“No isn’t an option, honey,” she said. “It’s time to get out of bed. Come on.”
My entire body ached, but somehow, with her bracing me, I made it to my feet. She handed me a fuzzy blue robe and a jar of brown-sugar body wash, and led me to the shower, which was already running and filling the room with white steam.
“Do you need help getting undressed?” she asked, and I shook my head.
“Then I’ll be right outside the door when you finish.”
I stood in the steaming water for a long time, soaping my hair and slowly rubbing the sweet-smelling wash into my skin. After I turned off the water and wrapped myself in the robe, I found my pajamas had been swept away and a pair of sneakers and new Juicy Couture sweat suit had replaced them on the vanity.
“Just a short walk,” Isabelle cajoled, waving a roaring blowdryer at my hair. “We’ll go to the end of the street.”
I groaned but gave in, and was surprised by how good the fresh air felt on my face. After a few minutes, my steps came more surely, and before I knew it, we’d gone a half mile.
“Does it ever get easier?” I asked as we turned around to head back home. “When you lose someone you love?”
Her eyes darkened, and I knew she was thinking about Beth.
“Yes,” she said. “But it never gets easy.”
I nodded. “I think you have the right idea,” I said. “We’ll just keep putting one foot in front of the other, okay?”
She squeezed my shoulder. “It’s all we can do.”
We walked in silence awhile longer.
“Tomorrow I think I need to go by the house,” I said. “I should check on things.”
“Want company?” Isabelle asked.
I hesitated, then shook my head. Somehow I knew I needed to do it alone.
“I’ll be okay,” I said. “I won’t go for long.”
This house had never been a home, I realized as I piled the accumulated mail on a table, dislodging a thin layer of dust. I walked up the spiral staircase, my hand trailing on the banister, and stepped into our bedroom. My eyes took in the his-and-her bathrooms on opposite sides of the huge room, and the enormous California king bed. Why had Michael and I ever thought we needed so much space?
This house was emblematic of our problems: so gorgeous on the outside, but inside it, we never could find each other.
I found an overnight bag and packed a few things—my favorite cozy socks, the picture of Michael in his DrinkUp apron holding a sample cup high in the air like he was making a toast, and a journal with a pretty cover so I could capture some memories of my husband before they faded even the slightest bit. I listened to the messages on the answering machine—some from reporters, some condolence calls, and one from Noah’s parents, saying over and over how grateful they were to Michael for saving their son. They wanted to meet me, they said. I jotted down their number, promising myself I’d call back soon.
I rinsed out a glass in the sink and put it in the dishwasher, then opened the refrigerator and cleaned out the wilted lettuce and spoiled milk. As I wiped down the shelves with a sponge, I remembered something. I opened the freezer and saw it, tucked in the very back. I pushed aside a package of frozen spinach that I’d been pretending I was going to eat someday and pulled out the tub of Breyers chocolate ice cream.
As I carried it to the counter, I realized something was taped to the lid. I sank into a chair and stared down at it. It was a note on a piece of white paper, folded into squares. My name was written on it in Michael’s familiar scrawl. Suddenly a great ache of missing him crashed down on me. I folded my arms across my stomach, curling into myself. Finally I reached for the note.
My Julie,
I know, baby. I miss you, too. I miss you so much.
Here are some of the things I’m remembering: Walking you home from Becky Hendrickson’s and knowing I’d already fallen in love with you. Dancing in our old apartment to “What a Wonderful World.” Feeling you in my arms as you slept. Seeing you in Paris in the candlelight. How you looked—so terrified but determined—when you gave away your jewelry. I know exactly what that cost you, and I’m not talking about the money.
I know you thought I was crazy for giving everything away, but Julie, I knew this day was coming. I couldn’t give you the year you asked for because I suspected—no, I knew—that I didn’t have that long. But at least it was long enough for us to find each other again. And I promise you this: We’ll find each other for a third time, someday.
I want you to promise me a few things. Eat ice cream. Smell lavender. Throw away that bitch of a scale for good. Go to Paris again, or maybe Australia, but also sit in your yard at night and just look up at the stars.
I want you to fall in love again. Please have children. You’ll be such a good mom.
I love you. I took that with me, remember?
And I’ll never stop loving you.
M.
* * *
Thirty-nine
* * *
“I WAS SCARED TO see you,” Noah said. I could feel his thin body shaking. “I thought you’d be so mad at me.”
“Never,” I said, hugging him tighter before pulling back and looking him in the eye. “Noah, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—not the driver of the car that hit him, or Michael’s for running into the road, or even that silly squirrel’s. It was just an accident.”
“Do you think it hurt him a lot?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t seem to be in any pain. And Noah, he wasn’t scared. Michael wasn’t afraid to die.”
I let go of him, and he threw the stick for Bear again. Even though it was colder now, with patches of snow on the frozen ground, Bear leapt into the water as eagerly as ever. Instead of a dive, he belly flopped this time, his paws splaying out in all directions and water splashing high into the air. He took a moment to look around and spot the stick, then he sank under the surface.
