“And there will also be a payment from the police association,” he finishes.
“Sam always said he’d be worth more dead than alive.”
Tom stares at me. I stare back.
“When Sam phoned you on Wednesday,” I say, “and told you he wasn’t going to work that night, did he give you a reason?”
“No. He just said he needed another court day. Why?”
Because if Sam had worked Wednesday night as he was scheduled to, then our walk in the park on Thursday wouldn’t have happened and therefore, nor our argument about my writing.
“Just trying to put the pieces together,” I say, resting my head on the table.
Tom starts to gather up his papers. “I think we’ve done enough for today.”
AT NINE Wednesday morning, Dale arrives, briefcase in hand. We have an eleven thirty appointment with a lawyer—a friend of Sam’s who specializes in tax law and accounting.
Over the past few days, my brothers have come up with a game plan. Dale will spend every Wednesday helping me sort out the financial, legal and estate matters. Harry’s job will be to manage the home front.
“You’re a bit early, aren’t ya?” I say to Dale. I’m still in my pajamas.
“We don’t want to be late.”
“But it’s only…”
“And I thought we could pick up burgers for lunch on the way.”
This expedites my getting ready.
At the lawyer’s office, all three of us dig into burgers, fries and milkshakes. “It’s kinda weird,” the lawyer remarks, “but everything regarding Sam’s estate is working out perfectly.”
“How so?” Dale asks.
“Well, most of the assets are in Adri’s name while the debts are mainly in Sam’s name. This means that very little money will be transferred into Sam’s estate.”
Dale nods. I eat a fry.
“And since Adri is the sole executor, disbursing these funds should be very straightforward.”
“Will Sam’s will need to be probated?” Dale asks.
“Probably not. From a legal and tax perspective, this is an ideal situation.”
Two chairs swivel in my direction.
“Ya got me,” I say then take a sip of my milkshake.
IN THE evening, I return the call to my Vancouver friend who’d left me the Jesus-message last week.
“I got a bit of a strange message to call you,” I say, not mentioning the “He with a capital h” detail.
There’s a pause. “Adri, I know how swamped you are with phone calls these days, so to be honest I only called because you told me to. At Sam’s funeral, you asked me to phone you, so I did.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Well, you were talking to a lot of people…”
But off to the races trots my mind. Anthony had clearly written down the message as “He told her to call.” Anthony hadn’t written she, which would have been me. Unless He is me since I was the one who told her to call. But then wouldn’t that mean that... Oh shit, maybe I’m Jesus! What if I’m the long-awaited Second Coming of Christ, who just happens to have returned in female form? Wouldn’t that piss off the Christian fundamentalists? “We want a man!” they’ll cry, pounding spikes into my pedicured feet. “But I’m the Daughter of God,” I’ll whisper, my life ebbing away as some kind soul gently dabs vinegar, preferably balsamic, on my parched lips. But then the work involved in being the Saviour…saving the planet and rescuing humankind from its suicidal path. Mind you, I will be receiving a regular paycheque for the rest of my life—I suppose I should do something useful. And I don’t have a husband or kids. Still, that’s an awful lot of responsibility placed on one gal’s shoulders…
“Adri?”
“Huh?”
“Are you all right?” my friend on the phone asks. “It’s awfully quiet.”
“Oh sure,” I say, giving my don’t-you-worry-about-me wave to the nearest plant.
But lying in bed, I must confess to being a tad overwhelmed by my newfound fate—never mind the crushing weight of a massive ego.
WHEN I wake the next morning, I laugh out loud at my ridiculous thought.
“You OK in there?” Harry asks from the hallway.
“Yup.”
“Well, coffee’s on and breakfast will be ready in a sec.”
“Thanks!”
In the kitchen, I ask him what’s on for today.
“The registry office,” he replies.
I scrunch up my nose. “Um…what for again?”
Harry Raises his eyebrows. “Sam’s death certificate.”
“Right.” I snap my fingers.
An hour later, we’re at the registry, waiting to pick up the documentation. I turn to Harry. “Do you remember how terrified of bears Sam was?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that—his fear of bears, I mean. And you know how the markets are pretty wonky right now?”
He nods. “They’ve certainly been in better shape.”
“Would you say we’re probably headed into a bear market?”
“I think it’s inevitable. What goes up must come down.”
“And did you know Sam was a Taurus?” I ask.
“Er…no.”
“And what is a Taurus,” I say, “but a bull.”
Harry shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “So?”
“So? So, what if Sam’s death marks the end of the bull market and the beginning of the bear one?”
Harry breathes in sharply, which I suspect is more a response to my state of mind than the state of the market. He’s about to reply when the registry lady calls my number.
“I’d just be very careful with your investing these days,” I say, wagging my finger at him as we walk up to the counter.
WHEN 9:00 a.m. on Wednesday rolls around again, Dale’s at my backdoor.
