by Denise Wells
Nessa’s words run through my mind, about living beyond the grief being a necessary evil. I allow myself to wonder for a moment about a life after Kat. A life worth living. With someone like Tenley. But just as quickly as the moment flashes before me, I squash it. I get where Nessa is coming from, and I understand that she’s just trying to be helpful. Maybe moving on worked for her, but deep down, I know that it’s not for me. Happiness does not have a place in my future. My fate was sealed when Kat drew her last breath.
Tenley puts her menu down and picks up her mug, holding it close to her face as though trying to absorb the warmth. “Do you know what you’re going to order?”
“Banana pancakes, home fries, bacon,” I say. “You?”
“How’s the French toast?”
“Don’t know. Never had it.”
“Hmmm. What about the veggie scramble?”
“Same.”
“What have you had?”
“Banana pancakes, home fries, bacon. All good.”
“Every time?”
“It’s not like, a weekly habit or anything.”
“How many times have you been here?”
I shrug.
“Well, guess.”
“Couple times a month.”
“For how many months?”
“A few.” I’m deliberately obtuse with my answers. Truth is, I come here about once a week. And I order the same thing every time because it was what Kat ordered the last time we were ever out for breakfast. It makes me feel closer to her. I can’t imagine ordering anything else. I won’t go back to the restaurant she and I went to, but I will order what she did at other places. I found this one a while back and liked it. No one bothers me or attempts idle chitchat. I can enjoy my breakfast, read the paper, and leave. No muss, no fuss.
Rita returns. “What can I get you guys to eat?”
I motion to Tenley to order first. “I can’t decide between the French toast or the veggie scramble,” she tells Rita. “Which one is better?”
Rita shrugs. “Both are good.”
“You go first,” Tenley tells me.
“Banana pancakes, home fries, bacon,” I say. Rita makes a note in her little pad of paper and I hand her my menu. We both turn to look at Tenley.
“Well, now I’m wondering about the western skillet. Can you put the veggies from the scramble in the western skillet, along with everything that’s already in there?”
“If you’d like,” Rita says.
“Okay, that’s what I’ll have.” Tenley hands off her menu, Rita makes another note in her pad, and turns to leave.
“No, wait,” Tenley says. “I changed my mind. Eggs Benedict, with ham and a side of fruit.”
Rita waits, looking at Tenley. When nothing more is said, she asks, “You sure?”
“Yes.” Tenley nods. Rita scurries away, I’m sure not wanting Tenley to change her mind again.
“You always this complicated with food and coffee?”
She covers her face with her hands and groans. “Yes. I hate it. But I just have a hard time deciding what I want. I do better when someone suggests something that’s good. I’ll just go with it, even if I’ve never had it before. But when I have to decide on my own, it’s terrible.”
“How do you survive?” I ask, only partially kidding, because what a major pain in the ass.
She makes a face in return.
We make small talk until the food arrives. I have to admit, her Eggs Benedict look good. She takes a bite and moans in appreciation.
“Ohmigod,” she says, her voice husky. “You have to try this.” She cuts off a piece and holds her fork over the table toward me. I hesitate, not sure whether I should take the fork from her, or just lean in and take the bite. “Quit being weird and just open your mouth,” she says.
So, I do.
And she’s right. The Eggs Benedict is amazing. My banana pancakes pale in comparison when I take my first bite.
So, for the first time in years, I change my order, flag Rita down, and ask for another order of Eggs Benedict.
And I don’t regret it after.
15
Tenley
Surprisingly, breakfast with Brad was enjoyable. He was charming, a good conversationalist, and only mildly insulting. It’s mid-morning by the time he drops me back at my car in the hospital parking structure, and we make plans to get together the next day to work on the recruitment fair more. I check in with Ethan before leaving the hospital to make sure they don’t need anything. He tells me Sadie is going to be discharged this afternoon and that he’ll call me when they get home.
Finding myself with a free day, I hit the mall and do a little shopping. I grab my phone to get directions because I’m still not familiar with where everything is and see that I missed a text from Neil Nicholson.
NEIL: Good morning, beautiful girl. I can’t stop thinking about you. Can I see you tonight?
NEIL: Maybe you’re still asleep. In which case I hope I don’t wake you.
NEIL: Or maybe you’re avoiding me...
NEIL: You okay?
I check to see when the texts came in. They are all within about five minutes from one another starting at eight this morning. It seems a little odd to me he sent so many, especially if he thought I might still be sleeping since that may have woken me up.
ME: Good thing I wasn’t asleep, or you may have woke me. :-)
NEIL: There you are.
ME: I was at the hospital with my friend, Sadie. Ethan’s wife. She’s okay, I just had my phone turned off. Sorry about that.
NEIL: So, can I see you tonight? Or sooner?
ME: I’m about to run some errands, but I’m free later. How about I text you when I’m back home?
NEIL: How about we set a time so I can lock you in?
ME: Let’s say around 6, but I’ll text you.
NEIL: Sounds good. See you at 6.
I don’t correct him. I’ll just text him later. I like this guy, but I don’t like this string of texts. Or his attitude.
