Finding Jim (26 page)

“I'm a bit nervous.” I pull my dress down to cover more of my thighs. “It's been so long since I've been on a date.”

“Oh, is this a date?” Scott smirks and shifts in his seat. His expression becomes serious, “I think you're being very brave.” Scott refills my wine glass promptly all night. When another fellow asks me to dance, Scott leans against the wall and watches.

After the party, I invite Scott back to my place for tea. He slumps low in the couch while I stumble around the room preparing and serving. Several times he opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is “Um.”

“What is it?” I slump down beside him and let my dress slide up my legs.

“Nothing.” But he avoids my gaze. For once I do not feel responsible for the discomfort of others. The wine has thickened my skin and I am light and giggly. We talk until late and he takes a cab home.

I check my e-mail first thing the next morning and there is a message from him. He had a great time. He did want to tell me something. He is going to Brunei to visit a woman he met while working on Eco-Challenge. He worries that he gave me the wrong idea. I e-mail him back, wish him luck and reassure him. I ask him if he is bringing home a wife. He responds, “Good question.”

I go back to being Jim's widow.

Today is my birthday and I hardly slept last night. My fingers drummed the same pattern over and over on my chest; my mind raced from topic to topic, from fear to fear. Fear of turning 35, fear of lying alone in my bed, fear of having a wound in my heart so grave that it will never heal, fear of spending my birthday without Jim. I miss waking up with Jim and having him say, “Happy Birthday, Susie,” and giving me a kiss and one of his romantic cards.

A friend meets me on the mountain and we ski the morning away under blue skies. It was supposed to be cloudy. From bump to bump, I jump and yahoo, pushing my skis as fast as I dare, so fast my eyes tear. I choke on the air rushing past and giggle with the excitement of flying. In the afternoon Habby and I cross-country ski around the lake for two hours. Friends and family phone to wish me well. I put one foot in front of the other. I shed layers like a snake, looking for that deeper core and the deep calm of an ocean beneath a pounding surf.

My chore today is to sort through all the e-mails people sent after Jim was killed. It's difficult to delete them. Many I print out and put into the third scrapbook I have made of condolence letters. I don't know what I would have done without the compassion of others to buoy me.

Valentine's Day arrives. I ski with a bachelor friend, go out for dinner and invite him home to my place. We have sex. I lie very still afterward, shell-shocked. “These are experimental times,” I tell him. “Don't take any of my reactions personally.” I feel awful about who I am and try to tell myself I am light and love. It doesn't wash.

I call Terri and tell her I've had sex with someone I do not love. She says, “Shake it off.” I want to go away from everyone who might judge me, go away by myself to heal and come back. And I am desperate to make love with someone the way Jim and I made love.

The next day I ski for hours up the snowy hill to the summit of Whirlwind behind Whistler. Surrounded by mountains and blue sky, Jim flows through my body and I tingle with the intimacy. I power to the top and sit on the rock, inhale deeply and pull Jim right into my core. My ski buddies are specks below. For half an hour I enjoy being with Jim alone. Being in the mountains is the closest I feel to the Divine, that and being in love. My insides settle; the world makes sense. I don't miss Jim, because I feel his sweet, gentle essence. With nothing but giant snow pillows in front of me, I ski short slalom turns until my quads ache. When I stop to catch my breath partway down, a bald eagle soars over me and glides effortlessly down the glacier. If I get any lighter, I will take off like that eagle.

Full of energy and confidence, I launch into organizing Jim's books in the office. I agonize over every decision: what to keep, what to give away, what to throw out. Within an hour, I crave the feeling of being on top of the mountain with Jim, free. I want another high. I call my bachelor friend with no strings attached. But I get cold feet and when he arrives I will not fool around with him unless he can commit. I know I ask for the impossible. He asks, “Are you lonely?” I bite my lip and look away.

“I think it's going to be really difficult for the first guy you have a relationship with.” He slaps his hands on his thighs.

“Why do you say that?”