“Do you believe that our souls go somewhere after we die?” Noah asked. His little brow furrowed as he looked up at me. “Do you think that’s where Michael is right now?”
“I don’t know what I believe right now,” I said slowly. “I want to believe in something, though, and I never did before.”
“A lot of the greatest mathematical minds believed in life after death,” Noah said.
Bear broke through the surface and snatched up the stick, then began paddling back to shore.
“And I once read about this guy named Galileo, and he said everything in the universe is written in mathematics,” Noah said. “And it’s true. It’s not just Fibonacci numbers. Sometimes it makes me wonder: Do you think I see math everywhere because someone or maybe something created the world that way, or do you think I just like math so much I impose it on everything I see?”
“Now that,” I said, taking the dripping stick that Bear offered up as if it was a priceless heirloom, “is an excellent question.”
“Kind of like the hen and the egg,” Noah said.
“Exactly.”
“Hey, Julia?”
“Hmmm?”
“Did you bring anything to eat?”
“Aren’t we supposed to go have dinner with your parents after we walk Bear?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “But that’s an hour away.”
“Check that bag, kiddo,” I said. “I was thinking we’d have a little predinner junk food snack.”
He grinned. “I’m glad you came back.”
I looked out at the rushing water, and lifted my face to feel the gentle winter sun. “Me, too,” I said after a moment, and I felt Noah’s warm hand slip into mine.
The next day, I sat on a cushioned window seat upstairs, watching a procession of shiny sedans and stretch limousines and older, inexpensive cars file into the long, circular driveway. It was raining out, and the steady drizzle meant umbrellas blocked my view of mourners’ faces as they exited their cars and approached the front door.
I’d planned hundreds of events dur
ing the past few years, but my husband’s funeral was by far the most difficult. For days, I’d agonized over what Michael would have wanted. A small outdoor ceremony? No service at all? I’d been desperate to honor his wishes, but I didn’t know what they were. Finally I called Kate, Michael’s former assistant. Somehow, her calm voice and sensible suggestions steadied me enough to make decisions, to dial the familiar numbers of caterers and chair rental companies and explain that this time, it was me who needed their services.
Kate had recommended we hold the funeral here, in this historic mansion usually rented out for weddings. Not surprisingly, it was the perfect choice: The main room stretched the entire length of the building, but faded Oriental carpets and big fireplaces on both ends softened the space and made it seem cozy. Lit candelabra on the walls filled the room with a yellow glow that was more welcoming than bright overhead lights.
Michael wanted to be cremated, it had specified in his will, with his ashes scattered in our river in West Virginia. Someday soon, I would fulfill his final request alone, but today was about letting others say good-bye to Michael.
“Honey?”
I turned toward the sound of Isabelle’s voice.
She stood in the doorway. “It’s time to begin,” she said.
This was the room where brides prepared themselves for their weddings, perhaps waiting for those very words. Some of them had probably curled up in this window seat, wearing a dress the opposite color of mine, anticipating the moment when they’d be joined to the man they’d chosen.
I didn’t realize tears were rolling down my cheeks until Isabelle moved closer and tucked a tissue in my hand. I held on to her arm as I stood up, then we walked downstairs together. As I moved toward the front row of folding seats, I saw Dr. Rushman and a few of the Washington Blazes players, their heads towering above the others in their rows. I spotted Noah, tugging on an uncomfortable-looking blue-and-red striped necktie, sitting in between his parents. A former U.S. senator, recognizable by his prominent nose and thick mane of white hair, tapped out a message on his BlackBerry before tucking it into his breast pocket. And toward the back was Sandy, the young Irish woman who’d brought us homemade cookies and told us about her sister who’d died of cancer. Nearly all of the three hundred chairs I’d rented were full. Kate was right; we had needed this space.
The service was simple. Raj, who was perhaps Michael’s only true friend at the office, told funny stories about their early days in the company together, like the time Michael worked straight through the night, and early the next morning, wandered over to the refrigerator and ate the entire sheet cake intended for someone’s birthday. “He ran out to Giant and got a new one an hour later,” Raj said. “No one even knew about it, at least until now.”
Kate had originally demurred when I’d asked her to speak, until I reminded her how much Michael had depended upon and liked her. She gave a beautiful tribute, her voice cracking as she recalled how Michael once gave her a holiday card that included a check for her daughter’s college education.
Then Noah stood and walked to the front of the room. I felt my lips curve upward as I got a better look at him; someone had tried to tame his hair, but his cowlicks were putting up a valiant fight.
“Michael saved my life,” Noah began in his sweet, high voice. “I was chasing after my dog Bear, and all of a sudden, I was in front of a car.” His chin began to tremble. “I was so scared. I knew I couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. And then Michael was there. He lifted me up and pushed me. And I was safe. I wish—” Noah was crying hard now, but he managed to get the words out. “I wish I could tell him I’m sorry. And thank you. Because we were becoming friends, and I really liked him.”
When Noah finished, he returned to his seat and I saw his parents reach out for him. The room was silent for a long moment, except for a few murmurs and sounds of people blowing their noses.
Then the music began.
