Great. “Oh?”
“Yes, she wanted to know how you were doing.”
She already knows how I’m doing. She just wishes for something different. “And?”
“I told her that I couldn’t share what happens in our group.”
My fist clenches. “But you can share when I’m here and when I’m not, right?” That would explain the phone calls and lectures from my mother on the nights I don’t get out of the car.
“That’s not the point.”
I’m glaring at him, but he started it. “Really? What is the point then?”
He shakes his head and glares at me. “The point is that I don’t see you making much progress.”
“How would you know? I haven’t shared anything about myself.” I remind myself to control my breathing and to not get upset, especially with a pastor.
“Exactly. How do you expect this to help if you won’t share anything?”
I don’t talk about Jeff, not out loud. When I talk about him, it’s in the past tense, and I can’t stand to hear his name in a world where he no longer exists. Isn’t it enough that everywhere I look, every scent I encounter, and every song I hear somehow reminds me of him and the life we had together? Do I need to talk about him, too? Deep breath. “I don’t think talking about the situation will help. What good would it possibly do?”
“Have you tried?”
“No, and I don’t plan to. Talking about it won’t change anything.” My frustration mounts as I square my chin and look directly into his eyes. “Is bullying a type of treatment you frequently use, pastor?”
“You know Jensen, you can’t be angry forever. At some point, you’re going to have to take steps to move forward, or you won’t be able to recover.”
That does it. I move into his space and he takes a small step back. “I doubt you could ever understand this, but you don’t recover from losing your soul mate. You don’t recover from losing the one person who meant everything to you. The person you were supposed to grow old with. Share everything with.” My mouth clamps shut as heat rises through my chest. He can’t understand.
He doesn’t know it’s my fault. All of it. But no one knows that. Eyes burning, I whip around and try to flee before I break down in front of him.
A chair squeaks against the floor and heavy footsteps follow me. My shins burn as I scamper toward the door. Someone calls my name, but I keep moving. I beg myself to hold it together. I don’t break down in public, not anymore, and I’m so close. I walk faster, wanting the solace of my car. Just as I cross the threshold of the church door, someone tugs on my left arm. “Jensen!”
Whirling around, I see Larry. “Please don’t touch me.”
“Sorry.” He looks down and releases me. I try to focus on his face. His beady black eyes and crooked nose. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Stop staring at his nose hairs, Jensen. “I’m fine.” I turn to walk away when he grabs my arm again. My body tenses as my voice becomes steel. “I said don’t. Touch. Me.”
“I can tell you’re upset, and I know how that feels. I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask for anyone to help me.” The dam is breaking, and I no longer have control. Heat fills my face as the volume of my voice rises. “Don’t you people understand? Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone? Why is it so har— Owww!”
“Excuse us, Larry.”
Nash steps between me and Larry. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me down the stairs, but it doesn’t bother me like when Larry touched me. My brain finally registers that he’s dragging me across the parking lot, and I plant my feet. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Saving you from yourself. You really want to take out that guy with all those blue hairs staring?”
Straightening my shirt, I glance over my shoulder. Mrs. Olsen and Mrs. Arney are whispering to each other. I raise my chin to Nash. “Do you think I care what people think of me?”
He crosses his arms and emotions chase across his face. For a moment, I feel as if he’s looking into my soul. “Yes,” he whispers.
“You don’t even know me.” I push past him and rush toward my car. Twenty feet, just twenty more feet. His footsteps echo behind me.
“I know how grief turns people into someone they don’t recognize.”
I stop. I have lost myself. I no longer know who I am, and that’s the only thing I’m sure of at this point. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. So I don’t acknowledge it. I keep walking. I press the button on my key ring, and the headlights flicker on and off. They call me home to a sanctuary where nothing makes sense, but that at least provides some normalcy in a world that no longer feels normal.
“Jensen, stop. Just give me a minute!”
Shaking my head, I spin around. “I don’t know you from Adam. Why would I give you even a second?”
“Because you’re desperate.”
I laugh. “Desperate? Really?”
He steps closer. On instinct, I back up. The door handle grazes my lower back, and I realize I have nowhere to retreat. He moves closer. All of his focus is on my face. I watch as his eyes make their way around. My forehead, down to my nose and my chin and finally back up to my eyes. And I stare back. Square chin, and white, almost perfect teeth except for the top middle one that has a slight slant to it. He’s harsh with soft edges. Small wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that wouldn’t be noticeable unless you were standing as close as we are. Hair dark as my heart, with sun-kissed skin. Does he work outside, landscaping, construction? He has the build for construction. Rugged and lean, defined muscles but not overly large. I feel his breath on my face, and I realize neither of us has spoken a word. My gaze drifts back to his blue eyes, the color of ice, yet warm and caring. My voice finally squeaks out, but the anger is gone, replaced with confusion.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Because you’re grieving. I see it in those big, beautiful green eyes of yours. You’re looking for a way out, any way out.” He licks his lips and grabs the bottom one with his teeth. Half of his bottom lip disappears, yet even with half of it gone, it’s still larger than his upper lip. Focus on his eyes, Jensen. “But I’m going to let you in on a secret. A secret I had to learn the hard way.” Another pause and he glances along the edges of my face.
