When Things Get Back to Normal (6 page)

This morning I removed the family picture from the dining room wall. I could not stand one more day of all those smiling people peeking around the kitchen door watching me eat my solitary breakfast. That picture – the five of us together in the fall – the most beautiful season
of the year – is the saddest and most treasured possession I have. And it makes no difference that I know the smile had to be bribed from Ben, threatened from Susan and shamed from Steven, all of them with more important things to do than to go to an abandoned farm and smile for a photographer. Perhaps one day I'll be able to look at it without crying. When that day comes, I'll rehang the picture.

Packed a little more of my old life away today. Another picture – the one of you and me and Steven on Steven's graduation day. I remember that day so well. You and I sat side by side in the faculty row, and our hands touched with pride when our son walked across the stage, a full-fledged civil engineer. Like father like son.

Some people will not understand why I have to remove these pictures. “Too soon to forget,” they'll say. Will I be able to reply, “No. Too soon to remember”?

For lo the winter has passed. The rains have come and gone. But where is the voice of that damn turtle? The day is so beautiful, I'm certain I'll hear a croak before night falls.
Today I can even believe that after spring there'll be a summer. Winter was fiercely cold. It matched my heart. A warm summer is predicted. How I wish I could be in harmony with the upcoming season.

I made out a new will. Ever since my internal world went into a state of flux, I have had a pressing need to bring order to my external surroundings.

This afternoon I made lists of important papers and financial holdings in the hope the children won't have to search desk drawers should morning come without me around to help usher it in. I emptied my safety deposit box and removed the obsolete material. I even cleaned out all the closets and drawers in the house. I threw out (or gave away) the clothes I know now I'll never shorten, lengthen, let out or take in; the pictures I'll never frame; the crocheted squares (your mother's) that I'll never turn into an afghan, and the photographs I'll never paste in an album. It was like facing up to a lie. Deep down I think I always knew I'd never do these things, but as long as I had a future, I could fool myself into believing I would get to them someday. When the weather gets warmer, I'll attack the garage and throw into a heap the half-finished projects you were certain you would do in some vague and distant future.

It is possible that this purge is a red herring to keep me from facing the decision on the house? Sell? Keep? Take a roomer? Buy a smaller home? Rent an apartment? None of the above?

Night after night I lie in bed going over the same unpalatable options. I face the morning tired and angry. How can I be expected to know what I should or should not do? I'm a grieving person. A walking wound. Just because the distracted and disconnected look has gone from my face doesn't mean I'm in any fit state to make important decisions.

I know two recent widows – one grass and one sod. Both of them count day endings. “Another day in,” they sigh gratefully, if somewhat soulfully. “Another day in for what?” I want to ask. One day's ending is another day's beginning. If I were waiting for a short term something-or-other, I could count down the days, but not when I'm dealing with a distant and undefinable future.

Another dream. I woke up this morning and looked at the clock. It was 8:10. I mumbled, “Oh God! It's Saturday again.” Depressed, I willed myself back to sleep. I dreamed that I dreamed you were dead, and when I awoke from my dream I was so delighted I had only been dreaming that I wrapped my arms around you and
mumbled, “I had the most terrible dream.” But it wasn't you. A stranger was in my bed. The scene changed immediately, and you and I and Ben were climbing the outside of a church steeple. Ben sprinted ahead, and just as I screamed, “Be careful!” he tumbled from the scaffolding and landed in a pond below. Again the scene changed, and I'm down by the pond watching the still body of Ben – clad only in red bathing trunks – floating face up in the water. I reach down and scoop him up in my arms and sit on the shore and begin crooning, “Come back Paddy Riley to Ballyjamesduff. Come back Paddy Riley to me
.
” My mother used to sing that song as she went about the house cleaning and dusting.

A seasoned widow phoned today. She said she had read two books, looked at three television movies, washed her hair, made buttermilk biscuits, and when she looked at the time it was only four p.m. She wondered how she was going to put in the evening. Thank God for my work, my friends and my writing. And speaking of work, I managed to get the assignments corrected, the tests marked and the grades in on time. Now if I only could shake this tiredness, or whatever it is that is sapping my energy. One minute I'm convinced a hot bath is what is needed to rejuvenate me, the next it is a piece of pie, and when that
isn't the answer I'm certain a walk is exactly what I need – if only I had the energy to go for one.

When I came out of the bank today, I saw you walking up the street, leaning into the wind. My foolish heart leapt until I chastized it for being so silly.

I still search crowds for you, and from time to time, I catch fleeting glances of the back of your head, the set of your shoulders, the crook of your smile.

I saw a crocus peeping out of the ground today.

My first instinct was to go back in the house and get you to come out and see it, just so I could prove to you they really do grow best beside the chimney. The ones you planted by the back porch are still dormant.

But the merriest month in all the year
. . . . Met an acquaintance downtown today. It was my first encounter with her since your death. She offered her condolences and went on to
say that she always considered us a study in opposites – big-small, dark-fair – then added that dreaded cliché: life goes on.

I wanted to shout at her, Maybe it does for you. But not for me. Instead I replied, “So they tell me.” She continued on her way, glad she wasn't me.

Steve came home, and we went to pick out your monument. No small task, as it turned out. I was always under the impression that a monument is a monument is a monument. But
au contraire
.

There are Rolls Royce monuments and Volkswagen monuments and various and sundry models in between. We were given a price list that filled two pages and a catalogue of glossy pictures from which to make our selection. Size: big, medium or small. Double or single. Style: satin-faced or high sheen with polished or unpolished sides. Lettering: large or small. Steven said double size and double names – yours and mine. And both put on now!

