Magic and Decay (14 page)

Stage One: Denial

Not every story has a happy ending. Some only hold a
happy beginning.

This is my story.
I’d already met my
soul mate, fallen in love with him and lived our happily ever after.

This story is not about me falling in love.

This story is about me learning to live again after
love left my life.

Research shows there are five stages of grief. I don’t
know what this means for me, as I was stuck, nice and hard, in step one.

Denial.

I knew, acutely, that I was still in stage one.

I knew this because every time I walked in the house,
I wandered around aimlessly looking for Grady.
Because I
still picked up my phone to check if he texted or called throughout the day.
Because I looked for him in a crowded room, got the urge to call him from the
grocery store just to make sure I had everything he needed, and reached for him
in the middle of the night.

Acceptance- the last stage of grief- was firmly and
forever out of my reach, and I often looked forward to it with longing. Why?
Because Denial was a
son of a bitch
and it hurt more than
anything
when I
realized he wasn’t in the house, wouldn’t be calling me, wasn’t where I wanted
him to be, didn’t need anything from the store and would never lie next to me
in bed again. The grief would cascade over me, fresh and suffocating and I was
forced to suffer through the unbearable pain of losing my husband all over
again.

Denial
sucked
.

But it was where I was right now. I was living in
Denial.

Chapter One

Six Months after Grady died.

I snuggled back into the cradle of his body
while his arms wrapped around me tightly. He buried his scruffy face against
the nape of my neck and I sighed contentedly. We fit perfectly together, but
then again we always had- his big spoon nestled up against my little spoon.

“It’s your turn,” he rumbled against my skin
with that deep morning voice I would always drink in.

“No,” I argued half-heartedly. “It’s always my
turn.”

“But you’re so good at it,” he teased.

I giggled, “It’s one of my many talents,
pouring cereal into bowls, making juice cups. I might just take this show on
the road.”

He laughed behind me and his chest shook with
the movement. I pushed back into him, loving the feel of his hard, firm chest
against my back. He was so hot first thing in the morning, his whole body
radiating warmth.

His hand splayed out across my belly
possessively and he pressed a kiss just below my ear. I could feel his lips
through my tangle of hair and the tickle of his breath which wasn’t all that
pleasant first thing in the morning, but it was Grady and it was familiar.

“It’s probably time we had another one, don’t
you think?” His hand rubbed a circle around my stomach and I could feel him
vibrating happily with the thought.

“Grady, we already have three,” I reminded him
on a laugh. “If we have another one, people are going to start thinking we’re
weird.”

“No, they won’t,” he soothed. “They might get
an idea of how fertile you are, but they won’t think we’re weird.”

I snorted a laugh. “They already think we’re
weird.”
 

“Then we don’t want to disappoint them,” he
murmured. His hand slid up my chest and cupped my breast, giving it a gentle
squeeze.

“You are obsessed with those things,” I
grinned.

“Definitely,” he agreed quickly, while
continuing to fondle me. “What do you think, Lizzy? Will you give me another
baby?”

I was getting wrapped up in the way he was
touching me, the way he was caressing me with so much love I thought I would
burst. “I’ll think about it,” I finally conceded, knowing he would get his way-
knowing I always let him have his way.

“While you’re mulling it over, we should
probably practice. I mean, we want to get this right when the time comes.”
Grady trailed kisses down the column of my throat and I moaned my consent.

I rolled over to kiss him on the mouth.

But he wasn’t
there.

My arm swung
wide and hit cold, empty mattress.

I opened my eyes
and stared at the slow moving ceiling fan over my head. The early morning light
streamed in through cracks in my closed blinds and I let the silent tears fall.

I hated waking
up like this; thinking he was there, next to me, still able to support me, love
me- hold me. And unfortunately it happened more often than it
didn’t
.

The fresh pain
clawed and cut at my heart and I thought I would die just from sheer
heartbreak. My chin quivered and I sniffled, trying desperately to wrestle my
emotions under control. But the pain was too much, too consuming.

“Mom!”
Blake called from the kitchen, ripping me away from
my peaceful grief.
“
Moooooom
!”

That was a
distressed cry, and I was up out of my bed and racing downstairs immediately. I
grabbed my silk robe on the way and threw it over my black
cami
and plaid pajama bottoms. When the kids were younger I wouldn’t have bothered,
but Blake was eight now and he’d been traumatized enough in life- I wasn’t
going to add to that by walking around bra-less first thing in the morning.