Desire pools in my belly, and the feeling is so foreign to me that I want to push him away while also wanting to pull him closer.
“No matter what people tell you, grief can’t be summed up in five neat stages. Not the grief you’ve experienced. It’s messy and confusing and makes you think all sorts of things you wish you didn’t have to think about. Yet you don’t have a choice but to survive it,” he says. “The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be.”
The world begins to spin around me as my chest aches with pain. My eyes close and the need to cry overwhelms me. Cool air replaces his body heat, and I open my eyes to the sound of his bike peeling out of the parking lot.
Chapter 3
Hiding in my car, I sit for a few minutes wiping the tears away and trying to catch my breath. The parking lot empties and I head home. I feel raw, as if I have been sliced down the middle and all of my pain has been exposed. Only someone who has experienced grief would have seen through me. But not just any grief. Grief that changes your life so completely that you wonder if you will ever be whole again.
I pull into my garage and walk through the door to an empty house. It’s so fitting it makes me nauseous. I drop into a chair and stare at nothing. One of the many grief books I’ve read said to rationalize why you feel as you do. And that if you’re more in touch with the feelings and the reasons behind them, you’re more likely to recognize if they’re valid or not. I try for about two minutes. Then I move to the bar and pour myself a drink.
I try not to use alcohol as a crutch. In the beginning, it was easier to be numb. Grief left my brain foggy, and the alcohol amplified
that. Days would drift by as well as full bottles. I used alcohol just like I did the cigarettes. It felt better to be in a different place, out of my norm. To be someone else, to think a different way and to forget the battle that was raging inside. But the only thing I learned from alcohol is that grief and guilt are formidable opponents.
My chair cradles me and a half glass of vodka as I force myself to focus and gaze into the backyard. A manicured lawn surrounded by overgrown trees with buds starting to peek out again for spring. It’s a little early, but Missouri has seen extra rain this year. I remember Jeff getting four bids from different landscape services to find the right one who would make it look like a checker board. That was important to a man who grew up with a single mom. There was never enough money to go around for him and his sister. He worked hard to become a lawyer, and although he didn’t spend our money frivolously, he knew what it took to become a partner. Image was half the battle. That was one of the reasons we bought this huge house, 3,700 square feet for the two of us. But in his defense, the plan was to fill it with children. Was. Everything I think and feel is about what was supposed to happen.
What would my normal be if he hadn’t died? What would I be doing right now? Certainly not sitting in the dark, with a drink in my hand, dwelling on the fact that a complete stranger saw through me. No, not through me. That implies no compassion or care. Nash didn’t see through me, he saw into me. The me that exists without Jeff. Why do I feel as though he knows that person better than me?
Taking a gulp, I focus on the burn that trickles down my throat. I lean back and stare up at the chandelier I had to have for this room. Jeff didn’t see any difference between this one and the one the builder picked out. Just the difference in price. I drag myself to the dining room switch and flip it on. The second I do, I regret it. My eyes drift above the fireplace to a picture above the mantel. It’s Jeff and me on our wedding day. He holds me in his arms, my legs flailing, flanked by our best friends. I stare at the expression on our faces, and I see nothing but pure, blissful happiness. And ignorance. So ignorant that we didn’t know it could be taken away in one swift second.
This isn’t working. I grab my phone and pray my best friend isn’t on duty. The phone rings once, twice, three times, and I prepare to leave a message. The question is, which Jensen do I want to be right now? The strong best friend who leaves a casual message, just checking in? Or the depressed widow who needs someone to lean on? When she answers, I already know who I’m going to be: myself, all depressed, weak, and angry. The anger never leaves my side.
“Hey, Parker. It must be group night.”
Olivia, my best friend for over twenty years, still calls me by my maiden name. She and I met in second grade when her family moved to Springfield, Missouri. I still remember that day. She walked into our classroom and the teacher introduced her. The faces of all the boys in the room lit up. I knew at that moment she was one of those girls every boy would want to date and every girl would hate. Feeling threatened, even at age seven, I raised my hand and in a snotty voice asked the teacher, “Is she going to be in our class?” Most girls would have hated me for it, but not Olivia. She smiled at me while the teacher informed us that she would be in our class and it was now my responsibility to show her around. We became instant friends, and even after all this time, she knows me better than anyone. Jeff was the only person on this earth who gave her competition in that department. And she’s the only person I haven’t shut out since he died. It may have something to do with the fact that she lives 1,200 miles away.
“Hey, not on rounds tonight?” I ask.
“Not tonight, so I’m living it up. What’s up?”
“I guess that means it’s pizza and wine night?” I hear a cork pop in the background.
“You’re good, but let’s face it, I’m pretty predictable. Just as you are. You’re not calling to shoot the shit. What happened?”
I appreciate having a friend that knows when to call me out. “Weird day, that’s all.”
“Would this have anything to do with group? Did you actually get out of the car tonight?”
