No matter what she told me, it would be over with. Done. Finito. I would be okay with it either way. Joel loved me, and if this temptress-for she very much looked like a high-class version of one- had caused him to stray, then I would forgive him and still honor his memory. I loved him no matter. My love-no, our love- was strong enough to withstand whatever came of it. Still. I had to know.
I got out of my car, feeling sloppy in my blue track suit compared to her fitted Armani number and stiletto heels, but I held my head high and walked fervently across the hundred feet between us, getting halfway there when she opened her door, plucked her cell phone from her briefcase and began talking as she slid into the leather seat and closed the door, shutting me out.
What would I do? Pound on her window? Excuse me, Monica. I'm Joel's widow. Remember me?
Instead, I turned thirty degrees, stepped up on the sidewalk and watched her back out and speed away. I did not take this as a sign, only that I was too slow and had once again let fear keep me from acting fast enough. I retrieved my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and dialed her number, which I had memorized. I know this isn't a nice thing to say, but her number really did spell out SHE-SLUT, although a kinder person might instead use SHE-PJ88.
I didn't feel like being kind.
Monica hadn't answered, probably still on the call she'd taken when she sped away, and again! I choked when I heard her voice in her mailbox. But I cleared my throat (not becoming) and spoke through my fear, “Monica. You may not remember me, but I'm Ramona Griffen, Joel's wife. I was wondering if we could meet for coffee and talk for a while.” I left my number and reminded myself I still used the term “wife"; I didn't like to refer to myself as his widow, even if it were true.
I hung up, feeling both scared and proud of myself for doing it. Of course, there was the distinct possibility that she wouldn't call me back, which is why I thought surprising her in person would be more productive. If Joel had loved her, she had to be a decent person, but who in their right mind wouldn't return the call of a widow?
What I did next truly surprised me. It was a warm October day, one away until fall break, when the boys would be spending the weekend with my parents. Although they certainly remember the time of year that their father died, we did not talk about his death date. I know some of my friends, such as Catholic Gabriella, regularly visited their friends' and families' graves on their death dates as well as their birthdays, but I had only visited Joel's grave three times in two years, and none of them were significant days. I did not want to spend his birthday or our anniversary, or even his death date, at the cemetery.
Two days prior seemed like a good day to visit. It wasn't as if I had to keep up with maintenance-I would never allow even one weed to grow on my husband's grave, but I did every so often wonder how often the cemetery cleaned off bird poop off the tombstones. Joel never had this kind of bad luck when he was alive, but I have been shat on from above four times in my life! Four! And it wasn't even after I'd done anything that deserved it.
I had selected his gravesite with as much care as a Griever can muster-one that was near a tree to get partial shade during the summer and a beautiful view of autumn leaves and icicles when the weather permitted. This was, of course, just the kind of thing a Griever does: think about the deceased as if they were still living- as if the deceased in the coffin could actually “see” the tree to enjoy it, as if he were napping and needed a good place to lay his head and catch a cool breeze. Still, I knew he would like it, even though he wasn't much of an outdoorsman.
The clouds rolled by and I watched the puffy train become a tiger become a lollipop. If the deceased could see anything from their spot in the earth, then watching the clouds, not to mention the occasional thunderstorm, would have to be a highlight.
I lay on my back beside Joel, six feet above the pearlescent burnt-orange coffin I'd spent too much money on, again falsely believing that Joel would care that he would rest in eternity in a box the color of his favorite college team, the Texas Longhorns. Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. The dead grass tickled my hand, which I had laid, fingers spread, above Joel's resting place, as if in some karmic way we were holding hands, or perhaps my hand was above his heart, the one that gave up on him at least forty years too soon. The autopsy indicated a heart defect that he was most likely born with, one that was exacerbated by too much physical activity. I couldn't imagine Joel's life without sports. If they had found the defect when he was younger, he wouldn't have played youth soccer or junior high basketball or high school football or intramural sports. Or those weekly pick-up games with the guys in the cul-de-sac. His life would have been completely different. Not the same person at all.
Of course, I had immediately had my sons' hearts checked out. People told me I was crazy, but by now, you've figured out that Grievers do crazy things, and high among them is to check the health of those left behind. I didn't just stop at heart checks, either. I had every organ, every bone, even our blood tested for the rarest of rare diseases. After several tests, I was found to be completely normal, barring a few extra pounds that could come off with, you guessed it, physical activity. Stick to your daily vitamin. That was it. That was the magic cure to keep me alive to raise my boys? Of course not. Still. I took that daily vitamin as if I were drinking from the Holy Grail. I had to live, even if some days I hadn't wanted to live at all.
And the boys, well, you couldn't find two healthier boys than Bradley and William. “As normal as boys could be,” the doctor had said.
I had argued with the doctor. “I don't feel normal at all,” I had told him. I wanted to tell him I was dying, I was certain of it. But aren't we all dying a bit every day? It's morbid to admit, but I knew my pain wasn't my body giving up on me, but my bruised soul wilting within me.
The wind picked up, and I rolled over on my stomach, on top of Joel's grave. I wondered if I was turned the right way, if our faces were in alignment, or however unfortunate, my head were at his feet. I couldn't remember. But I pretended we were lying chest to chest, my cheek on his cheek, and I breathed deeply, slowly, fully trying to feel our spirits connect until I watered his grave with my tears. I imagined they traveled through the earth and landed right on Joel's cheek as they had done when we found out we were pregnant with Bradley.
A recent best-selling book asked what you would do if you had one more day with a loved one that had died. I thought of this often-something the author obviously knew Grievers do. But as many times as I played out that One More Day, the more it looked like Any Day and it was a good day-not a great day, but a typical day in our marriage: being parents, running errands, and successfully completing the crossword puzzle. There was nothing I would ask him or say to him that I hadn't already said in his life. Even the question about Monica.
Maybe our spirits were intertwined or the autumn sunshine had soaked some sense into me, because suddenly Knowing did not matter anymore. I let it all go. I could have closure without Her. He was Mine and would be for eternity.
Without meaning to, I'd fallen asleep. When I awoke, my muscles ached, and the sun was beginning to set. I had dreamed of Joel, something I'd only done once since his death and even then, it hadn't been the powerful dream I'd been looking for. Grievers hope to dream of their loved ones telling them they are fine, they'll be fine, they still love you, and they'll watch over you. My dream had fallen far from my aspirations; it was simply Joel asking me if I'd bought more peanut butter.