Our first stop today is the bank where our mortgage is held.
The banker offers me her condolences then opens up our file. “I just have a few papers for you to sign then we can discharge your mortgage.”
At thirty-two, my home is paid off. We only had the mortgage for three years.
During the drive to buy burgers, I ask Dale if he’s ever heard of Virginia Woolf.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve read her book, A Room of One’s Own, several times,” I say. “It’s about the importance of women having a secure income and a room of their own in order to write fiction well.”
He stops at a red light and turns to me. “What are you saying?”
I clear my throat. “That Sam’s death has not only given me a guaranteed income for the rest of my life, I just received an entire house in which to write.”
The light turns green and he resumes driving.
“Sam and I used to fight about that damn book,” I continue.
“You guys fought over a book?”
“Yeah. Sam figured the motivation to write had to come from within, whereas Virginia Woolf figured outside factors—like a secure income and a quiet space to work—were also necessary.”
“And what do you think?” Dale asks.
“That they’re probably both right.”
When we pull up to the drive-in, he turns to me. “Then I guess you know what you’d best be doing in that room of yours.”
AFTER LUNCH, we tackle most of the remaining debts. I write out a cheque to pay off our Visa bill. Paying off our car loan and my student loan follows. When Dale takes me home at the end of the day, I ask him why he’s so adamant that I deal with all the financial matters so quickly.
“Because they need to be dealt with and the sooner you do it the better,” he replies, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. “You’re gonna have a heck of a lot of other stuff to deal with.”
The I-am-Jesus thought pops into my head again. I nod, blushing.
“The only remaining debt now,” Dale continues, “is Sam’s federal
student loan and I’ve already written the government for you. If I can get them to forgive that loan, that’d be my parting gift to Sam.”
I open the car door. “Oh, he’d be pretty pleased if you could pull that off.”
WE’RE AT the dog park the next day when I ask Harry what the term soul mate means to him.
“Geez, Googie…I don’t know anything about that kinda stuff.”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
He sighs. “Let me think about it.”
Home again, we’re barely in the back door when the front doorbell rings. I open it to find a police officer, wearing tall black boots and holding a large cooler.
I open up the lid; it’s full of personal-sized lasagnas. “Thank you!”
He smiles. “My wife made them for you.”
I invite him in for a coffee and we sit at the kitchen table.
“I hear you’ve traveled quite a bit,” he begins.
“I guess.”
“Where’s next?” he asks.
“I dunno.”
“Somewhere interesting, I’m sure.”
But traveling is the last thing on my mind right now. I ask him which area of the police service he works in.The officer sticks out one boot. “Traffic.”
FOR DINNER, Harry makes Caesar salad and garlic toast to accompany our lasagna.
“I have an answer for you,” he says, passing me a piece of toast.
“To?”
“Your soul mate question.”
“Cool.”
“Soul mates,” he says carefully, “are opposite sides of the same coin.”
I nod slowly, recalling a long-lost truth. “You’re absolutely right.”
THIS EVENING, there is a meeting about Sam’s memorial fund. But just as I’m about to leave the house to go to the meeting, Charlie phones to tell me that the men attending tonight aren’t actually involved with the fund.
“Well then who are they?” I ask.
“Senior officers and one of Sam’s old college instructors—there’s talk of using the money for a scholarship. But I don’t think we should move so fast.”
Judging by what I feel inside at the moment, neither do I. For in a matter of seconds, my anxiety has become unbearable. I hang up, creep over to my big chair and curl up into a quivering ball, which is how Harry finds me moments later.
“I can’t go to the meeting!” I hiss.
“OK.”
“This isn’t how Sam’s fund is supposed to play out.”
“Should I call and tell them you can’t make it?” he asks.
“Yes. And remind them no decisions are to be made without us!”
“Holy shit, Goo. Relax.”
“I can’t relax,” I say through gritted teeth, “because I can’t lose any more fucking control than I already have.”
Harry stares at me. I glare back. Then he goes into the kitchen and makes the call. When he returns, I’m curled up into an even tighter ball, shaking my head—sending a resounding “no” out into the universe.
“I think it’s time I talk to you-know-who,” I say. “His card is on my desk.”
“I was wondering when I’d hear from you, Adri,” says the police psychologist a few minutes later.
“Here I am.”
“What’s up?”
“Everything.”
“OK…what are you thinking about right now?”
“That I can’t handle this.”
There is a pause. Then: “I’m going to have to ask you a question now—more for ethical reasons than anything else, OK?”
“Uh huh.”
“Are you having thoughts about taking your own life?”
Surprised, I sit up. “No. I mean, as much as I’d like to throw in the towel, I know I can’t take the chance of screwing anything up.”
“Such as?”
“Seeing Sam again. Suicide isn’t part of the deal—I know that.”
“Good. What made you call me tonight?”