I push him from my mind and head for a local little mall with a good assortment of locally owned shops. I want to pick something up for Sadie that I can drop off to her later. Just a little pick-me-up. She looked so wiped out at the hospital. It’s got to be hard when you are so used to being active, like Sadie is, and you’re forced on bed rest to help your unborn baby. Sadie was teaching dance classes and yoga classes when she got pregnant. She switched to prenatal yoga but had to stop most things in the last couple weeks. I’m amazed she’s on bed rest for being in such good of shape.
The mall isn’t very busy, but it’s still early in the day. I hit up my favorite store first: Bathe. It’s all organic, handmade soaps, bath bombs, loofas, and even some hand-woven towels. The bath bombs have real flower petals in them so when they dissolve, you get floating petals in the water. Baths are my favorite pampering activity. Some girls love a mani-pedi, while some want a massage, but I’m all about the bathtub. It was the first thing I had changed in the house I bought. I completely re-did the master bathroom with a huge glass-enclosed shower and a claw-foot soaking tub.
There are other things I still want to do to the house. A lot, actually. But I’m taking it slow. I can afford to bust it all out at once if I want to, but I’d rather take my time and make sure I’m one hundred percent sure on the changes I want to make.
I roam the bath bomb section first, grabbing an effervescent one for myself, as well as a lavender/chamomile and a couple other of my favorites. Then I grab one of each for Sadie, in addition to a few others she can use to relax, and also one that promises to promote happy/healthy/heart balance. Heck, maybe it will help her blood pressure. I have the girls put together a big basket for Sadie, so I select a loofah, some towels, a few different soap selections, and some lotions for them to put together.
I wait as the salesperson arranges everything artfully in a big wicker basket, covers it in plastic wrap, and ties it together with a huge ribbon. It’s beautiful and I
can’t wait to bring it to her.
“That will be two hundred ten dollars and eleven cents,” the salesperson says.
I grab my wallet to pay and realize my go-to credit card is missing. I set my purse down and dig through the entire thing.
Nothing.
I empty all the cards, receipts, and nonsense from my wallet.
Nothing.
I think back to the last time I remember having it. Last night at the restaurant with Neil. I used it to pay for my drink while I waited at the bar. I know I got it back because the server brought it in one of those little folders to the table after we’d been seated.
“Can you give me one second?” I ask the salesperson. She nods in response and I step to the side to call Adams Avenue Grill to see if my card is still there. Luckily, the woman who answers the phone is the same one who was there last night, and she remembers me because she liked my shoes. Unfortunately, I didn’t leave my credit card in the folio on the table.
I can’t believe I lost it. I never do that. Like, ever. It’s the only credit card I really have, outside of store-based cards, and I use it for everything because the purchasing benefits are fantastic.
Well, shit.
I head back to the register and hand the salesperson my debit card to pay. She runs it through the machine and waits. Instead of that receipt printing sound, the machine beeps in response. She slides it through again.
Once again, it beeps.
“It looks like they declined it. Do you have another card you’d like to use?”
“Declined? That’s impossible. That’s my debit card. I keep like, twenty thousand in there at all times. Plus, I have overdraft protection.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t believe me.
“I’m sure you hear that all the time, but I mean it.”
She smiles, but it’s more of a pity smile than anything else. “Well, can you set the basket aside for me, and I’ll run to the bank and get cash and come back?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, but I’m not convinced she really will. I have a feeling the minute I walk out the door, she’ll slice open my gift basket and re-shelve all the items I’d had picked out for Sadie’s pick-me-up present.
Crap.
My bank is a short drive away, which ends up being good because my car is low on gas. It’s a terrible habit I have of trying to eke as many miles out of my car as I can before refilling. Sadie refills her tank the minute she hits a quarter of a tank. It amazes me.
I enter the dimly lit, over-cooled building and wait to be buzzed through the controlled access entrance, then stand in line to wait for an available teller. I opened this account when I moved here; the bank is a nationwide chain with branches all over the place, which is convenient. But I have to admit I kind of miss my local bank from back home in Texas. I knew everyone who worked there, and they knew me. My dad banked there, as did most of our friends, and it was the kind of place where if you found yourself overdrawn, you could call and get a temporary line of credit over the phone to cover whatever purchase you were waiting to make. Not that I was ever overdrawn, but Sadie was plenty of times.
My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Ethan letting me know he’s taking Sadie home, but she’s on strict bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy. Of course she is. Which is why relaxing lotions and bath bombs would be perfect for her.
Grrrr.
I’m surprised to see it’s almost two o’clock in the afternoon. I hadn’t realized I’d spent so much time in the bath shop. I send Ethan a quick text reply to let him know that I’ll stop by in a bit to say hi and bring Sadie a little pick-me-up present.
ETHAN: You are awesome, Tenley. You know that, right?
ME: Yep!
I’m next in line and head up to the teller window when called.
“Hi, I just tried to make a small purchase over at the mall and my card was declined, but I’m not sure why,” I tell her, realizing I probably sound exactly like every person who has ever been overdrawn in their account.
