Fix You (8 page)

As I stand and pull the blanket around me to walk inside, he’s behind me. He steadies me, putting his hands on my shoulders. It feels warm, familiar, kind.

And here we are in another kitchen, having another cup of tea. It’s late, but I’m in no mood to get to bed. “It’s good to talk to somebody. I mean, I’ve got Tessa, but I don’t know, it’s just like I’ve been asleep, you know? Or absent.” It feels awkward, giving voice to the loneliness.

He sits across from me. His blue eyes take on a warm, smoky gray look. “I’m sure.”

We don’t talk any more about it. I’m grateful for that. When some of my friends come over or visit from out of town, I have to revisit the concept that is widowhood with each one of them. It’s not that I blame them, but they need the orientation to what it’s like to be left alone when someone dies. They’re just visiting, but I live in this land. Still, they all want to know what it feels like. It sucks being the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God person. They get to go home and hug a husband or a lover, and part of me knows it’s because they’re glad they aren’t me.

I steer my brain in a different direction. “So what do you want to do tomorrow?”

“I have no idea.” He shrugs.

“The boys’ll be in school, so we have the day to do whatever we want.” I’m not trying to sound suggestive, except to suggest that we can do adult-directed and grown-up stuff without two boys whining about everything or sullenly playing on their Nintendo DSes when they should be enjoying the beautiful day.

“Show me around Boise. Distract me.”

This’ll be a chance to be competent, to be more than a spaz who cries at the drop of a hat or who lives in a total disaster zone of a house or who is just me. “I can do that.”

He stands up. “I’ll get to bed. What time do the boys wake up for school?”

I can’t help it. I get a little choked up. Someone else will be in the house in the morning. I know he’s not a husband, or even a boyfriend, or…I wipe at the edge of my eyes with the knuckle of my index finger. I guess I’m almost crying.

He’s very close to me all of a sudden. His hand is on my cheek. And he kisses me, softly, on the mouth.

“See you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

He walks out of the kitchen and upstairs. The night is over. I try not to scream out loud.

8: Things Come Together

W
HEN
T
HE
F
IRST
L
IGHT
comes into my bedroom the next morning, I’m up and out of bed in a new world’s record. I move as noiselessly as I can. I don’t want to wake the boys. The early morning is my time.

Ditto the dog stirs, and I immediately find the closest fleece available. I pull it over my head and grope around for my running shoes. I check on the boys upstairs—their room is still dark. I peek out across the deck, and the light in the bedroom above the garage isn’t on either. Everyone is still asleep. I think I’m safe to get a run in before anyone gets up.

To say that I feel like a rock star when I get out on my run is the understatement of the century. I’ve chosen what I like to call my Jesus-God-Sunrise route: out the back door and up the spine of the foothill behind our house. Usually about five to ten minutes into the run, depending on the time of year, the sun starts to crest over Table Rock and the Boise Front to the east, and it’s spectacular. Today in particular, I can’t help but think that if someone looked up here? Damn, I would look badass.

No one is looking up here, of course, because it’s kind of chilly and everybody else is keeping warm under the covers with a significant other or getting clean in a hot shower to get to work before too long.

I think about Andrew. Andy Pettigrew, world-famous actor, sleeping in the guest bedroom over my garage. Is Andrew a good sleeper? Does he snore? Is he a drooler?

I talk in my sleep. Less now than when I was younger. I think. Of course, now that I’ve been alone in my bed for two years, who knows. Hairy Ditto doesn’t complain about my nocturnal dialogues, and there’s no one else to comment.

I must be burning it up this morning, because Ditto has given up running with me. He knows the path—when I get to the top of the foothill, I’ll turn around and come blazing back down, ultimately ending back in the yard—but in the last year or so he’s gotten lazy. If I’m going too fast, he sits his furry white butt down and waits for me about midway up the hill, then gallops down ahead of me to the house, ready for a morning scoop of kibble.

I can’t help it. Last night has left me in a state of frenzied euphoria. Life is good. Hell, life is freaking awesome.

I make the top of the hill and stop for a moment. The sky is bluing up, going from a faint robin’s egg to strong, crisp poplin blue. No inversion today. The sun will shine down, and I will take my new friend out for a very good day in a very good place.

I tear down the hill as best I can. My knees aren’t quite as strong as they once were, so the bounding is limited a bit by the wish to not blow any anterior cruciate ligaments in the near future.

Peter always said the difference between men and women when they skied was only noticeable at the top of a run. “A man drops down into the chute without question. A woman wonders which turn might turn into a fall. That possibility never occurs to a man until it literally occurs.” We would debate the merits of each tendency.

Right now I wish for a little of the downhill plunge. I want to jump in and stop the constantly worrying nag in my head. Fear is always right there for me. Anxiety? It’s the what-if. When the boys were little, they often climbed up on the countertops. My first thought was always what it would look like when I found them with cracked-open skulls. The what-if still gets me constantly. I hate it. A lot.

Just this once I want to assume that things are going to be awesome. Or assume nothing, but also think about nothing but the present. Worry about the future when the future comes, and right now breathe in deep and love life and the possibility of great things.

I give my best war whoop as I run down the hill into the backyard. And you know what? I don’t fall. I don’t gouge my eye out on a low-hanging branch. Nothing bad happens to me. The drop into the chute doesn’t bring any fall, not this time.

The house is still quiet when I return. The boys need to be up. They’ll need to get to school soon. Neither of them showers in the morning, although Hunter is going to have to get into the habit soon, I suspect. Soon he’ll be a teenager, and teen means stinky boy odor. His childhood habit of a nightly bath or shower isn’t going to cut it anymore.

