“What about you?” I ask. “Are you going to take Valium, too?”
Abigail’s forehead creases as if I’ve asked her a puzzling riddle. “Why would I do that?”
“Grief. Shock. All of the reasons you want to get the pills for me.”
“I’ve never needed sedatives,” she says. “Okay, here we go.” She taps the phone and then holds it up to her ear. I walk away. If Abigail thinks I need to take pills right now, she’ll find a way to get them. If that will take her mind off her grief, I can be the grown-up and let her.
I follow Val to the kitchen, where I’m met by a warm, savory aroma that fills my mouth with saliva.
“Mmmm. That does smell good. Maybe I could eat a little. God. What am I going to do with all of this food?”
“We’ll freeze most of it. What doesn’t fit in your freezer, I’ll store in mine. I’ve still got a big old freezer from before my son moved out. It’s nearly empty now. Why don’t you go sit in the living room and I’ll bring you a mug of soup?”
“I can’t let you—”
“Why ever not?”
“It’s asking too much. It’s late. You’ve given up your evening—”
“Are you kidding? What sort of friend wouldn’t be here? What else would I possibly be doing?”
Friend.
The word sends little tendrils of warmth running through me.
The closest person I ever had to a friend was back in high school, before Thomas. Everything in my life has been marked by that dividing line. Before Thomas. After Thomas. On one side, Liz, wild and fierce, looking for love to compensate for parental neglect. On the other, Elizabeth, tamed and subdued and half killed by kindness. The thought of having a real friend brings fresh tears to my eyes.
“Liz?” Val queries.
“Sorry, I got lost there for a minute.”
She touches my arm. “That’s to be expected. You’re shivering. Go curl up on the couch and let’s get something warm in you. And maybe we can turn up the heat a little? It’s cold in here.”
I am shivering. I feel cold to my bones, as if I’ll never be warm again, but it hasn’t even occurred to me to turn up the heat.
“Women and thermostats,” Thomas says in my head. “Up, down, up, down. Somebody gets a hot flash or has their monthly and the setting goes down. Or it looks cold outside and the setting goes up. I’m sorry, ladies, but I’m the boss of this piece of household equipment.”
But Thomas isn’t here. I can turn the heat up if I want.
I walk to the thermostat and boost it up, from sixty-eight to seventy. And then, in an extravagant burst of rebellion, all the way to seventy-two. Then I snuggle into the couch underneath the afghan.
Val brings me soup in a mug, and I cradle it in my hands, letting it warm me.
Another rebellion. We do not eat in the living room in this house. We take our meals as a family, at a set time, at the table. Routine is right next to the gospel. But there are no more routines, there can’t be, because Thomas was at the center of all of them. It feels good to be eating here, where I won’t expect to look up and see his face across the table.
“Thank you, Val. For everything.”
I want to get up and hug her, but I have the mug, and my body feels too heavy to manage the effort. Instead I reach for her hand and squeeze it.
She squeezes back. “I’ll leave you alone now, but I’ll check on you tomorrow. Call if you need anything, okay?”
I feel an unexpected loss when the door closes behind her, a reluctance to be alone with my daughter. Things have never been easy between the two of us, and we are now in completely uncharted waters.
When Abigail walks down the hallway a few minutes later, she’s completely put back together. She’s washed her face, put on a touch of makeup. The only thing that gives her away is the puffy redness of her eyes.
She eyes my mug with disapproval. “Coffee? At this time of night? You’ll never sleep, even with a sedative.”
“It’s soup.”
“You’ve spilled.” She says it like I’ve emptied an entire tanker of oil into a pristine ocean.
I follow her gaze to a slop of soup glistening on the surface of the coffee table, a noodle curled at the center like an obscene worm.
Abigail bustles into the kitchen for a cloth and wipes up the table. Sets down a coaster.
“I’m going to go pick up your meds.”
“From where? Everything’s closed.”
“I worked something out with the hospital pharmacy. Will you be okay alone? I could ask Earlene to come over.”
“Please don’t. Just stay here yourself. I don’t need a sedative.”
She puts her jacket on. Reaches for her boots. “I’ve already called in favors to get them. Earlene will—”
“Oh fine, then. Go get your pills, if you must. But I do not want Earlene over here.”
“They’re not my pills, Mom.”
I take a breath, astonished by my rising anger and my inability to shove it back down.
“Oh, for God’s sake. I can’t stop you if you want to go, but Earlene is not coming over. Do you hear me? You will respect my wishes, Abigail.”
I’ve uttered one of Thomas’s phrases. Abigail’s body jerks as if I’ve struck her, and for half an instant, I see the vulnerable child gazing out at me, wounded. Already I regret the phrasing, but before I can call it back, she’s gone, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter Four
April 4, 2019
Dear Inner Liz,
Monday was April Fools’ Day.
Remember how it was when you were a child? The kids at school all playing jokes. The time Mom said, “Guess what? Your dad quit drinking and went to rehab,” and then when you believed her said, “April fools! He’s in jail again,” with that ugly, sickening laugh.
That’s what my whole life feels like. When Thomas died, I thought maybe I could resurrect my old self, which now seems as likely as Dad ever quitting the booze before it killed him. I’m bored. So terribly, horribly, sickeningly bored. Whatever I thought grief would be, it isn’t this. I don’t even know what I want to do, except that it isn’t to keep going on in this dreary, dull way.
Thomas and I had a business arrangement more than a marriage—we were in the church business. And now I’m still in the church business as the sole remaining partner. I want out. Only, where would I go? What would I do? Today is Thursday. Thursday will be knitting circle day until hell freezes over, but I’m sick to death of these women and their same old gossip, and I just want to climb into bed and stay there . . .
Outside, at least, it is spring, even if my interior life is caught in an endless winter.
In the front yard, my maple tree is covered with tiny red flowers. Daffodils and tulips are blooming. The first exploratory bees are out, ambassadors for the hive. The lawn is already green and growing, in need of the lawn mower I’ve never used and don’t know how to operate. Thomas was big on the division of labor between what is a man’s work and the place of a woman. Yard work was his. Mine was the house.
He also managed the finances and vehicle maintenance and a thousand other things I’ve had to figure out on the fly. Over the last three months, I’ve dealt with life insurance, Social Security, and bank accounts. Nearly escaped having the power shut off because I never thought to pay the electric bill. At least that learning curve gave my brain something to do. Abigail came home every weekend, and the two of us maintained a sort of truce as we worked things out together.