Going for Kona (7 page)

I passed the table where we displayed our treasures, trailing my hand across the goofy carved black bear Adrian bought me on a trip to New Mexico. I looked around me. He was everywhere, in every tacky, quirky piece in the room. A jeweled wire armadillo. A wrought iron tandem bicycle. A tin donkey. My pre-Adrian décor, although tasteful and attractive, seemed flat in comparison to the warm things he had brought into our home. Like Annabelle.

I braced myself.

“Hello, Diane.”

She put her cell phone in her pocket. “Hello, Michele. Sorry to intrude.”

“No problem,” I lied in a forced, light tone. “So, you guys wanted to talk to me?”

Annabelle looked at her grandmother, but Diane didn’t speak. Annabelle twisted a strand of hair around her finger and spoke in a rush. “Um, Grandmother—she wants me to fly back with her to New York, and I told her I needed a little bit of time here, um, because of things, and,” she stared at me during a pause that I didn’t fill, then looked at her grandmother and went on, “Grandmother said I could stay two more weeks here before the school year starts if you said it was okay.” Annabelle clamped her teeth onto her fingernail as soon as she finished speaking.

The air left my lungs. I stood there breathless for long moments while I gathered myself, while she chewed her nails and looked at her fingertips. If Diane wanted her, I couldn’t make it hard for Annabelle. She needed her family, a piece of her mother in a grandmother package. Sam needed me, at least; he would stay with me. So I would do just one thing right today and make it easy for Annabelle if it killed me.

“Of course you can stay through the summer. You’re welcome here as long as you want; honey, you’re welcome here anytime, for the rest of your life.” With one more glance at her grandmother, Annabelle fell into my arms. I hugged her to me as tight as I could, memorizing her small, muscular frame for the time coming soon when she wouldn’t be mine anymore. She hugged me back just as tightly.

When her hug loosened, I released her. Her pupils dilated completely, and she spoke again. “Michele, I have to, I mean, I sort of want to but I don’t, because all my friends are here, and you and Sam and all, but Grandmother says I have to spend my last year of high school there with her and Grandfather.”

There, she’d said it. It hurt, it definitely hurt, but less than it would have a week before. Really, I was ninety percent dead, brain-dead at the least, and nearly heart-dead, too. I wished the woman I had been before last Friday was there to talk to Annabelle. If she was, she could speak to that other woman, too, the one from New York who hadn’t spent her last four years driving to swim practices and sitting at swim meets, and waiting for Annabelle and her friends at a million different parties and movies and trips to the Galleria. Hugging her when she cried and laughing with her when she laughed. All I had, though, was the woman I was here today, who was losing the second of the three most important people in her life within one week and didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

Diane’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at her display. “Excuse me, but I need to take this.” Before Annabelle or I said a word, she pressed a button. “Diane Pritchett speaking.” She walked briskly out of the living room and out the front door, her heels clacking against my tile, each one a staccato slap to my face.

I dropped my voice and Annabelle moved close. “I love you, Annabelle Corinne Hanson. If you want me to talk to your grandmother, to ask for a different living arrangement, I will. If not, we’ll miss you a whole lot, but I understand. I really do. Sam and I will be here and you can always come back if you change your mind. But don’t feel bad for one single second, if this is what
you
want to do. They’re your grandparents. “

“Thank you. I’ll miss you guys so much.” Little tears pooled in the corner of her eyes.

I smoothed her crazy curls back from one side of her face. “You can come visit us, you can text, and email, and call, and IM, and all that other stuff I don’t understand—” she smiled at that. “And I’ll even get on Facebook more often.”

Now she laughed. “No, you won’t.”

“How about I’ll
try
to get on Facebook more often?” I softened my voice even further. “Seriously, Belle, your dad will be with you, too, wherever you go.” I touched the left side of her collarbone—above her heart—with the tips of my fingers. “Sam and I will, too. You will always have the three of us, exactly like it has been for the last four years, in here.”

Now the tears rolled onto her cheeks, and mine did, too. I pulled her back into a hug and rocked her gently, patting, patting, patting.