There’s also something about a friend knowing you so well that you don’t want to tell them anything because they can use it as a weapon against you. “I did, after being coerced.”
“Coerced? Who coerced you?” I hear the gulps on the other end and know that the bottle will be done before our conversation is. People used to call Olivia “Elbow” when she was in college. She’s wicked smart, as a doctor at Yale should be. But she knows how to play hard too. I’ve always had trouble keeping up with her.
“Just some guy.”
“Oh!” I hear her perk up on the other end. “Details please and spare none. What guy?”
“This guy came rolling in on his Harley thinking he owned the joint.”
“Well now, this sounds promising. Is he hot?”
I roll my eyes as I remember the face I seemed to memorize tonight when he was just a few short feet from me. “Who cares?”
“I do, and so should you.”
“Liv, please don’t start the ‘move along’ speech. I’m not in the mood, not tonight.”
“All right.” She sighs. “How did he coerce you?”
“I was sitting in the car debating on going in when he tapped on my window. Asked me if I was going. One thing led to another, and the night ended with him giving me some psycho-babble bull about grief and not having a choice but to survive it.”
“Sounds familiar. Not the first time you’ve heard it. Jeff would want you to move forward. He wouldn’t want you sitting in that house, cleaning it day after day, giving up your career, your friends, your life so that you could try to stop time from moving forward.”
“I’m not doing that.” Olivia also knows me well enough to know that I spend my days cleaning 3,000 square feet of emptiness. After giving up my job and shutting myself in, it’s the only thing I have control over, even if I don’t want to admit it out loud.
“Really? You know, Parker, it may not be a bad idea to make a new friend, especially someone who might know a little about what you’re going through. Any idea why he was at a bereavement support group?”
Good question. I was so caught up in my own crap I didn’t even think about his. I sit back down and rub my eyes, regretting calling her and trying to have a conversation about this. She doesn’t understand. Nobody does. So I do what I always do: deflect. “Don’t know. Enough about me. What’s new with you?”
Chapter 4
Olivia fills me in on the past three guys she’s dated and dumped. Apparently, it’s been a while since I’ve asked about her life. Jeff would have been annoyed that I stayed up late talking with Olivia. They loved each other because of me, but they never saw eye to eye.
I walk to the sink to wash out the glass of vodka. I study the floor and decide it’s time to change the towel stopping the leak underneath the sink. I wipe away the dampness and wring out the towel. I try to remember the last time I changed it. I keep telling myself that I need to get a calendar to keep track of things, important things like towel switching and bathing. It seems so pathetic. I used to keep a schedule of eight to ten meetings a day. Now I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair. Or changed a towel on the floor. If it was yesterday, then the leak is getting worse.
I place the towel directly beside the kickboard and then center it between the two cabinet doors underneath the sink. It took me several months and numerous types of towels before I figured this out. I now use the Super-Duper absorbent towel that I bought through an infomercial during one of my sleepless nights. I thought what the hell and took a chance. Worked perfectly for what I needed, so I ordered four more.
Washing my hands, I reach for a paper towel and glance at Jeff’s Honey Do List on the refrigerator. At fix sink leak, the perpetual knot in my throat rises to the surface. Tears spring to my eyes. I know better than to look at that. It’s a trigger for me, but let’s be honest, what isn’t? Before I dwell on
it for too long, I rush upstairs to drift into another sleepless night.
I awake to knocking on the front door. My mother knows not to use the doorbell. She knows it’s another trigger for me. Since that night, whenever the doorbell rings, all I picture is two police officers standing in front of me about to deliver the most devastating news of my life.
Even if she didn’t know, she couldn’t miss the fact that the doorbell was ripped from its cradle. A few weeks ago, the delivery man rang it twice. Anger took over and I lost it. The butter knife I had in my hand at the time helped me take care of it so it wouldn’t be an issue in the future.
She knocks again. I can tell it’s her knock from the hesitation. One knock and then, as though she’s rethinking it, two softer ones. After the third round of this, I decide to get up. I wasn’t asleep anyway, and her next move will be to use her key. Which reminds me, I need to get that back from her.
Throwing my legs over the edge of the bed, I make my way downstairs, throw open the door, and head toward the kitchen without a word. Coffee. I need coffee.
“Well hello to you too, dear. Were you still in bed?”
Dumb question number one. Where else would I be? “Yes mother.”
She steps over the threshold. “I see you’ve cleaned again.”
Always armed and looking for a fight. I don’t understand why she brings this up every single time. I’ve explained it repeatedly. There is only so much one can do in the same house day in and day out. It’s one small thing that I have control over in this world. For the love of God, let it go, woman.
“Yes, I cleaned again. What are you doing here, Mom?” I hope she can hear the frustration in my voice.
“I wanted to see if you’d like to go to lunch with me. We could invite Julia or another one of your friends if you like.”
“Lunch?” Dumb question number two. I look at the clock on the microwave and groan. I slept in again. More specifically, laid in again. I will never understand it. Either I can’t sleep at all, or I go for what seems like days and do nothing but sleep. I can’t seem to find any kind of routine or normalcy.
The Loss Between Us Page 2