He continued to
yell at me, while I barreled into the kitchen still wiping at the fresh tears.
I found him at the bay windows, staring out in horror.

“Mom, Abby went
swimming,” he explained in a rush of words.

A sick feeling
knotted my stomach and I looked around wild-eyed at what his words could
possibly mean. “What do you mean, Abby
went
swimming
?” I gasped, a little out of breath.

“There,” he
pointed to the neighbor’s backyard with a shaky finger.

I followed the
direction of his outstretched hand and from the elevated vantage point of our
kitchen I could see that the neighbor’s pool was filled with water, and my
six-year-old daughter was swimming morning laps like she was on a regulated
workout routine.

“What the f-“ I
started and then stopped, shooting a glance down at Blake who was looking up at
me with more exaggerated shock than he’d given his sister.

I watched her
for point one more second and sprinted for the front door. “Keep an eye on the
other ones,” I shouted at Blake as I pushed open our heavy red door.

It was just
early fall in rural Connecticut; the grass was still green, the mornings foggy
but mostly still warm. The house next to us had been empty for almost a year.
The owner had been asking too much for it in this economy, but I understood
why- it was a beautiful, stately colonial with cream stucco siding and black
decorative shutters. Big oak trees offered shade and character in the sprawling
front yard and in the back, an in-ground pool was the drool-worthy envy of my
children.

I raced down my
yard and into my new neighbors. I hadn’t noticed the house had sold, but that
didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t the most observant person these days. Vaguely I
noted a moving truck parked in the long drive.

The backyard
gate must have been left open, because even though Abby had taught herself how
to swim at the age of four- all by herself, the end result giving me several
gray hairs- there was no way she could reach the flip lock at the top of the
tall, iron fence.

I rounded the
corner and hopped/ran to the edge of the pool, the gravel of the patio cutting
into my bare feet. I took a steadying breath and focused my panic-flooded mind,
long enough to assess whether Abby was still breathing or not.

She was, and
happily swimming in circles
in the deep
end
.

Fear and dread
quickly turned to blinding anger and I took a step closer to the edge of the
pool while I threw my silk robe on the ground.

“Abigail
Elizabeth, you get out of there right this minute!” I shouted loud enough to
wake up the entire neighborhood.

She popped her
head up out of the water, acknowledged me by sticking out her tongue, and
promptly went back to swimming.
That little brat.
   

“Abigail, I am
not
joking. Get out of the pool.
Now
!”
I hollered
again.
And was ignored- again.
“Abby, if I have to
come in there and get you, you will rue the day you were born!”

She poked her
head back up out of the water, shooting me a confused look. Her light green
eyebrows drew together, just like her father’s used to, and her little freckled
nose wrinkled at something I said. I was smart enough or experienced enough to
know that she was not on the verge of obeying, just because I’d threatened her.

“Mommy?” she
asked, somehow making her little body tread water in a red polka dot bikini my
sister picked up from Gap last summer- it was too small which for some reason
made me
more
angry. “What does
rue
mean?”

“It means you’re
grounded from the iPad, your
Leapster
and the Wii for
the next two years of your life,” I threatened. “Now get out of that pool right
now before I come in there and get you myself.”

She giggled in
reply, not believing me for one second and resumed her play.

“Damn it,
Abigail,” I growled under my breath- not that I was surprised by her behavior.
She was naturally an adventurous child. Since she could walk, she’d been
climbing to the highest point of anything she could, swinging precariously from
branches, light fixtures and aisles at the grocery store. She was a daredevil
and there were moments when I absolutely adored her “the world is my playground”
attitude about life. But then there were moments like this, when every mom
instinct in me screamed she was in danger and her little, rotten life flashed
before my eyes.

Those moments
happened more and more often. She tested me, pushing every limit and boundary
I’d set. She had been reckless before Grady died, now she was just wild. And I
didn’t know what to do about it.

I didn’t know
how to tame my uncontrollable child- how to be both parents to a little girl
who desperately missed her daddy.

I focused on my
outrage, pushing those tragic thoughts down, into the abyss of my soul. I was
pissed, I didn’t have time for this first thing in the morning and no doubt we
were going to be late for school- again.