I said, “Whoa, there! My name isn't going on any marble slab while I'm above the ground.” He acquiesced very reluctantly, stating that he had scouted the cemetery and other wives had their names engraved in waiting. He didn't come right out and say so, but I knew he felt his
father deserved no less loyalty from his wife than for her to make a prior commitment to sharing his marble slab. We quickly moved on to the next decision, the motif or design that could be placed at the top of the stone – and this would be thrown in for free.

“The mister,” the stone mason said, his voice suitably subdued. “Did he like fishing? I'm good at carving fishing rods.” Steven jumped in eagerly. “Hockey?” He fairly shouted the word. “Can you carve a hockey stick or a pair of skates?” “Whoa again,” said I. “It was hockey that put your father in the ground, and I have no intention of making a monument to its victory.” Although again he grumbled his disagreement, we finally settled for the joined hands motif and your name only, with a space waiting for mine.

My concentration is fluctuating around the zero mark. I thought by now I would be back to normal.

Certainly the rest of the world expects me to be. But I'm definitely not. I walked across Regent Street this evening without as much as a backward glance at the five o'clock traffic. I actually forgot to look. Someone up there must be protecting me. Yesterday I put on my makeup and then came downstairs and made a cup of coffee.
Ten minutes later, I was back in the bathroom washing my face, completely forgetting I had just done that job.

Someone asked me today, “What stage are you at?” She said this as though I woke up one morning and knew beyond a reasonable doubt that my emotions had left sorrow behind and had now moved into guilt or anger or whatever. Actually, some days I feel anger, sorrow, guilt, acceptance all within the course of a few moments. Other days I'm strong into self-pity. How I feel depends on what has gone on in my day. Sometimes I feel I haven't made any progress since November, and I'm convinced I'll never even find the tunnel, much less the light at the end of it.

Spring has temporarily turned into summer. I ran away today. This is the first time I actually, physically ran away since New Year's Eve. The sun was shining through the open windows of my office, and in the halls I could hear people commenting on the glorious weather and saying that things were really shaping up for a beautiful weekend. I don't want a beautiful weekend. A beautiful weekend for what? To be alone? I hurriedly stuffed my briefcase with unfinished work and ran for home as thought the furies were chasing me.

I decided to sit on the back patio, but when I opened the storage doors to get a lawn chair and saw how you had packed away last summer's furniture in anticipation of this summer, I closed the door quickly.

After a spurt of crying, I got into my jogging suit and spent the afternoon walking out my sadness.

People keep telling me I'm strong. I'm so sick of hearing, “But Jean, you're strong.” They say this as though hard knocks don't give me pain. I want to shout at them, “I'm not strong. I'm weak. I'm fragile. I'm a pathetic creature. I hurt all over.” Maybe I should rent a billboard and have it say, “Jean is not strong. She is a hundred-and-ten-pound weakling.” Actually, if I don't soon give up the comfort food, I may still be a weakling, but I certainly won't be a hundred-and-ten-pounds.

I'm dreaming regularly now – benign dreams. November 22 never happened. For the most part, the subject of the dreams is us when the children were small. Do these dreams mean my unconscious is still refusing to accept your death? Do they mean my mind has come out of its stupor and shock? Do they mean anything at all?

It is so difficult to have to spend day after day on the campus. I see you in all the old familiar places. Mostly I see you heading for the faculty club. I see you rushing
(always rushing, your coat open, even in winter, and tie blowing over your shoulder) to join me for lunch.

I think I made significant progress this week. I finally was able to enter the faculty club. I have tried to do this on several occasions but always faltered at the bottom of the steps. My friend S. accompanied me and helped with the re-entry.

More progress! I returned to driving today after a ten-year lapse. You always said I would rue the day I sat back and left the driving to you, but it had seemed so much easier to scrape the ice from one car instead of two, especially when we were both going the same route. After a while I lost my nerve.

My friend A. came with me on my maiden voyage. We went around and around the block. I felt positively exhilarated when I returned to the house. Nerve-racked, but exhilarated.

And still more progress! I can now wait until dark before rechecking the locks and doors and windows, and I don't have to put the upstairs hall light on until after dark.

But if I go ahead two steps, I go back one. My body aches for your physical presence. How I wish I could climb into bed and find your waiting arms.

Got the contract for my book today. I wish I felt like celebrating.

I fixed a strap on a purse this evening. Not much of an accomplishment, I suppose. But I finally realized you weren't going to return to fix it, and it wouldn't grow shorter of its own accord. I got out my tool kit – a fork, a butcher knife, a pair of scissors and your pliers that I found on the patio a couple of days ago, rust-covered from their hiatus in the snow.

People ask whether I find joy in these little accomplishments. I do feel some sense of gaining control, but I'd feel a lot more joy if I could turn the job over to you.

My housemate moved out this morning. She would have liked to stay longer, and I would have liked to have her stay, but I steeled myself and kept to our original agreement. Actually, we both knew we had to be on our own – each for different reasons. I could hear the still-ness in the house after she left. I sat on the stairs and allowed myself to cry for a little while, then I took a bath and went for a long walk.

Now I know why it is called a long weekend. It was interminable. Last night, alone in the house, I think I reached what the poets call the dark night of the soul. My loss seemed deeper, my future bleaker and my present almost intolerable. I asked myself over and over, “How do I keep going forward? How do I keep walking onwards with the pain of this festering wound?”

I was furious with you all over again. Why did you have to play hockey when I was so adamant that you were too old for such strenuous exercise?