not to put too much pressure on yourself to feel normal again. That will take time.

  Don’t worry, I reply. Normal is not in my periphery at the moment.

  He replies, LOL.

  I smile and send one last text: Have a nice Christmas if I don’t talk to you, and say hi to Ruby for me.

  He responds, I will. Take care, Abbie!

  You too, I reply.

  With renewed purpose, I search through my list of contacts again and call the chief of surgery at the hospital to let him know I’m ready to return to work.

  “Are you sure, Abbie?” he asks. “Because if you need more time . . .”

  “No,” I reply. “It’ll do me good to get out of the house. I need to be with people.”

  Especially with the holidays coming. The distraction will be good for me.

  He admits he’s overjoyed to hear it because a number of cases have been bumped over the past few weeks. I’ve been sorely missed.

  I take a long shower and feel thankful that I have a challenging, rewarding career that I love. I pray that it will help to bring me back to the world of the living.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Zack and I decide that we’ll keep Christmas low-key this year. Personally, I would have preferred to skip it altogether and start fresh next year, but I can’t do that to Zack, so I force myself to get a tree at the farmers market on a Saturday afternoon, drag it home, and stick it in the metal stand.

  Together, we agree to keep up the tradition of opening a box of chocolates and listening to holiday music while we hang the lights and decorations, but it’s impossible to act cheerful when every ornament we touch is a reminder of Christmases past.

  The “World’s Best Dad” trophy is especially disheartening, because Zack gave that to Alan just last year.

  As soon as we hear the song “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by the Carpenters, we exchange a look. Zack nearly trips over a box of garland as he scrambles to shut off the speaker, because we both know that Alan had a secret childhood crush on Karen Carpenter, which we used to tease him about every time this song came on.

  “How about I turn on TV instead?” Zack says.

  “That’s a great idea.”

  He picks up the remote control and tunes in to the Weather Channel. “This should be safe.”

  We continue hanging ornaments while Winston lies on the carpet with his chin on his paws, looking depressed as he watches us. So much for being merry.

  “So have you made any decisions about college next year?” I ask Zack, feeling a somewhat desperate need to talk about something other than our Christmas memories.

  Zack bends to withdraw a little wooden snowman from a box and turns to hang it on the tree. “Actually. I’m thinking I might just go to Dal and live at home.”

  I gape at him in shock. “Dal. But I thought you wanted to go to Queen’s or Western.”

  It has always been Zack’s dream to go away to college and live in a new city, on his own. Dalhousie is an excellent school, but it’s just down the street.

  “What changed your mind?”

  He glances at me briefly before he bends to pick up another ornament. “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, Zack. We’re always honest with each other.” Well . . . maybe not always. “What’s going on?”

  “We just lost Dad. And I . . . I don’t want you to be all alone.”

  While I hate the idea of my son feeling responsible for my happiness when he should be excited about his own, I’m proud of him for thinking of others and not just himself.

  Then suddenly, I wish that we’d had another child so that Zack wouldn’t feel as if he were deserting me now.

  It i
sn’t the first time I’ve wished I could have gotten pregnant again. Certainly when Zack was little, he often expressed his desire for a baby brother or sister, but it just wasn’t in the cards. But now, with Alan gone, I see how much pressure this puts on Zack, my only child, to be the center of my world. It’s a lot of responsibility for a seventeen-year-old.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I assure him, since the last thing I want is for him to sacrifice his dreams because he doesn’t think his mother can handle solitude. “I have Winston to keep me company, and you know how busy I am with work. I have a full life, Zack. It would break my heart if I thought I was holding you back.”

  “You’re not holding me back,” he replies without looking me in the eye as he combs through the box for another ornament. “Lots of my friends are going to Dal, and Dal has a really good science program.”

  I know he’s doing his best to convince me—and himself—but I can’t let him do this.

  “But you always wanted to go away to school.”

  “Yeah, but things are different now. I just want to stay put for a while.”

  I hang a tiny golden reindeer on the tree and then go to the kitchen to refill my glass of eggnog. “Well, you don’t have to decide anything right now. You have plenty of time to think about it, and you might feel differently in the new year. I just want you to be happy, and if that means you going away to college, then that’s what I want too.”

  Yet a part of me relishes the idea of my son staying home for another year because I love him desperately, and after losing my husband, the thought of saying goodbye to Zack is like another knife in my heart.

  If not for my mother, waking up on Christmas morning and opening gifts without Alan would have been pure torture for Zack and me, but she arrives on Christmas Eve with a festive cherry cheesecake, a giant can of caramel popcorn, and a bag full of gifts. Winston leaps up from his lounging position on the rug, runs to the door to greet her, and wags his tail happily. It’s a welcome distraction.

  Then we all sit together on Christmas Eve and watch The Sound of Music, which again distracts us from the fact that this is, without a doubt, the worst Christmas on record. All we want to do is get through it.

  On Christmas morning, we open gifts without much ceremony, as we agreed to keep presents to a minimum and avoid giving each other anything too sentimental. I couldn’t help myself, though. I’ve overcompensated for what we’ve lost and bought Zack all new hockey equipment and a new cell phone, which occupies him for a while as he sets it up. He gives me a lovely silk scarf, while my mother presents me with a basket full of jams, chocolates, and coffee. Zack receives a fifty-dollar bill from her, along with socks and a new shirt.

  As soon as the gifts are unwrapped, we move away from the tree and focus on cooking a gigantic breakfast. After the dishes are washed and put away, Zack texts some of his friends on his new phone and goes to Jeremy’s house to hang out in his basement and play the new video game he got from Dave and Maureen.