You, too, I told myself. You will always have Adrian and Annabelle
.
Even if doesn’t feel like it.

The next morning, I was sitting next to ebony glamazon Denise Dunmore on the set of
Good Morning Houston
, my face caked in makeup and my hair teased and sprayed, hating it more than I can say. The show was on a commercial break, and the producer had goaded the audience into doing the wave. Why had I let Scarlett bulldoze me into this? The strong Michele with the salty tongue still hadn’t reappeared, and when I didn’t tell Scarlett “Hell, no” clearly enough, she showed up at my house at God-awful-early o’clock in the morning and brought me there straight from a sleepless night. She looked camera-ready herself, just beyond the stage. She shot me a red-tipped thumbs-up and I pretended not to see her.

Denise leaned toward me. “We’ll come back from the commercial break in one minute.” I watched her as she talked to me, but I had trouble concentrating on her words. She wore a green pantsuit so bright it hurt to look at it. “Thank you so much for coming in. This can’t be easy.”

I nodded. Denise had interviewed Adrian when he qualified for Kona, and he really liked her. I knew her to be nothing but kind and professional. Still, I couldn’t muster up a smile. It was all I could do to be there.

“Do you have any questions for me before we start?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Your locket is beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you keep in it?”

“Nothing.”

It was a fib. I’d added a smattering of Adrian’s ashes after his funeral and had a jeweler solder it shut so I could swim and train in it. I didn’t plan to open it again, ever. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger. The chain and locket stayed warm from my body, and when I touched it, I imagined I was touching Adrian’s warm skin. I wrapped myself up in the memory of him putting it around my neck.

The producer started the countdown, and when he got to one, Denise spoke into the camera. “Welcome back to
Good Morning Houston
. I’m so honored to have our next guest with us, Houston’s own Michele Lopez Hanson, co-author of
My Pace or Yours: Triathlon Training for Couples
. She co-wrote and launched
My Pace
with her husband, my friend Adrian Hanson, a writer and professional triathlete who was a guest on the show last fall when he qualified for the world championships.”

The audience cheered on cue. Not a damn one of them knew either of us, I’d bet.

“Their book came out less than one week ago”—at this, the picture of Adrian swooping me over backwards at the Barnes and Noble came on the screen—“and tragically, Adrian was killed less than twenty-four hours later by a hit-and-run-driver when he was bicycling in Southwest Houston.” The monitor in front of us filled with a picture I had never seen, one of me outside the church after Adrian’s funeral, stone-faced and severe.

The audience gasped. I tightened my stomach muscles, girding myself.

“The police suspect a white Ford F150 was involved and ask that anyone with information about the accident contact them.” A phone number filled the screen. The entire segment was supposed to last about three minutes. I prayed we were nearly through.

Denise held the book up for the camera. “Here’s the book they wrote together about training for a big-time triathlon as a couple—although I have to say, since I’ve read it, it’s as much about relationships as triathlon, and it’s an inspirational read, whether you are into triathlon or any other sport, or no sport at all.” The monitor displayed a close-up of the book’s cover. Then Denise turned toward me. “Michele, thank you for being here.”

“You’re welcome.” Suddenly my already undersized body started shrinking until I was a tiny, sullen woman perched on the couch with my legs sticking straight out. Denise grew larger until she was a black Athena in flowing green towering over me. I managed a small voice. “Thank you for having me.”

Denise’s eyes widened. I wasn’t sure if it was because she noticed I’d shrunk or because of my voice. I cleared my throat. She looked back at the camera. “The story of Adrian’s death has gone viral, beyond the sports circles, and these pictures of Michele and Adrian have captured the hearts and interest of millions of Americans.” They ran the swoop picture again, then a photo of Adrian and me crossing the finish line at the Galveston Half Ironman, my first endurance triathlon. Scarlett had outdone herself.

I shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t time yet. It might never be time again. I stole a glance at Scarlett and she shot me another stupid thumbs-up. I was in hell in front of a million people—more, once the video hit YouTube—and she was shooting me a thumbs-up?

“Michele, I have some bittersweet news for you,” Denise said, raising a clipping from
USA Today
. The monitor filled with the image. “Your book has reached number one in nonfiction on the
USA Today
Best-selling Books list.”