“I mean, look at this place.” He swings his arm to encompass the living room and my gaze follows to the framed photos crowding every surface. “It's a shrine in here.” His words try to flatten the photos as a gale bends a sapling. He pauses, “And you're still wearing your wedding ring.”

I push my ring around my finger with my thumb. “Yes, hmm.” The photos and my ring link together and tug at my heart, creating a circle of desire to live in the past, when Jim and I laughed and hugged and kissed and planned for the future. What's wrong with that? It's natural to want to live in the past. Why wouldn't I want to go back to where I was happy? I lower my head and cover my ring with my other hand.

I do not ask him to spend the night.

For two weeks I do not write in my journal. On Wednesday, March 21, almost two years after Jim was killed, I climb the stairs to my bedroom, wiggle my wedding ring off of my finger and lay it in a jewelry box. Like a robot, I appear back in the living room, my arms collect all of the framed pictures of Jim and me; I reappear in my bedroom where my hands place the photos on the bookshelf. I move back to the living room, almost brushing my hands together as if to say, “Well, that's that.” I dare to look at the empty places left by the photos and my legs go numb and I lose peripheral vision. I grip the edge of the sideboard, sink to my knees and suck the truth into my heart in fitful sobs.

The subdivision I live in organizes a multi-house garage sale. For several hours I sort through buckets and buckets of Jim's outdoor gear: eight tents, five pairs of skis, nine backpacks. Touching his clothing makes me feel the worst.

“It would be better if someone could just do it for you. Then it would be done,” my stepmom says.

But my counsellor disagrees. “I think it's an important step for you to sort through Jim's stuff yourself.” I want help but I don't want it done for me. Mom Haberl comes up to sort through papers and photos with me.

Surrounded by boxes and accounts, she says, “You can't keep all of this stuff. You just can't.” I am so relieved.

One day I turn on Jim's computer to try to deal with all of his files. The screen goes blank as the hard drive crashes. At first I panic that I've lost something incredibly important, and then I laugh and look to the sky and say, “Thanks, Jim.”

I read Jim's journal account of his trip to ski the Haute Route in France and Switzerland and I feel restless. On the second anniversary of his death, I fly to Europe and follow the same route with other guides for six days. Mom Haberl and several friends telephone the little mountain hut where I'm staying on April 29 to send love. After the ski trip, two of us drive south in France and rock climb. Back home in May, I ice climb for the first time using Jim's tools. Then Habby and I jump in the car, drive for four days to meet Terri at a tennis camp in Utah and rock climb at Red Rocks, Nevada. On each adventure, I push myself and dare the hand of fate to snatch me. I want my old life back.

In May Scott returns from Brunei alone. It did not work out with the other woman.

He invites me to bike to Logger's Lake. My clothes are sticking to me by the time we reach the lake. We stretch out on the dock and heat up even more in the low-slung sun.

“Are you going to swim?” Scott dips his fingers in the dark mountain water.

“It's pretty cold. I don't think I've been in the lake this early in the season.” I'll go in if he does, and maybe even if he doesn't, to show how tough I am. I turn away when Scott peels off his bike clothes and lies on his back. Sitting up, I wrestle mine off and try to dive into the water without revealing my nakedness. Scott rolls onto his stomach, crouches and dives into the water. I wonder why he all of a sudden seems bashful and then the ball drops, and I dip my face in the water to hide my smile.

“It's cold, but nice. This is the earliest I've ever swum in Logger's Lake.” He spurts water my way.

Afterward, we lie on the dock beside one another, naked. I feel heat radiating from his body and lie very stiff and still. We pretend we are just friends, but the energy between us has shifted.

A short time later Scott and I go to a party together. On the way home he pulls over by the side of the road. “Would you like to come to my place?” he asks.

“Sure,” I answer nonchalantly.

Lying by the fire in his living room, Scott looks at me and says, “I think we should have a serious talk.”

“Okay.” I sit up. I feel like I am in elementary school: there is no way I'll divulge my feelings. The best I can do is pass him a note in gym class. I get that caged animal feeling again, the urge to run with nowhere to go. I just want him to kiss me and get it over with.