His question is akin to pulling the plug out of a bathtub; all the words rush out. “I’m just so incredibly anxious because too much has happened too fast and I miss him so much and I can’t stop thinking about stuff and everybody wants something…”
“What do you mean?”
In a wave of half-finished sentences, I tell him about tonight’s meeting.
“You have to say no, Adri. You can only handle so much and right now, you’re likely not in any shape to be dealing with Sam’s memorial fund.”
“I just want to make sure everything gets done right.”
“I don’t blame you. What’s the rush anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“Relax,” he says. “Take it slowly—one hurdle at a time. As for all the other things on your mind, I think you better come in and see me.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I reply, thinking the Jesus-thought is a bit much for a phone conversation.
After hanging up, Harry and I go downstairs to watch TV to try this relaxation concept. But instead, we come across a nature show and watch in horror as an entire pod of whales lie dying on the beach. Great. As the commentator gently strokes their massive backs, trying to comfort them as they pass away, I burst into tears on Sam’s perch.
“It’s both a mystery and a tragedy,” the commentator explains, “why these whales have chosen to die.”
Oh ho! I can relate to the pod of dying whales. Would they be going straight to Whale Hell? Wildlife purgatory? Would their suicide negate the possibility of them seeing their whale friends again?
“You OK?” Harry asks.
“Not really.”
He changes the channel, pausing long enough on the latest images of violence in the Middle East for us to discern that the fighting between Israel and Palestine has really heated up again over the past few days.
“Maybe,” I say, “those whales made their grand exit from here because they were disgusted with their living conditions. Perhaps they perceived their oceans full of oil and plastic to be too hostile an environment into which to bring their offspring.”
Harry eyes me cautiously and resumes flipping channels.
“Stop!” I cry.
He pauses at an update of the upcoming US presidential election.
“Sam really liked Gore,” I say. “He’d be very interested in all this.”
Harry turns the TV off.
“Did you know he’s very pro-environment?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Al Gore!”
“Goo?”
“Yeah?”
“Tomorrow you’re going to see your doctor, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“And you’ve booked an appointment with the psychologist for early next week?”
I nod but Harry seems to be waiting for me to say something else.
“I just can’t seem to get my thoughts under control,” I say. “It’s as if everything that’s happening in the world is somehow related to me.”
“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy.”
“I know but it’s kinda hard to stop.”
“Well, you’re going to have to learn how. You’re the only one who can control your thought patterns.”
“I’m gonna have to do something,” I say, “because this anxiety is brutal.”
“Maybe your doctor can give you something for that.”
Sure enough, the following afternoon my family doctor writes out a prescription then hands it to me.
“It’s for a book,” I say.
“And a good one,” is his reply. “It’s about relaxation.”
“Thanks.” I shove the paper in my purse. “No drugs, huh?”
“Nope.”
“What about those little blue pills I have for my migraines? Can I take those to help me sleep at night?”
He flips through my chart, finds the medication I’m referring to and gives me a stern over-the-top-of-his-reading-glasses look. “That might not be a bad idea for a little while.”
From his office, I go straight to the pharmacy then hit the bookstore.
Back home, I start reading. Basic meditation, advise the authors, is a practical method that humans have used for thousands of years to cope with stress. Buddhism utilizes meditation in order to quiet the mind. Drooling at the prospect of this, I flip to the chapter that explains how I am to achieve the miracle. The technique suggests repeating a word or simple phrase and passively disregarding the recurring thoughts.
“God is Love,” I say, sitting cross-legged and cradling a steaming cup of tea.
Sam is dead!
God is love, I whisper back.
You’re on your own.
God is love! I hiss.
He’s gone, honey.
God is love?
It’s over.
The phone rings. It’s Nick, asking me if I’d heard about their cousin’s dream.
“No.”
“He saw Sam in his dream and said he looked really happy.”
“That’s good,” I say. At least one of us is.
“Then Sam said something to the effect of ‘I love having all my debts paid off.’”
I look around my living room and smile. Then I go upstairs, swallow two little blue pills, climb into bed and pass out for nine hours.
THE NEXT morning, Harry comes downstairs to find me at my computer. It’s exactly two weeks since Sam died. I remove the earphones I wear when I’m writing—the same kind the airline workers wear on the tarmac.
“Hi!” I say.
“Hi.”
“How did you sleep?” I ask.
“Fine thanks. You?”
“Fabulous.”
Harry folds his arms over his chest. “Are you OK?”
“Uh huh.”
“Googie…have you been writing?”
Have you been smoking? Drinking? Sneaking out the bedroom window again?
I nod. “You betcha.”
“How long have you been down here?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Harry sighs. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
I last ten more minutes. After typing several rambling pages of chaotic thoughts and feelings, the grand total of words I’m satisfied with is two: “Sam fell.”
A Widow's Awakening Page 13