The love song written by Puccini was my last gift to Michael. I’d never get to see an opera with him, but I could give him this. I could share the light and the hope and the heart of its music with Michael.
I mouthed the words from La Bohème as I closed my eyes and saw my husband again: “Ho tante cose che ti voglio dire, o una sola ma grande come il mare, come il mare profonda ed infinita … Sei il mio amor …”
I’ve so many things to tell you, or one thing—huge as the sea, deep and infinite as the sea: I love you.
“Julie?”
I turned around, surprised by my old nickname, and found myself staring into the eyes of Michael’s father. Impossibly, he was unchanged by time. I gasped and almost took a step backward, before I realized it had to be one of Michael’s brothers.
“I wanted to convey my respects,” he said. I nodded, thinking it spoke volumes that I had no idea which brother he was.
“The checks Michael sent … well, they meant a lot,” he said. His cheeks reddened and he lowered his voice. He rubbed his rough, workingman’s hands together. “Not sure we deserved them, though.”
I held his eyes for a long moment as understanding passed between us, then I nodded. People change, I could almost hear Michael saying. At least someone from Michael’s family had come to the funeral. “Thank you,” I said at last, before turning to the next person waiting to talk to me, a dark-haired man in his forties or fifties.
“I’m Carl Shevinski, from Johns Hopkins University,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “I never met your husband, but I wanted to be here. The gift he gave us for stroke research is the single biggest donation we’ve ever gotten. He was an incredible man.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment. Stroke research. In honor of my mother.
I took a deep breath, willing my voice to remain steady. “I’m glad you came,” I finally said.
He started to say something else, but I didn’t hear him. I’d caught sight of two people approaching me from the other side of the room. My heart began pounding so loudly it drowned out his words, and I felt a white-hot rage course through my veins. I couldn’t believe either of them had dared to come.
Isabelle, I thought wildly, and looked around for her, but she was caught up in a conversation. She couldn’t see what was about to unfold.
“My condolences,” Dale said. Roxanne stood next to him, staring at me with those wide cat eyes, not saying a word.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered, almost choking on the words. I was so angry I wanted to lunge forward and push them out the door.
Roxanne finally spoke. “We came to pay our respects.”
“Your respects?” I echoed incredulously. They’d tried to ruin Michael, to ruin us. And now they were stealing away the peace I’d received from his funeral service.
“I want you to leave,” I said.
Dale raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t move. My rage intensified as I realized I was powerless. I couldn’t create a scene, not here. Had Dale counted on this?
Suddenly, I felt an arm slip across my back, and a deep voice said, “I believe the lady told you to leave.” I looked up and saw Scott Braverly.
Dale’s brow creased, then he placed him. “Scott, right? We met a while back. We chatted a bit about your lawsuit against Michael.”
Scott’s wife Kimberly intercepted Dale’s hand as he extended it toward her husband. She batted it down, like it was an insect. “Michael and Julia did right by us,” Kimberly said. “Things got mixed up for a while, but he fixed it. There is no lawsuit against Michael. And now you need to leave.”
Suddenly Isabelle was standing on my other side, and Noah was in front of me, his thin arms spread out protectively. Another voice cut through the crowd like a knife, clear and elegant and unmistakably firm. “You really should be going, Dale. Don’t you need to start looking for a new job?” It was Kate.
As I looked at the little army surrounding me, a laugh formed deep inside of my chest and bubbled out of me.
Dale spun around and walked off without
a word, and after a beat, Roxanne followed.
“I’ll just see that they make it to the door,” Scott said, removing his arm from my back and giving me a wink. I nodded my thanks.
“Can I get you a drink?” Kate offered.
“How about a cookie?” Noah suggested. “I’ve been checking on the food, and they just put some chocolate ones out on plates.”
“You okay?” Isabelle asked gently.
I looked into their dear faces, one by one, then exhaled deeply, feeling the tension leave my body. The room was filled with the good smells of fresh coffee and just-baked breads and roasts. And people were waiting to talk to me, to share their own memories of Michael.
“Yes,” I finally answered. “To all three of your questions.”
* * *
Epilogue
* * *
I PARKED BY THE curb and turned off my car and studied the house for a moment. I’d been here only a few times before, years ago, and now the small, wooden bungalow had been repainted in a pretty shade of blue. Someone had added a front porch, and a few leftover blue and white Christmas lights decorated the front bushes. They looked so pretty I wondered why people didn’t leave lights out all year long. Celebrating shouldn’t be confined to just December.
I got out of the car and stretched my arms up over my head, feeling my spine make a satisfying little pop, then I checked my purse to make sure the manila envelope was still inside. I slowly walked up the steps and lifted the brass knocker, letting it thud a few times against the door, and hearing my heart echo the sound.
There wasn’t any reason to be nervous, I told myself. I stood up straighter, and after a moment, I knocked again.
Silence.
I couldn’t help smiling. It had taken me months—no, make that years—to get to this moment, and now no one was here. Next time I’d call first.
I’d walked back to my car and was just opening the door when I heard him call my name, a question in his voice. I turned around.
Skipping a Beat Page 28
