A Widow's Awakening

by Maryanne Pope

  My hand goes up.

  All chairs swivel to face me.

  “What was funny sounding about the alarm?” I ask.

  “That’s a good question,” replies the detective, “although we don’t yet have an answer. So far, we think that when the employee arrived that morning, he heard—or thought he heard—several slow beep, beep, beeps, followed by a series of rapid beeps.”

  I lean back and fold my arms across my chest.

  “The alarm sound he heard was one you’d usually hear right after an alarm has been set,” the detective continues. “This confused him, so he called 911. What we do know for sure is that there was no intruder in the building.”

  I hold my hands out, palms up, and shrug.

  “We’ll be reinterviewing the employee. We will do everything we can to get all the answers.”

  Since criminals don’t tend to reset alarms after they’ve broken into a place, somebody had to have set it—or was it malfunctioning?

  And what about Sam? Did he suffer as he lay dying on the lunchroom floor? Why don’t I ask this?

  Because I already know the answer.

  “And now,” the detective says, “I have something special for all of you.”

  He pops a video into the VCR, explaining this is a clip is from one of Sam’s courses.

  Surprise! A living, breathing, laughing Sam appears on the TV monitor and I nearly fall off my chair at the shock of seeing him. He and his buddy have stuffed their clothes to make themselves look ridiculously muscular and, between fits of laughter, are instructing the group on how to work out. Sam points at the camera—at us. “Ve want to pump,” he yells in a lousy Austrian accent, “you up!”

  Thank Christ I remember Sam showing me this video a couple of years ago, otherwise I’d be in cardiac arrest by now. I just buried him yesterday, for God’s sakes, and not five minutes ago, heard confirmation that he gave his life protecting a premise that didn’t need protection. I don’t want to be pumped up. I want some fucking answers.

  As the video drags on, I become increasingly impatient and irritated. All I can think of is Sam’s catch-phrase: let’s go catch some bad guys. I have an overwhelming urge to stand up and tell everyone to stop slacking off and get back to work—myself included.

  Tom finally releases his team back to the street and I am returned home to find my living room has been transformed into a flower shop. The funeral home dropped off all the bouquets from Sam’s funeral so several of my girlfriends are over, sprucing up arrangements and relabeling the tags so that some bouquets can be redirected for others to enjoy. How many flowers can one girl smell?

  After Sam’s former partner, Matt, and Anthony leave to deliver the flowers to various locations around the city, I sit on the couch with a cup of tea and a brownie. I stare at Tom’s basket of autumn flowers on the coffee table and think to myself how beautiful they are…the ones left behind.

  After tea, I head into my bedroom to start some serious grieving. I’m curled up in the fetal position, with Sasha at the foot of my bed, when my mom comes in the room.

  She sits beside Sasha and squeezes my foot. “Oh, Bigoo…”

  This is the long-form version of my nickname.

  “I just came up to tell you that I’m going home,” she says. “But I don’t have to.”

  “No, Mom, that’s OK.”

  “I can stay overnight. Harry will be here, but I can stay, too, if you like.”

  I still haven’t uncurled myself from the ball I’m in. “Nah, I’m fine.”

  She gets up, walks over and touches my cheek with the back of her hand. “I love you very much, Adri. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”

  My tears spill over my nose onto the pillow. “I know.”

  “I’ll help you any way I can, OK?”

  I nod. “I’m gonna be all right…someday.”

  “I know you will.” She leans over and kisses me then walks out, softly shutting the door behind her.

  The house is still. I stare at Sam’s shrine and I ask myself: why did he die? The police are conducting their investigation; perhaps I shall conduct one of my own…of the spiritual sort.

  MY DAD joins me at the off-leash park the next morning.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says partway through the walk. “You’ve been through an awful lot in a very short time frame.”

  “Thanks.” I throw the ball for Sasha.

  “And there certainly doesn’t seem to be a shortage of people offering you their opinion or religious belief.”

  I turn to him. “You don’t believe in any of that God and Christian stuff, do you?”

  “That’s a very general question, Adri.”

  “Do you believe there was a person called Jesus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe he was the Son of God?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Who was he then?”

  My dad sighs. “I think Jesus was probably a very kind and compassionate man who profoundly touched many people’s lives.”

  “What about the Bible? How do you explain all his miracles and prophecies?”

  “The Bible is a religious document written over hundreds of years,” he says, throwing the ball, “which means there were many different people altering the original story of Jesus, likely to suit their own personal or political agenda.”

  “But how do you know that for sure?”

  He stops and looks at me. “Read your history. The birth of Jesus didn’t happen in a vacuum. The Jews and Arabs had been at each other’s throats for centuries—that’s what most of the Old Testament is about.”

  “Oh.”

  “The crisis going on today in the Middle East stems back thousands of years…there’s a real danger in not understanding history.”

  “Dad, I just lost my husband. I can only handle so much right now.”

  He nods. “You’re right.”

  I sigh. “I guess I just want to know why you don’t believe in Christianity.”