The audience applauded loud and long. I reached out my hand and Denise put the news piece into it.
My Pace or Yours, Adrian and Michele Hanson
was in the number one spot. I looked up at her, silent.

“Congratulations. How do you think Adrian would feel about this?”

I sucked in air and spoke from my heart on the exhale, and my body grew bigger as I did. “He would love it. He would absolutely love sharing his sport with so many people, and also sharing how to make it something that unites couples in health and a common interest.”

The audience clapped again.

Denise finally smiled
at
me. “I can only speak for me, but I imagine I speak for Houston, for Texas, and beyond, when I say we all hope you carry on in his honor. You’re competing in the world championships in Kona, aren’t you?”

My mouth hung open. I hadn’t told anyone but Brian, not even Adrian—this news was the anniversary surprise I had planned for him. The roster was public, but I’d signed up using my middle name, Isabel. “Um, yes, I am signed up. But I hadn’t decided whether I would still do it, without Adrian there.”

“What do you guys think?” Denise asked the audience. “Would you like to see Michele compete in the Ironman at the world championships in her husband’s honor? Wouldn’t that be the most amazing thing ever?”

The crowd went crazy. Of course they did. The producer had told them to. And he was just marching to the beat laid down by my publicist, Scarlett, whom I wanted to rip to shreds as soon as I stepped offstage.

Denise finished cheering with the audience. “How about it, Michele?”

I smiled as best as I could, and as mad as I was, when I spoke I said something I hadn’t known was true until that very second. “The only way to get Adrian to Kona is with me, and I don’t know how I could live with myself if I didn’t fulfill this dream for him.” With those words, I returned to being me, the normal-sized Michele, and Denise shrank back to actual size, too.

And that was it. Denise showed
My Pace
again and urged everyone to get a copy. She shook my hand, thanked me, and the camera swiveled to another stage to capture another segment. Denise smiled at me and waved as she followed the camera.

I just sat there until the production assistant shuttled over to me, smiling way too big. “Come on, Michele. You’re all done, and we need to get you out of here.”

I let her lead me to the door, where Scarlett pulled me into a hug.

“I know that was hard, but it’s over, and you did it, and you were wonderful. Your book sales are just skyrocketing, and you’ve helped keep this thing going, especially now that you’ve committed to carrying out Adrian’s dream.”

I extricated myself from the vise of her arms. The meek and tearful me of the last week had finally lost it. Scarlett had pressed my rage button. “It’s you, isn’t it, Scarlett? You’re behind all this going-viral bullshit and all these people, these people, all these people . . .”

“No, Michele, of course not, but it’s all wonderful. Adrian wanted to write this book with you, he wanted people to read it and be inspired by it, and he wanted to take you to Kona with him.”

That,
that
was what was bothering me. “How the hell did you know I was going to Kona?”

“What do you mean?”

I found my voice, and it was loud. “I mean, I hadn’t even told Adrian yet. I hadn’t told anyone. No one but my boss.” My boss, who had published the book, and who had invested in it big time. He had hired Scarlett to promote us, and the book. And he had told her. I knew he had.

She frowned. “I didn’t think it was a secret. I had no idea, Michele. I’m very sorry.”

I ground my fists into my eyes. Sure, she was sorry, except that she wasn’t. She had succeeded, and did it really matter how? I couldn’t trust her, and I didn’t know if I could trust Brian either. Not with my feelings, anyway.

“Where’s my phone?” I’d given it to Scarlett before I went on air. I needed it back so I could call Adrian. I’d started dialing his voice mail and listening to it whenever I got upset. It was better than nothing.

Scarlett handed it to me and I saw the HPD, my favorite phone number, blowing up the screen at that moment. Scarlett grabbed me by the elbow and started walking me out. I took the call.

“What.”

“Wow, Michele, so I just heard you were on TV.” Detective Young.

“Yeah, so what?”

“I don’t often have widows on TV selling books that have gone viral less than a week after their husbands are murdered. Congratulations on your bestseller. That worked out pretty nicely for you.”

