The Lost Husband (19 page)

“Okay,” I said.

“Turned out Ernesto was stealing pharmaceuticals from the nurses’ station and mixing them into concoctions with Snapples from the vending machine. The next night he mixed me up a potion, and I drank it, and when I went to sleep, I saw my dad again. We had Mexican food and margaritas.”

“I can’t believe a total stranger mixed up stolen pharmaceuticals with fruit juice and you just drank it.”

“I’d drink anything back then.”

“What if it had killed you?”

“At the time I didn’t really care,” she said. “Besides”—she gestured to her living self for proof—“it didn’t.”

All I could do was shake my head. I couldn’t relate to any piece
of this story. I’d always been a rule follower. Of course, even now I couldn’t say that good behavior had always paid off. If trouble wants to find you badly enough, it will.

“Sunshine,” I said at last, “what were you thinking?”

She shrugged. “You’re missing the point. I’m telling what you what I learned.”

I gave in. “What did you learn?”

“You don’t need the potion. All you need is to know the truth.”

“What truth?”

“That the dead can find you in dreams.”

After that, we watched the fire and ate snacks. Sunshine had brought an entire bag of marshmallows, enough chocolate bars and graham crackers to feed a whole troop of Cub Scouts, and some organic beer.

“Beer?” I said.

“It’s organic,” she said, like that made it healthy.

Once we’d covered the basics of the paranormal, she seemed far more interested in eating than communing with the afterlife. We ate s’mores, got sleepier and sleepier, and watched the flames eat up the logs. The evening felt more cozy than spooky, and I found myself not wanting to go home.

We talked about lots of things then, with the pressure of the séance off—from raising kids to favorite books to first kisses. When the marshmallows were gone, the beers were drunk, and the fire was down to embers, we started cleaning up, and out of nowhere Sunshine said, “What do you think of O’Connor?”

“O’Connor?” I said, like I’d never thought about him before.

“Isn’t he yummy?”

“Is he?” I said. “I can’t tell through the beard.”

“I’ve been crushed out on him for years,” Sunshine said.
“Even though he’s, like, my third cousin or something.” Then a sigh. “Our babies would have two heads.”

“O’Connor’s your cousin?” I asked.

“Our grandmothers were cousins,” she said.

“That’s surprising,” I said.

“Not really,” Sunshine said. “In a town this small, everybody’s related somehow.”

We started making our way back toward the car. The night seemed much brighter now, and I didn’t even turn on the flashlight. “Besides,” she went on, “he’s totally devoted to Erin.”

“What’s the story there?” I asked, as if we were still discussing the health benefits of organic beer.

“They were high school sweethearts,” Sunshine said. “Though it was kind of on again, off again. Then they got married. Then the accident.”

I nodded.

“It’s sad for her,” she said, “but it’s sadder for him.” We started walking back toward the car. “He can’t leave her alone. He can’t go anywhere, or work. He’s burning through his savings. Russ thinks he’ll go nuts in that house by himself all day long and he’ll go running naked through the town square.”

We’d made it to the car, and Sunshine kept talking as we got in and buckled up. “Erin has a sister, but she lives far away. Africa, maybe. Or Antarctica. Some continent that starts with
A
.”

“So he’s just trapped,” I said, turning the key in the ignition and backing out onto the road.

“Pretty much,” Sunshine said.

“Has he ever considered finding a place for her?”

Sunshine shook her head. “He won’t even talk about it.”

“He’s willing to ruin his own life to take care of her,” I said.

Sunshine nodded. “Yep.” She was quiet for a moment, pondering O’Connor’s situation and the choices he had made. “Maybe it’s because that’s just who he is. Or maybe it’s because of the in-sickness-and-in-health part of the wedding vows. Or,” she went on, leaning back against the headrest and putting a foot up on the dashboard, “maybe it’s because on the night of the accident, he was driving.”

Chapter 16
 

I figured Jean would know I had snuck out with Sunshine. I fully expected her to make a comment about it the next morning and give me a look over the edge of her glasses. The more I knew about Jean, the more I believed she was impossible to fool.

As I woke up that morning, I thought about what I would say when the moment came, and I realized I wasn’t sure if Jean would applaud me for getting out and having an adventure or chide me for, of all possible adventures, choosing that particular one.

Jean knew about grief. She knew what it was like to lose the most important person in your life. She knew exactly the kind of determination it required to accept that no, you would never see that person again, and yes—you would have to go on living. To go back and toy with the idea of finding Danny—no matter how unseriously I took it—when I’d only just barely survived losing him? Now that I imagined it through Jean’s eyes, it seemed like a stupid thing to do.

On the other hand, Jean also wanted me to take more risks
and to have fun. And whatever else my night out with Sunshine might have been, I couldn’t deny that it had been fun. I’d come back smelling like campfire smoke and riding a s’mores-induced sugar buzz, humming with the contentment of just having a good time with a friend. When was the last time I’d goofed around like that? I couldn’t even remember.

Of course, Jean was a friend, too. Many nights, after the dishes, we played Scrabble at the kitchen table, or Boggle, or cards. But Jean also had one foot in the “mother” category—or possibly the “fairy godmother” category. She was always trying to help me. In almost every conversation we had, I could find life lessons, gentle nudgings, and unspoken encouragements. I felt the pressure of her investment in me—her genuine hope that I’d figure things out and become more resilient—powering every interaction. Which was fine, and not unpleasant, but a very different thing from eating burned marshmallows by firelight with a person who’s just as lost as you—or, as Tank would say, “even loster.”

As it turned out, Jean never did ask me about the séance. The next morning progressed like any other. I got the kids up, and then Jean fed us all on barn eggs and homemade butter. The only thing different about that morning was me: I was quieter than usual. Because even though the séance had been about Danny and the adventure had been about Sunshine, the person it had left me thinking about was O’Connor.