I slipped off my
pajama pants, hoping whomever had moved into the house, if they were watching,
would be more concerned with the little girl on the verge of drowning than me
flashing my black, bikini briefs at them over morning coffee. I said a few more
choice curses and dove into the barely warm water after my second born.

I surfaced,
sputtering water and shivering from the cool morning air pebbling my skin.
“Abigail, when I get you out of this pool, you are going to be in
so
much trouble.”

“Okay,” she
agreed happily. “But first you have to catch me.”

She proceeded to
swim around me in circles while I reached out helplessly for her. First thing I
was doing when I got out of this pool was throwing away every electronic device
in our house just to teach her a lesson. Then I was going to sign her up for a
swim team- because the little hellion was very, very fast.

We struggled
like this for a few more minutes. Well, I struggled. She splashed at me and
laughed at my efforts to wrangle her.

I was aware of a
presence hovering by the edge of the pool but I was equally too embarrassed as
I was too preoccupied to look. Images of walking my children into school late
again
, kept looping through my head and
I cringed at the dirty looks I was bound to get from teachers and other parents
alike.

“You look hungry,”
a deep masculine voice announced from above me.

I whipped my
head around to find an incredibly tall man standing by my discarded pajama
pants holding two beach towels and a box of Pop-Tarts in one arm, while he
munched casually on said Pop-Tarts with the other.

“I look hungry?”
I screeched in hysterical anger.

His eyes
flickered down at me for just a second, “No, you look mad.” He pointed at Abby,
who had come to a stop next to me, treading water again with her short
child-sized limbs waving wildly in the water. “
She
looks hungry.” He grinned at me, his mouth full of food, and
looked back at Abby. “Want a Pop-Tart? They’re brown sugar.”

Abby nodded
excitedly and swam to the edge of the pool. Not even using the ladder, she
heaved herself out of the water and ran over to the stranger holding out his
breakfast to her. He handed her a towel and she hastily draped it around her
shoulders and took the offered Pop-Tart.

A million
warnings about taking food from strangers ran through my head, but in the end I
decided getting us out of his pool was probably more important to him than
offing his brand new neighbors with poisoned Pop-Tarts.

With a defeated
sigh, I swam over to the ladder closest to my pants and robe, and pulled myself
from the water. I was a dripping, limp mess and I was frozen to the bone after
my body adjusted to the temperature of the water.

Abby took her
Pop-Tart and plopped down on one of the loungers that were still stacked on top
of two others and wrapped in plastic. She began munching on it happily,
grinning at me like she’d just won the lottery.

She was in
so
much trouble.

I walked over to
the stranger, eying him skeptically. He held out his remaining beach towel to
me and after realizing I stood before him in just a soaking wet tank top and
bikini briefs, I took it quickly and wrapped it around my body. I shivered
violently, and my dark blonde hair dripped down my face and back. But I didn’t
dare adjust the towel, afraid I’d give him more of a show than he’d paid for.

“Good morning,”
he laughed at me.

“Good morning,”
I replied slowly, carefully.

Up close, he wasn’t the giant I’d originally thought.
Now that we were both ground level, I could see that while he was tall, at
least six inches taller than me, he wasn’t freakishly tall- which relieved some
of my concerns. He still wore his pajamas: blue cotton pants and a white
t-shirt that had been stretched out from sleep. He had almost black hair that
appeared still mussed and disheveled, but swept over to the side in what could
be a trendy style if he brushed it. He seemed to be a few years older than me-
if I had to guess thirty-five or thirty-six- and he had dark, intelligent eyes
that crinkled in the corners with amusement. He was tanned, and muscular, and
imposing. And I hated that he was laughing at me.

“Sorry about the
gate,” he shrugged. “I didn’t realize there were kids around.”

“You moved into
a neighborhood,” I pointed out dryly. “There’s bound to be kids around.”

His eyes narrowed
at the insult but he swallowed his Pop-Tart and agreed, “Fair enough. I’ll keep
the gate locked from now on.”

I wasn’t
finished with berating him though. His pool caused all kinds of problems for me
this morning and since I could only take out so much anger on my six-year-old,
I had to vent the rest somewhere. “Who fills their pool the first week of
September anyway? You’ve been to New England in the winter, haven’t you?”