  He is quiet a moment. “Well, there are parts I believe in.”

  “Such as?”

  “The common-sense teachings of Christ—like treating others as you’d like to be treated yourself. I believe in that.”

  “But the story of Jesus, as a whole, you do not believe?”

  “Look,” he says, facing me. “I’m sure there are elements of truth to the story. But the chances of the whole thing being a completely, literally true story are extremely slim.”

  “So how do you know which parts are true?”

  “That’s up to the individual reader to decide, although common sense is always a good rule of thumb. Unfortunately, people believe what they want to believe—whatever makes them feel better.”

  “That’s a pretty shitty thing to tell me right now,” I reply, thinking that feeling better was my main goal at this point.

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Adri.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “On the other hand,” he says, “I’m not going to lie to you about my beliefs.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m just concerned about all the religious crap coming at you. You’ve suffered a huge loss and a significant shock. That puts you in a very vulnerable position. I just want you to be careful about what you choose to believe at this point.”

  “I want to be happy again,” I say.

  “Then be prepared to do the work to get yourself there because religious beliefs won’t do that for you.”

  “They can help.”

  My dad shrugs. “It just seems to me that reality itself is far more miraculous than anything we could ever dream up or imagine.”

  I sigh and throw the ball for Sasha.

  “What’s on this afternoon?” he asks.

  “Ed and I are choosing Sam’s headstone.”

  “Would you like me to go with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  AN HOUR later, I’m tombstone shopping with my dad and Ed, the geologist in the family. />
  “You’ll want granite,” my brother advises, “because it’s the strongest rock.”

  I nod. “Strong is important.”

  “And the carved lettering,” he adds, “will never fade on granite.”

  I point to a shiny black stone. “What about this one?”

  “Very nice,” says my dad.

  Ed suggests we find out where it’s from.

  “I believe it’s from India,” is the headstone guy’s response. “But I’ll have to check…I mean, we don’t usually get asked that question.”

  “I hope it’s from India,” I say when he leaves to check.

  Ed, also the traveler in the family, turns to me. “You’ve always been pretty keen on India, haven’t you?”

  I nod. “Uh huh. Maybe one day I’ll make it there.”

  “You will.”

  “Uh guys,” says my dad, “what significance does India have in choosing a headstone for Sam?”

  Ed and I look at our dad, as if he’s the weird one.

  “It’s important to me is all,” I say, not knowing why myself.

  The headstone guy returns and confirms the stone is from a quarry in India.

  “See?” says Ed. “Now you have a reason to go to India.”

  My dad shakes his head. “Which is…”

  “So she can see the earth where Sam’s rock was created.”

  “As for the epitaph,” says the headstone guy, perhaps thinking today is not the best time to go into details, “our graphic artist will be in touch.”

  ED ACCOMPANIES me to the dog park the next morning. Since he’s catching a flight home to northern Ontario this afternoon, this is our last chance to visit.

  “I can’t believe you spoke at Sam’s funeral,” he says. “That was quite something.”

  “Neither can I…but I am determined to find some good in Sam’s death.”

  “I know you are.”

  I pick up Sasha’s tennis ball and chuck it as far as I can. “It’s my job.”

  I can’t help but notice the concern on Ed’s face.

  “Sam touched a lot of lives, Adri. He won’t be forgotten.”

  “I know. But I’m just worried that now all the excitement’s over, people are just gonna carry on like nothing happened.”

  Ed stops walking. “People are going to do what they’re going to do.”

  “What did you whisper in Sam’s ear?” I ask.

  He frowns. “At his funeral?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I said, ‘Good game, Sam…you played a good game.’”

  I nod slowly, and we resume walking.

  “He really did, didn’t he?” I say a moment later.

  Ed nods. “Yep. He accomplished everything he set out to. Sam’s a real inspiration to me, Adri…he is to a lot of people.”

  I am about to reply but Ed stops walking again. He turns to me. “It takes tremendous tenacity to pursue your life’s purpose with such passion and dedication.”

  I nod, processing this.

  He smiles. “And such incredible focus.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Laser beam focus.”

  Ed winks. “That’s what it takes.”

  We resume walking. As we near the parking lot, I ask Ed if he has any advice to give me before he leaves.

  “Nope. You’re doing just fine on your own.”

  “But what about my finances?” I say. “I’m kinda freaked about all that.”

  “You can handle it—and what you can’t, you ask for help. But just remember that free advice is free for a reason…and you tend to get what you pay for in life.”

  “I should get a financial advisor?”

  “That’d probably be wise, yeah. I’ve spent the past ten years hammering financial advice into you and Sam, but your situation has really changed now.” He lets out a little laugh. “That you’ve got your wills, retirement fund, mortgage and life insurance in order tells me you guys were listening after all.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that we had our act together so young?” I ask.

  “I think,” he says carefully, “it was just common sense planning.”