I swear, I do not understand how I’m out of money.
She writes something down on a small piece of paper and slides it across the countertop toward me. She’s written a dash mark, and a six followed by three zeroes on it.
“What this?” I ask.
“That is your current balance,” she says.
“I only have six thousand dollars? What happened?”
“That’s a negative sign.”
“A negat—Wait a minute, are you saying that I’m six thousand dollars overdrawn?”
“That is correct.”
“That’s impossible. I keep at least twenty thousand in this account all the time. And I have a six-thousand-dollar overdraft line attached to it. How can it be overdrawn?”
She clicks some buttons and wiggles her computer mouse around, then tells me I’ve made purchases all over Tennessee in the last few days, along with cash advances. I assure her I was not, and am not, in Tennessee. She refers me to her manager, who reviews my account history and sees I’ve kept a healthy minimum balance all the time and have not traveled since opening the account before she finally offers me fraudulent purchases paperwork to fill out.
Two hours later, I’m finally on my way home. They should restore some money to my account in seventy-two hours, but it could take up to fourteen business days to get the entire amount back, which I just love. Someone steals my identity, can spend over twenty-five thousand dollars in a matter of days, but I have to wait almost three weeks to get it back.
It isn’t until I’m pulling into my garage, I remember I didn’t stop by Sadie’s. I grab my phone from my purse to call her, and then remember about my missing credit card. I call the credit card company first to cancel the card, then call and cancel my store-based cards. Then call to transfer money from a few investment accounts to my checking account since that will be faster than waiting for the bank.
By this time, it’s after four o’clock. I call Sadie to tell her what happened and why I won’t be bringing her a little gift today, but she’s sleeping. So, I relay the message to Ethan and flop down on my couch, exhausted.
My phone dings with a text.
NEIL: We still on for six?
Oh god, I’m not in the mood to be social. I want to sit on my couch with a pint of ice cream and watch re-runs of Say Yes to the Dress.
ME: Can I get a raincheck on tonight? I’ve had a really crappy day.
NEIL: All the more reason to go out. I’ll cheer you up.
ME: I’m really not good company.
NEIL: It will be great, I promise.
Fine.
ME: Where should I meet you?
NEIL: I’ll come pick you up, that way you don’t have to worry about anything. Just send me your address.
I text him my address, albeit a little reluctantly. One because I don’t really want to go anywhere. And two, because I prefer not to be stranded without my car. But he was harmless last night, and he works with Ethan and Brad.
So, what could go wrong?
16
Brad
I was too full to go to the gym after breakfast, so instead, I headed home and did some yard work. Then, I took a nap. Now I’m going to a late afternoon grief support group meeting for widows/widowers. I’d stopped attending my cancer care-giver support group as soon as Kat passed. I didn’t start coming to these grief support meetings until about a year ago.
I think they help, but I’m not sure. At the very least, much like the cancer caregiver group, everyone knows what I’ve been through because they’ve experienced it. And since it focuses on the spouses left behind, I don’t have to deal with any parents with dead kids or kids with dead parents, because they don’t get it. At all. Their experience couldn’t be more different. Regardless, it’s all just a fuck-ton of tragic.
I enter the room just as the meeting is starting and grab a seat in the back row. The group facilitator is speaking from the front of the room about the general rules of the group, the
n asks for a volunteer to come up and share. A guy a few rows ahead of me stands and moves to the podium at the front of the room. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little younger, but similarly built. He takes a moment to adjust the microphone to his height, which is tall, and clears his throat before he begins.
“Hi, my name is Andy. I lost my wife, Maureen, to breast cancer almost three years ago now. It came on fast. We had just celebrated our youngest daughter’s eighth birthday. We have two daughters. A now eleven-year-old, Tasha, and a thirteen-year-old, Trina. So, you know, the perfect age to not have a mother.” He sighs as the group chuckles uncomfortably.
“Anyway, Maureen went in for her annual check-up and the doctor felt a lump. They had it biopsied a week later, and it was stage four, triple negative breast cancer. Maureen was gone within three months.” Andy chokes up and pauses, clearing his throat before taking a drink from the bottled water he’d brought up to the podium with him. “We barely had time to process the diagnosis, and she was gone. I couldn’t even grieve properly because I had to take care of the girls. It’s been hard on all three of us. Despite missing her desperately, my daughters have been encouraging me to date.”
Mixed murmurs of opinion spread through the room. Andy holds his hand up. “I know, I know. Some of you are thinking, ‘Finally!’ and some are thinking, ‘How could you?’ I get it. I do. And in all honesty, I feel both sentiments equally. But I did it anyway. Because I promised my wife I would before she died, and I never broke a promise to Maureen. And because my daughters want me to be happy. Hell, I want me to be happy. So, a little over a month ago, I started dating a woman.”
He pauses. I let his words resonate a bit in my head and lean forward in my chair, eager to hear how his story turns out. It’s a similar story to mine, just enough, to make me wonder if a good outcome could ever come of this.
Andy continues, “Last night, I had sex for the first time since Maureen passed.”