“My husband is dead, you asshole. Nothing will ever work out nicely for me again.” I pressed end and threw my phone at the wall. It bounced on the floor, the OtterBox protecting it as billed. I needed breaking glass and flying parts and loud screaming, not this, not any of this. I stooped to pick up the phone.

Scarlett stopped. “Are you okay?”

“What the hell do you think?”

We walked in silence to her car and she drove toward my home. After about ten minutes, she cleared her throat delicately. “This may not be the best time to ask you this, but it can’t wait. I need you to do
The
Today Show
in New York on Friday.”

“NO! No, no, no, no, no!” I shot each word out rapid-fire through my clenched teeth.

She winced. “I need you to think about it. Talk to Brian. It’s a very big deal, and it would mean a lot to Juniper. It would have meant a lot to Adrian, I think, for that matter.”

“You’re in no position to tell me what anything would have meant to Adrian.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Just talk to Brian. Decide tomorrow. Please.”

We arrived at my house, and I got out and slammed the car door without answering her.

***

When I stood in the security line with my boarding pass for the flight back to Houston from New York that Friday afternoon, my
Today Show
makeup and hair were starting to droop, but my Ann Taylor skirt and blouse still hid my exhaustion. All I wanted was to get home so I could throw my son a party and see Annabelle before she moved away, probably for good. Unfortunately, I still had a bicycle ride to get in before bed. I didn’t know how I was going to do it. With Adrian around, it wouldn’t have been hard. The man just flat-out did whatever it was he decided to do, and it was easy to ride along in his wake.

“Excuse me, are you Michele Lopez Hanson?” The woman who asked was heading in the opposite direction through the accordion of security lines. She looked close to my age, if a foot taller.

I wondered if I’d dropped something. “Yes, I am.”

The woman smiled brightly and reached into a long-handled bag slung over her shoulder. She pulled out
My Pace or Yours
.“I saw you on the
Today Show
, and I picked this up on the way to the airport. You’re so inspiring. Would you mind signing it for me?”

I looked around me. People were watching us now. “Um, sure. Do you have a pen?”

She handed me a blue Bic.

“What’s your name?”

“Beth.”

I scribbled a message and my name on the cover page and handed the book and pen back to her.

“Thank you. I’m very sorry about your husband. And good luck at Kona.”

“Thank you very much.” I turned my attention to my phone to stymie further conversation.

I heard a woman next to Beth ask to see the cover of the book, and they struck up a conversation about the show. “She’s so beautiful. And tiny. Even prettier than she was on the air.” Beth’s voice. I squirmed. Then I heard the other woman’s voice. “She looks like the short Mexican actress on
Desperate Housewives
.”

This was odd for me, and I thought how much Adrian would have loved it, and how I would have loved it with him, but not so much now. It didn’t suck, it just wasn’t the same as it would have been. Nothing was, not even flying. I hate flying, and the thought of getting on the plane without Adrian to hold my hand and distract me during take-offs and landings was awful.

Never mind, I told myself. Never mind. Just get home.

At the gate, I logged into wifi with my little Asus laptop. Scarlett and Brian wanted an update on the
Today Show
and I’d put off answering their many calls, texts and emails. They’d manipulated me, and ultimately both played the “do it for Adrian” card.

The terrible reality? Adrian would have wanted the book to sell and me to do Kona with him, one way or another. I did feel obligated to carry on for him, but I knew he wouldn’t want to see me so miserable. It was just hard to know for sure, because, of course, if he were here, I wouldn’t be miserable, and we would have exulted in all of this together. And if he’d lived, well, then the
Today Show
probably wouldn’t have invited us to come on. God, the whole thing hurt my head. All I wanted to do was sleep.

I clicked send on an email to my two puppet masters. My inbox was full—fifty-seven new messages in one day. My touchpad browsed me through them almost of its own volition. Condolences, congratulations, invitations to speak, to guest, to host, to write. An infuriating email from my ex-husband accusing me of neglecting Sam when he needed me. And then something totally different. An email from a freelance reporter asking me about a reputed affair between my husband and a woman who had contacted him, a woman named Rhonda Dale. He wanted my side of the story.