  But on our California vacation, Sam and I had experienced his ideal retirement. We’d always joked that there’d be no motor home for us—just an open road with the top down. We did the convertible thing, sipped tall fruity drinks by the pool in Vegas, and held hands watching the sunset over the Grand Canyon. Our vacation was an encapsulation of all the fun stuff life has to offer: sex, food, beaches, laughter, childhood, retirement. Could Sam have been on some sort of accelerated life plan? He died young, but he accomplished more in his four years on the job than many people do in twenty-five. Even his hair had turned prematurely gray in those four years.

  I turn to Ed. “Could there be some sort of greater plan at work here?”

  He pauses a moment before replying. “Adri, I’d be very careful about reading too much into things.”

  “But—”

  Ed looks me in the eye. “If I were you, I’d focus more on what Sam had to teach you. The guy knew exactly what he was doing with his life.”

  AFTER LUNCH, Dad and I take Ed to the airport while Anthony holds down the fort. Though only gone an hour, when I get home Anthony hands me a substantial list of phone messages.

  I scan the names and point to a hastily scribbled sentence. “What’s this?”

  He takes the piece of paper and squints to read his own writing. “Oh right…a friend of yours from Vancouver called and said she wants to talk to you because,” he makes mock quotation marks in the air, “He told her to call.”

  “He?” I say.

  “Uh huh. That’s why I wrote ‘he’ with a capital ‘h.’”

  I peer at the piece of paper, frowning. “He…as in Jesus?”

  “I guess,” my agnostic half brother replies with a shrug. “I’m just the scribe.”

  “Well, that’s strange. She’s a Christian but I wouldn’t expect that kind of message from her. I mean, she’s usually pretty low-key.”

  “Call her and find out.”

  “I will—later.”

  First, I have to get through Thanksgiving, Sam’s favorite holiday. He’d loved it partly because it was the one holiday where he didn’t have to worry about buying presents.

  “You’re a bodge,” I’d reminded him.

  “Well yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s kinda nice to just hang out with family without all the commercial pressures. Plus,” he’d added, “I like how you and I bundle up and take hot chocolate with us for a walk around the neighbourhood.”

  Whoever planned this nightmare is pulling out all the stops. Why not throw in Thanksgiving for me to agonize through ten days after his death? I obviously need a few more character-building experiences.

  For this year’s festivities, I’ve been invited to Sunday dinner with Katrina’s parents and Monday dinner with Sam’s family. Sam and I had usually spent holiday dinners with both our families, so I accept both offers. Besides, I’m eating for two now: my body and his spirit.

  After Sunday dinner, Katrina’s mom slips an envelope into my pocket on my way out the door. Inside is a Christian sympathy card with a handwritten note: “I noticed Sam died at thirty-two, which is very close to the age the Lord our Saviour was taken home.”

  At Sam’s parents’ place, a large photograph of Sam rests where his plate would normally be. We pray for his soul, toast his spirit and eat his favourite meal, all the while staring at his photograph and empty chair.

  Back home, I down two glasses of sherry, put on Sam’s clothes and collapse into bed. As much as I’d like to bundle up and go for our traditional walk around the neighbourhood with Sasha then curl up and watch our favourite Thanksgiving movie, I’m too damn exhausted from doing what everyone else wants me to be doing.

  TUESDAY, IT is back to dealing with the business side of death. After breakfast, Tom comes over with a pile of papers to sign. I’m about to join him at the dining room table when I see
Cassie and Cam—close friends of ours—and their daughter in my garden. I open the front door.

  “Don’t mind us,” Cassie calls out from where she’s kneeling in the dirt. “We’re getting your garden ready for winter. I want to make sure you have tulips next spring.”

  I force a smile and thank her. But I don’t want to be here when the tulips come up.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this,” Tom says, once I’ve sat down, “but because Sam passed away on the job, you’re entitled to continue receiving his salary.”

  “No. I didn’t realize that.”

  He nods. “For the rest of your life, actually.”

  I am thirty-two years old.

  “Adri?”

  “Don’t ya think that’s just a bit odd?”

  “It’s in our contract.”

  Shit! That means I will still be here in the spring because Sam would freak if I only collected seven months’ worth of compensation from the City.

  “Are you sure you’re up to handling this today?” Tom asks.

  “Tomorrow will be the same as today.”

  But then his cell phone rings and he has to take the call. My mind, recognizing the window of opportunity, takes off. Maybe I’m being paid Sam’s salary to work? If Sam’s death is part of some greater plan, then could I be working for, you know, the Big Guy? Since I wasn’t willing to do what I loved so the money could follow, it seems the reverse has happened: I have been given the money so that I can do what I love.

  But at the highest cost imaginable.

  Many times, Sam had told me that he wished he could figure out a way for me to stay home and write. For a writer, today’s news is a dream come true. Why is it being delivered to me on the same platter as Sam’s life?

  When he’s off the phone, Tom tells me that in addition to the supplemental compensation, which is Sam’s salary, I’ll also be receiving the life insurance from his policy through the City. Did I just get a raise?

  “And the payout from your own policy with the City,” he says.

  A bonus?

  “Then there will be the financial settlement from workers’ compensation.”

  Another bonus?