How strange that we’d both lost our spouses in car accidents. What a weird connection to have with someone. Even though O’Connor’s wife was still alive, if things were as bad as Sunshine said, he’d lost her just the same: the person she’d been, the marriage they’d had. And we both had guilt—mine for picking a fight with Danny, his for the fact that he’d been driving. And we both had caretaking to do in the wake of those accidents: me with two
kids, one of them injured, to raise all alone (worse than alone, if you counted my mother), and him with a person who “wasn’t there” to look after. Very different situations, of course. But weirdly similar. Similar enough to distract me from the kids and breakfast and getting the morning done—until I noticed Tank suddenly right in front of my face, saying, “Can we go? Can we go?”

“Go where?”

He climbed up in my lap. “To Jean’s party!”

“Mom,” Abby said in a very adult voice, “weren’t you listening? It’s Jean’s birthday next week.”

“It is?” I looked over at Jean, who was pouring us coffee.

“The fifteenth,” she said, nodding. “The ides of April.”

“She just told us that!” Tank shouted, delighted to catch me being stupid. “Earth to Mama!”

“Didn’t you hear her?” Abby asked. “She said she’s going to be sixty!” Abby said the word as if Jean were about to turn one thousand.

“Sixty!” I said, trying to set an age-positive example. “How wonderful!”

“Sixty is supposed to be very magical,” Jean added.

Tank looked impressed. “You’ll be able to do magic?”

“I can already do magic,” Jean said.

“But maybe you’ll be able to do extra,” Abby said.

“Is Mama invited to the party, too?” Tank asked.

“Oh, yes,” Jean said. “Everybody I like is invited to the party.”

“So not our grandma, then,” Abby said, making Jean choke on a sip of coffee. “Since you don’t like her.”

Tank frowned. “Jean doesn’t like Grandma?”

Abby gave Tank a knowing look. “Jean
detests
Grandma,” she said. Jean had just taught Abby the word
detest
.

“What makes you think that?” Jean asked.

“Oh, Aunt Jean, it’s so obvious,” Abby said, busting out another new word.

Tank didn’t seem to care much. “I’m going to buy you Legos,” he chirped to Jean.

“I love Legos,” she said. “But I have a rule about my birthday …”

Abby had picked up on Jean’s tone. “No presents?” she asked.

“Oh, no. I love presents,” Jean said. “But no one is allowed to buy them.”

Abby considered this a minute before deciding to clarify. “You want us to steal them?”

“Not steal,” Jean said. “Find.”

She was serious. She wanted gifts, but she forbade anybody to spend any money. Easy for the kids—a rock or a pinecone could suffice—but trickier for me. Jean deserved something very special from me, something that at least attempted to thank her for rescuing us in the way she had. It would have been a challenge even without this new restriction.

Jean didn’t want to talk about presents, though. She wanted to talk about the party. She was inviting everyone she knew—which pretty much meant the whole town—to the dance hall for a jamboree. The guys from her old band would play, and a friend of Russ’s would call the square dancing.

“The square dancing?” I asked.

Jean read my face. “You’re going to love it,” she promised. “It’ll be the most fun you ever have.”

“That’s a heck of a prediction,” I said.

Jean nodded in agreement. “It sure is.”

“Can the fact that I’m willing to square-dance be my present to you?”

“Nope,” Jean said. “You’re giving me something else.”

“I am?” I asked.

“Yep,” Jean said. “It’s all decided.”

“What am I giving you?”

“A haircut,” she said, holding up two fingers like scissors. “For O’Connor.”

I thought about the haircut on and off all week, both eager for it and dreading its arrival.

I resolved to do a great job for Jean. She assured me that there was nothing I could give her that she’d want more.

“What’s O’Connor giving you?” I asked.

“A haircut,” she said. “From you.”

The first time the notion had come up, months before, the idea of cutting O’Connor’s hair had seemed ridiculous. And inappropriate. And unappealing. But now it felt different. I gave in to a feeling of pleasant anticipation as real and tingly as if I’d just lowered myself into a steaming hot bath. The prospect of seeing O’Connor again was good, and the fact that I’d get to run my hands all over his hair was even better.

Jean was going to help by staying with Erin so O’Connor could come over. She had also arranged for a friend from town to stay at the house a little later—during the party itself—so that O’Connor could come and join us. She said no one in the world needed a night out worse than he did.

The day of the party, while the kids were still at school and Sunshine and I were feeding the hens, O’Connor pulled into the yard in his truck for the first time in weeks. I stood up straight when I saw him, and then, without hesitation, marched right out to meet him, just to shave another forty-five seconds off the wait.

He slammed the truck door, and there he was, real as ever. The same long stride, the same jeans that bunched around the ankles of his boots. The sight of him was so delicious that I had to remind myself to keep walking—and not just stop to savor it.

When we got close, I hesitated. We should have hugged, probably. The way we’d walked toward each other certainly warranted it. Isn’t that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in weeks? It would have been completely justified to put my arms around him and let him do the same. But I chickened out. We stopped short about a foot away from each other, and the moment crackled with the change of plan. After a pause, I put my hand out to shake, and we both looked at it in surprise.

Then, in a gesture of kindness that pushed all the awkwardness away, he reached out and his hand seemed to swallow mine up. We shook.

“Hey,” he said.

“How are you?” I asked, hoping it felt more like a real question than a formality.

I hadn’t let go of our handshake. When I realized it, I yanked back and dusted my hand on my overalls.

He put his own in his pocket. “I’ve consented to the haircut.”

“So I see,” I said.

O’Connor smiled at his boots. “Can’t say no to Jean.”

“Hell, no,” I said.

“She said you had some clippers?”

I nodded.