And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (12 page)

I read somewhere, I’m pretty sure, that a woman’s brain decreases in size and/or capacity up to 5 percent (or was it 20 percent…) with each pregnancy, and she only partially regains it in the postpartum recovery. I’m pretty sure that was a reliable source. Or I made it up. Also entirely possible.

Anyway. I have what I call widow brain. I forget the end of a sentence after the first half has left my mouth. I forget the day of the week, the plans for the afternoon, how to load the dishwasher or fold the laundry with any degree of efficiency. I forget where I have left my keys or shoes or glasses. I forget to get the mail, to turn on the lights, to eat lunch … I forget.

The Tuesdays have become as comfortable as I am with the word
widow.
I toss it around easily.

“Don’t take advantage of me. I’m a widow.” “Hey. Laugh at my jokes. I’m a widow.” “Do you think they offer a widow’s discount?”

My girlfriends will say things that, taken out of context, would sound ridiculously insensitive. “Oh, shut up, widow.” “Whatever, widow. Take your meds.” We laugh every time. One of them once said, “I think it’s so silly to call you a widow, because it’s so ridiculous that you are one.”

It is ridiculous. It’s ridiculous and absurd. Do you know who would tease me the most about this mental incapacity of widow brain? Robb. And I most assuredly recognize the irony in that statement.

When Tucker was born, Robb’s mom gave us a new philodendron, rooted and planted from the leaves of a vine that was more than three decades old—first given to her as a gift when she was pregnant with Robb. I don’t have a green thumb, by any means, and I was somewhat intimidated by a gift with such longevity. I aimed to do my best. Robb’s mom promised it required little: just some water and pruning now and then.

Robb and I argued a lot about the philodendron. He liked for it to be long and flowing, with tendrils that reached off the counter and down to the floor. I did, too; I mean, that’s great. But I argued that the plant should be fuller near the soil and then grow in length. But any time I pruned it, Robb worried, tossing out accusations that I was trying to kill his mom’s plant. I wasn’t. She even confirmed that it could benefit from some cutting back so it might grow in fullness. Perhaps less stringy.

Anytime I cut it back, he was sure I had killed it.
Killed. Maimed. Done for. Tricia hates plants. She wants to kill anything that represents life and conception.
Such were the assumptions. I was really sure I was right, but he was sure that my right-fighting would lead to the plant’s demise.

So you know what I did? I rooted my own.
Here. You have yours, I’ll have mine, and they are both born from the same mother vine. You
care for yours any way you choose, and I’ll care for mine in the way I deem best. If either of us is wrong, we’ll still have another strong, healthy plant. A souvenir of who was right all along.

We watched each other’s plants. It became a serious competition. Mine sat in a glass of water next to his potted version. As soon as my darling plant had strong enough roots to dig into soil, I planned to equip her with her very own home in a lovely yellow pot. We watched. We trash talked. His grew longer, mine grew deeper, and we stood firm in our convictions.

And then there was that day I walked in the door from a morning of teaching and poured myself a tall glass of water. That’s when I saw it. The glass that had held the shapely baby roots was gone. In its place sat a colorful pot with a small, freshly potted plant.

“What? What … is … this?” I demanded, completely aghast, with my hands splayed across the kitchen counter as if I had seen a dead rodent next to the toaster.

“I planted it for you.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“I was helping you. I thought I was doing something nice.”

I blew a gasket. I was furious. “Do something nice for your plant, not
mine
! That is mine, my plant. Mine.
Mine!
”

Firstborn children like to be in charge. Since both of us were firstborn in every way, Robb and I often vied for domains of control in our home. We often said to each other, “Hey. This is mine. You find something else to be in charge of.” Now he had potted my plant, and all under the guise of doing something nice for his wife? Ha. I sniffed that one out. I was sure he was trying to sabotage my efforts, sticking
this poor, dear plant in thick soil before she had the hearty strength to stand on her own. I threw a fit. I really did. It wasn’t pretty.

He stood by his intentions: to be kind.

I stood by my contention: that plant was mine to be kind to.

He found the end of his tolerance for my juvenile tantrum. “Fine. Fine. Fine! Tricia.
Fine.
Here you go.” Robb plucked the plant, roots and all, from its freshly packed soil. He dropped the whole thing in my fresh glass of water.

I gasped and shrieked.

“There. Happy? I was just trying to do something nice for you.”

I watched with silent, gritted teeth as the water turned brown and bits of soil floated to the bottom of the glass. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll take care of my own plant. Keep your hands to yourself and your own plants, thank you very much.”