I go upstairs to rouse them. They sleep in one room. They have since they were little, in bunk beds now. Hunter has grumbled about moving into the game room. It’s the bedroom next to theirs, which has been their playroom forever. Of course, both of them are too old for that now, so it has to be a
game
room.

I’m living in a foreign country. It strikes me hard for a minute. Peter was supposed to help navigate this territory. Puberty looms on the horizon, and this was not supposed to be my job. This was his job. He was the one who would have the “talks” and help the boys through all of this.

“Boys!” I begin the wake-up routine. “Time to report for duty.”

There are groans from each level of the bunks. Some days they roll out of their own accord. Other days it takes tickling, full lights on, and all manner of wake-up maneuvers to raise these two.

Beau is up. His is the bottom bunk. He rubs his eyes and orients himself. “Hey, is Andrew still here?”

It’s a good point. The whole thing felt very possibly like a dream. “I’m pretty sure. Yes, hon.”

He’s on his feet. “Good. I’m going to go get him up.”

He’s out the door and dashes toward the catwalk—I’m not fast enough to stop him. Oh, Lord, he’s going to go wake Andrew up. Beau doesn’t know any better; the people who usually stay with us are family or friends who held him when he was born. They’re willing to tolerate very early wake up calls because they know him and love him.

I brace for the awkwardness, prepare an apology as I go after Beau. Hunter gets out of bed behind me and goes to the scary boy-bathroom to get ready. He distracts me for a moment, and when I look back, Beau’s already made it across the catwalk.

“Beau, it’s not a good idea—” I get to the guest room door, which is ajar. I push it open a bit more.

Beau sits on the bed, spreading Pokémon cards across the comforter and explaining them in detail. Andrew is awake, reclined against the headboard, his hands clasped behind his head.

“So if this one evolves, which one does it turn into?”

Andy Pettigrew is in my guest bed, discussing Japanese trading cards with my youngest son. I have to back out of the room. I almost feel faint. If I don’t go make breakfast now, I will dissolve into a ball of noodle-y tears. Too many emotions and associations and possibilities for things to come swirl in my head, my blood pounding loudly in my ears. I have to get over it. I believe this man is a good man, and for some reason he’s here. I’m not going to fuck this up by overreacting.

I go make breakfast and keep the façade of sane-girl behavior intact.

After breakfast I run the boys down to school. When I open the door to the house upon my return, I’m somehow surprised to hear Andrew in the bathroom. He’s still here, and thankfully he’s bypassed the boys’ bathroom for the larger one downstairs. He is really here. Unbelievable.

The bathroom door swings open, and he sticks his head out. A waft of shampoo and shaving cream comes to my nose. Another detail I hadn’t realized I’ve missed: shaving cream. I take a deep breath.

He speaks. “The boys make it okay?”

“Yep. Miraculously, no one forgot a lunch or homework or anything. And they didn’t fight this morning.”

He’s brushing his teeth now, still standing partly out of the bathroom to talk to me. He’s so relaxed. He wears a T-shirt and jeans. He turns back to the sink to spit, and then I hear him again.

“I had two older sisters. They didn’t fight with me; they just never acknowledged my existence. I would’ve liked to have a brother.”

“I had a brother, but I was a bossy old nag of an older sister, so I can’t tell you. I pounded on my brother, and then when he was big enough he pounded on me in retaliation. We didn’t get along until I moved out for college.”

Andrew comes out of the bathroom, tucking his T-shirt into his jeans, now with a flannel long-sleeve shirt over it. The span of his chest is smooth and wide. He’s a good-looking man, no doubt about it. I, as usual for this relationship (if that’s what it is), am in running clothes and have questionable hair.

“What are we doing today?” he asks.

This is really happening. A day with Andrew.

Suddenly, my phone hops all over the kitchen table. Someone is texting me. My stomach lurches. I can bet who it is.

“Aw, crap.” I grab the phone.

“What?” Andrew comes to my side.

“It’s Tessa. My friend you met in the parking lot.”

“Oh yeah, the one who IDed me. Good thing it’s not witness protection, or I’d be whacked next.” He chuckles.

“Yeah, that one.” I look at her text.

Spill, girl. What’s he like in bed?

Jeee-zus. I snap the phone shut. “I hope you didn’t read that.”

“She wants to know how I am in bed.” He smiles slyly. “I don’t have to see to know that.”

My face feels hot. Ugh. “I apologize in advance for anything she ever does to you. I better text her.” I reply:

Shut. Up. HE’S HERE!

“I’d turn the phone off, but I always have it in case the boys need me.”

“Did you tell her I was amazing?” He smirks.

“Are you amazing?” I smirk back.

“Getting sassy now, are we? Go get ready. You’ve got a tour to give.”

9: Tour Guide Extraordinaire

I T
AKE
A S
HOWER
. I even shave my legs. I try to think when I last shaved my legs in the wintertime. It could have possibly been in the time of dinosaurs.

Even when Peter was alive, I could never claim to be a girly girl. He loved me, and he didn’t seem to notice whether I was dolled up or in one of his crew T-shirts from college that had a hole in the armpit. We always had a good relationship—you know,
relations
relationship—whether my legs were shaved or not.

I don’t think we ever took each other for granted, but we had very few secrets, to be sure. That many years together is too long to pretend. We learned that lesson.

But today I make an effort. I put on a clean pair of jeans, and I actually apply some lip gloss. My hair is pointless. No one ever showed me how to do anything with it when I was younger, so I keep it cut in a long bob and call it good. I think watching my cousin’s curling iron fall apart and down the back of her prom dress when I was six probably scarred me for life. No big beauty routine for me.

My teeth are brushed, and I look casually decent. We get in the car.