Nearly every conversation with her sister landed on the same topic. Each time, Joan had dismissed it out of hand, unwilling to consider discussing the pain in her heart with a stranger. It was hard to talk about Jared to anyone without tears instantly flooding her eyes. She’d be mortified to break down in front of a stranger. It went without saying that she’d become an emotional mess because she wouldn’t be able to stop herself.
“If not a counselor,” Emmie continued, apparently unwilling to drop the subject, “then a grief therapy group. I’ve heard they can be helpful.”
“No thanks.”
“Joan, think about it. What can it hurt? You’d meet others like yourself who have lost someone they loved as much as you loved Jared. You’d get the support you need and find a way to lean in to the future.”
Joan automatically shook her head. “It isn’t that easy.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll cry, and you know how much I would hate that.” She could see herself sitting in a circle, bawling her head off, to the point that she wouldn’t be able to speak. Then she’d need to blow her nose, and when she did, she’d sound like a honking goose. Nope, not happening.
“You’re being silly. So what if you get emotional—don’t you think everyone there would understand? My guess is each person in the group has shed buckets of tears themselves.”
“I’ll think about it,” Joan offered, hoping that would appease her sister.
“Will you?”
Joan briefly closed her eyes. Emmie wasn’t letting up. Her sister refused to leave this subject alone, no matter how uncomfortable it was for Joan. “Why is this so important to you?” she demanded.
“Why?” Emmie repeated. “Because you’re my sister, and I’m concerned about you, which is why I think taking in a boarder would help you get back to living again. You’ve become a recluse.”
“That’s not true. I get out…Okay, not a lot, but I’m not an agoraphobic.”
“That’s something, at least,” Emmie said, and then changed the subject, apparently not wanting to belabor the point. “It was good to catch up with Charlene when I called to order the gift certificate. She bought the Cutting Edge during the pandemic and is doing well.”
Charlene had been styling Joan’s hair for years and had become her friend, too. “I heard that,” Joan said, proud of their friend’s step of faith.
“Tell me, when was the last time that you were in to see Charlene for a cut and style?”
It was a kindness not to mention that Joan needed more than a haircut. In the last four years, her hair had become salt-and-pepper, the gray dominating. Perhaps she should consider coloring it again, as she once had.
“It’s been a while,” Joan reluctantly admitted.
“A while?”
“Okay, two years.”
“As I expected!” Emmie had never been one to hold back on the I told you so’s. “Promise me you’ll make an appointment.”
“Promise.” A haircut would do her good. Her dark hair had grown long and unruly and was badly in need of a cut. Jared had liked her with shorter hair, and she’d grown accustomed to the easy-care style. It took her only a few minutes to fiddle with it to look presentable before leaving for the office each morning. Now her hair grazed the top of her shoulders. Unaccustomed to the length, she fussed with it, tying it back, as it often fell against her face. This length aged her, and not in a flattering way. The only person she saw, most days, was her own reflection in the mirror, so what did it matter?
“After the appointment, I want you to text me a photo so I can see the results,” Emmie said.
“I will.” Joan intended to follow through with the promise. All she needed was the incentive to make the appointment with Charlene.
“How are the boys?” Emmie asked next.
“Good. They sent me a beautiful floral bouquet for Mother’s Day.” She didn’t mention the chocolates, which she’d immediately stuck in the freezer. She seldom indulged in sweets or kept them around the house. As a dentist, Jared had frowned on anything that might contribute to developing cavities.
“What about your birthday?”
“Steve phoned earlier. He was excited; he got the recommendation for a promotion he wanted.” Their conversation had been brief and weighed on Joan’s mind. Steve had often mentioned Zoe, a woman he was dating. Their relationship had sounded serious, and Joan had been waiting for her son to announce their engagement. When she’d asked about Zoe, her son had quickly changed the subject and made an excuse to end the call. Rather than mention how brief the call had been, she said, “Steve’s the new assistant manager at the distribution center.” Her son enjoyed his job and had excelled, rising quickly, working for Dick’s Sporting Goods. At twenty-seven, he was being fast-tracked to take over as the center’s manager within the next few years. Joan was proud of Steve and his strong work ethic. Despite her concerns about his relationship, she was pleased with how both her sons had matured.
“That’s great. Is he still dating…What was her name again?”
“Zoe,” Joan supplied.
“Right. They’ve been together awhile now.”
“They have,” Joan agreed, without adding anything else. In some ways, their short conversations were obligatory, as if he felt he should let her know he remembered her birthday but was otherwise too busy for more than a few minutes.
“What’s Nick up to these days?” Emmie asked next.
“Nick always has three or four irons in the fire,” Joan said. “He’s working on a huge construction project, an apartment complex in Seattle.” Even as a youngster, Nick was happiest when he had a hammer, nails, and a piece of wood in his hands. He was a born carpenter.
Jared had never seemed to mind that neither of his sons had chosen to follow him into the medical field. Steve had graduated college with a degree in supply chain management, and Nick had become an apprentice carpenter directly out of high school. Her husband had been good like that, not putting pressure on their boys, allowing them to follow their own paths. Joan was the one who had hoped either Steve or Nick would one day take over Jared’s practice, but that was not to be.
Her phone buzzed, indicating she had an incoming text.
“I think that’s Nick now,” she said, her heart leaping with appreciation that he would soon stop by for dinner. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Don’t forget to send a photo after Charlene finishes with your hair.”
“Will do. Gotta scoot.”