“I'm single, you know, and I'm really enjoying the time we're spending together. I could easily phone you all the time and bug you to do stuff.” He smiles. I feel more relaxed and stop looking at the door. I take a deep breath.

“I've been with unavailable men since Jim was killed because that's all my heart could handle. But with you I sense it would be different. I feel a connection with you. Opening my heart to you would be a real acknowledgement that Jim is dead.” I look down nervously.

Scott thinks for a minute and says carefully, “I wouldn't want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, and I don't want to compromise our friendship … but I'd be all over you if you gave me the go-ahead.” He grins.

I laugh. “Part of my heart aches to be connected, loved and wanted, but I need affection more than sex.”

“I'll leave it up to you, then.” He moves up against the wall. I want to pull him back close. But my internal voice whispers hoarsely: Do you feel I am betraying you, Jim? To open my heart to someone else, will that diminish our love at all? Jim answers: Please be happy, be in love, live your life.

The next day, I arrive at Scott's for dinner and there are a dozen long-stemmed roses on the table with a card: “Sue, For you … just 'cause, Scott oxo.” After an evening of dancing, I go back to his place and we lie on the couch. He massages my legs, and I want to be closer so I snuggle into his chest. We sleep just a few hours, and I lean into his affection like a cat. He strokes my face, whispers how beautiful I am to him and how he loves to be near me. We explore each other's bodies, and I close my eyes at the pleasure of being touched lovingly, of being wanted, of feeling special to someone again.

In the morning, he gathers me in his arms and asks how I am doing. I feel safe, relaxed and present. “I'm fine. I have no expectations.” I hold his hand.

He leans back so that he can see my face and says, “You know I don't want to have kids, right?” I didn't know. I want a baby more than anything.

“Why don't we see how it goes,” I say.

He neither agrees nor disagrees.

“I want you to know that there is no one else in my life. I'm chasing
you
.”

I laugh nervously. “Thanks for being so honest.” My heart tugs at me. Go slow, it says.

In Vancouver I visit my colleagues at work and ask them if I can come back to work in January. Jamie takes my hands and says, “What's good for you is good for me.” How will I ever repay these people's generosity? In the psychiatrist's office, I reiterate my plan to return to work in January.

“I support that. You know, 25 per cent of people who are on disability for six months do not return to work and that number jumps to 45 per cent after one year.” He nods his head. I will have been on leave for one year in January. “I don't think you're depressed, I think you are grieving. But I am concerned about your eating and sleeping.” I exercise and feel strong, but my hipbones stick out.

My counsellor meets me at the door with her usual hug. After a few minutes of catching up she says, “You feel different. Your energy is stronger, more present.” I tell her about Scott and about returning to work. She asks me to lie on the table so that she can do some bodywork.

“Look into your heart, what do you see?” I go inside and see healthy, rosy-red, bright, beating tissue and Jim's smiling energetic face. I also notice a lot of inviting space in there, a lot of light and room.

Scott leaves for three weeks in June, to scout Eco-Challenge race courses in Jordan. He sends heartfelt e-mails. When he returns from Jordan, he plans the date to end all dates. I must scout out a training hike for the Alzheimer team, so we begin by hiking to Brandywine Peak. It is a stellar day when we 4
WD
to the trailhead, our dogs bouncing around in the back seat. Our boots squish into the marshy meadow as we follow the mountain river to the head of the valley.

“I think this is a good spot to cross,” I shout over the roar of the water.

“I'll check upstream.” Scott nods to me and disappears. I lunge from boulder to boulder and squeal when I slip on the moss-covered bank, half submerging one boot in the icy water. Habby muscles past me and licks my face as I scramble to dry land. I stamp my foot, laugh and look gratefully at the bluebird sky. I feel strong.

When we gain the ridge, we can see Whistler–Blackcomb, Wedge and Black Tusk.

“Beautiful,” I gasp. We lunch on the summit, boot ski partway down and reach the truck tired but giggly and ready for stage two.