  I’m glad he’s keeping busy and spending time with friends. As for me, I just want to forget that it’s Christmas and move past it as quickly as possible.

  Somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s, in the middle of one of those endless nights, I awake groggily to the sound of the garage door opening, then a thump downstairs and the crashing clatter of something tipping over.

  Zack pounds repeatedly on my bedroom door. “Mom!” He rattles the doorknob. “Someone’s in the basement!”

  Panic sweeps through my bloodstream. I’m so frightened I can’t move a muscle. I can’t even make my voice work to call out to him.

  Alan. Why aren’t you here?

  My body feels made of lead. I try to scream, but it comes out as a mournful moan.

  Winston jumps onto the bed and stands over me on all fours. He licks my eyelids, and suddenly I’m free from the terror paralysis, and I’m able to move. My eyes fly open. I grab hold of the fur around his neck and stare into his face to anchor myself in wakefulness.

  Was I dreaming? No, there was definitely a noise in the basement. Someone’s in the house.

  Zack.

  I leap out of bed and run out of the room. The house is dark and quiet, except for Winston, who jumps off my bed and hurries down the hall ahead of me like a heroic four-legged defender. Head low, he runs to Zack’s room, peers in the door, then dashes down the stairs, barking viciously—and he’s not normally a barker.

  I worry that Zack has already gone downstairs, and what if the intruder has a knife or a gun? I stumble slightly in my rush to get to his room, but when I enter, I find him sitting up in bed, switching on the light, which seems odd, considering he was banging at my door just now. Or was he?

  Winston is barking somewhere downstairs, and my insides wrench at the thought that he’s down there alone, trying to protect us.

  “Someone’s inside the house, for real,” I whisper, dashing to Zack’s phone on his bedside table. “I’m calling 911.”

  Zack tosses the covers aside and rises from bed. His wild gaze darts around the room and fixes on a hockey stick leaning against the wall.

  While I wait for the call to connect with emergency services, Zack picks up the stick and starts for the door.

  “No, don’t go down there!” I whisper. “I’m calling the police.”

  “But Winston’s down there,” Zack replies.

  “He’ll be all right.”

  I say these words even though I’m not sure he will be.

  Then it occurs to me that a moment ago, I thought Zack was banging on my bedroom door, warning me about the intruder, but when I entered his room, he was still in bed.

  Nevertheless, I know what I heard. It happened. It was real.

  “Did you bang on my door a few minutes ago?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Did you hear the garage door open?”

  Again, he shakes his head.

  Winston has stopped barking, but I hear him running all over the house, searching every room, including the basement.

  Someone answers my call. Though I’m suddenly feeling doubtful that I actually heard something—maybe I was dreaming—I don’t want to take any chances, so I explain that I heard an intruder enter my home through the garage. The dispatcher instructs me to stay on the line and remain upstairs with the door closed and locked and to wait for the police to arrive.

  I convince Zack to wait with me, while my mind works through what just occurred. As I begin to feel more wakeful, I wonder if I might have indeed been dreaming, because Zack insists that he never knocked on my door.

  But I’d swear on my life that I heard the garage door opening, and obviously Winston heard it too. It was too real to be a dream. It happened. I’m certain. Someone entered through the garage, knocked something over, and might still be in the house.

  I want Winston to come back upstairs. I’m worried for him.

  When the police arrive, they do a full sweep of the house and inform me that the garage door is closed. Winston is stressed from all the activity and strangers combing through our house in the middle of the night. He sits at my side, panting heavily, while I speak to the officer in charge.

  I explain again that I heard noises and Winston heard them too. But at this point, I’m starting to wonder if I’m going crazy.

  If it wasn’t real, I’m too embarrassed to admit it, even to Zack.

  After the police leave, I try to go back to sleep, but it’s not easy. Zack’s nervous too, so I suggest he sleep in the king-size bed with Winston and me. Then I hurry downstairs to get a frying pan, return to bed, and slide it under my pillow.

  What a night.

  Despite all the lies and betrayals in my marriage, I miss Alan more than ever and wish he was here with us. I always felt safe with him in bed beside me.

  The following day at the hospital, I’m exhausted from sleeplessness, and I drift off at the lunch table in the doctors’ lounge.

  A nurse finds me with my face resting next to my
salad bowl, and she shakes me awake for my next surgery.

  I’m mortified and apologize profusely, but she understands when I explain what happened the night before. She is kind enough to bring me a strong cup of black coffee, but as I sip on it, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something seriously wrong with me. One minute I miss my husband, and I’m devastated over the loss of him. The next minute I want to strangle him with my bare hands for what he did to us. And now I’m falling asleep at work in the middle of the day, in plain sight of everyone.

  Is this normal? Or am I totally losing it?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Somehow, Zack and I manage to make it to the new year, and I’m sitting in the bleachers watching his hockey game, relieved to slide back into some semblance of my old life. My nose is cold, and my rear end is numb, but I revel in the company of the hockey moms and dads, all of whom I’ve come to know very well over the past few years through sports dinners and fund-raisers, games and practices. On top of that, the blaring music, the noisy scrape of the players’ skates across the ice, and the refs’ shrill whistles create a cacophony that rouses me from the recent deadness of my life.

  Not long after the first period, my cell phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I reach in with my thick woolen mitten to check the call display.

  OCEANVIEW ANIMAL HOSPITAL.

  I get up from the wooden bench and climb down the bleachers to take the call. “Hello?”

  “Hi. Is this Abbie?”

  It’s Nathan’s voice, which comes as a surprise. “Yes. Hi, Nathan. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. How about you?”

  I walk along the boards, past the plexiglass barrier, to the lobby. “Well, you know . . . as good as can be expected.”