We spent a hearty day and a half in our separate corners of the house, fuming at each other and avoiding contact of any kind. That’s what marriages are made of, really: silly fights over cookie crumbs and bathroom towels and expired salad dressing. Those are the little ditties that forever give you something new to talk about, when you think you’ve learned each other inside and out. Just when you think you’ve grown accustomed to the quirks.

The plant has now lived longer than he did. Born before he was, it still thrives on our kitchen counter. Eventually I married the two plants; I repotted my (healthy and thriving) plant in a larger pot with his (which is now doing well since I have trimmed it back, as it naturally should be). What we once intended to be the potted product of right and wrong has now become a variegated reminder of a silly argument.

But to me, it’s become a metaphor of so much more: my heart’s very own season of pruning. Clipped short, unsightly, looking barely alive.

I miss looking pretty.

Please don’t misread that. It’s not a dramatic expression of self-deprecation, a begging plea for affirmation. It’s not. I just miss having someone to dress up for. A reason to get dolled up.

Even after we were married, Robb and I never stopped going on dates. I loved dating him; we had some really fun times together. And I really liked prettying myself, giving him my presented self, doing all my best tricks to bring his admiration from across the table. Because you can never be married too long to long for a longing look.

I recently watched an episode of
Parenthood,
the series that I believe to be excellent TV drama. Julia and Joel were planning a date for their anniversary; with her hair up, she wore a stunning red dress. There in my living room, alone with the TV, I began to cry. I realized I don’t have a reason to wear a red dress.

A night out with the girls can go a long way to lift my spirits, and there’s nothing like an evening adventure with a group of sisters who really want to make me laugh, lift me up, remind me that there is life, within me and around me. And such a night calls for its own wardrobe selection: sassy, confident, ready to embrace a good time. But it doesn’t call for a sexy red dress.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I want to wear the sexy red dress.

Gentlemen, let me show you how it’s done.

—Robb Williford

We were on our second honeymoon, a revisit to Cancun, Mexico, ten years after our first visit as newlyweds. When we arrived and checked into our room, we agreed on a couple of ground rules for the trip: (a) we would take off our watches, turn off our cell phones, and have no agenda except what we wanted, when we wanted, preferably a couple of hours later than anything we might have done at home; (b) we would keep the TV turned off. We broke the second rule, but only in mutual agreement to watch season five of
Friends,
albeit in Spanish with subtitles.

Our day hinged on meals. We ate breakfast at who-knew-what time, as long as breakfast was being served. We enjoyed a morning snack on the beach: chips with salsa,
queso,
and guacamole, alongside two margaritas with extra salt. We ate lunch in the late afternoon, and then we took a nap on the beach, by the pool, or in our hotel room, only to wake up whenever we chose. After a day in the sun and the sand, we dressed up for dinner on the island. I wore a new sundress every night of the trip, and we ate a late dinner so we could enjoy the evening atmosphere with the serenade of mariachi bands.

In our succession of meals and Spanish subtitles, we found each other again on that second honeymoon. The third night of our vacation, we chose to finish the night at the hotel bar, just the two of us. Well, the two of us along with most of the other guests at the resort. We hadn’t known about this late-night life, so I came woefully under-dressed in my jammies. Still, we weren’t interested in the crowded
scene, in the karaoke happening on the dance floor; we simply chose a couch in a quiet corner and played cards on the coffee table. I am a lightweight with alcohol, enjoying the flavor far more than the effect, so after one Kahlúa and crème, we drank Diet Cokes with limes.

With grand announcements and obnoxious invitations, the off-key karaoke transitioned into a newlywed game. “Come one, come all! We need four couples on the dance floor!” We exchanged glances, a silent
Should we? Do you want to?
We each shook a nonchalant no. We didn’t need to prove ourselves to each other or anyone else—even if we could totally kick this thing and wipe out the competitors. We went back to our card game. He played, I played, and then he tossed down his cards, grabbed my hand, and we ran to the dance floor. “No shame, no regrets,” he whispered into my ear as we stood on the edge of the floor. And that’s how I found myself in the middle of a ballroom in my jammies, cocktail dresses surrounding me.

My husband was a very conservative, private man. He preferred to fly under the radar. He often added addenda to our conversations: “and don’t blog about this.” He preferred a low profile, and he loved anonymity. So perhaps you can imagine my surprise when he twirled me to the dance floor, grabbed the microphone, and launched us into the game. With the swagger of a confident man who owned the room, he trash-talked our competitors: “I’ve been married to this girl for ten years. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Well, here we go, then.

Our competitors were four other couples: one couple who had been dating for a few months, a couple celebrating their fifth anniversary, an engaged couple, and a bride and groom married roughly seventeen
hours earlier. I had thought the game would be one of hidden questions and answers, a test on how well you know your partner. No, it was instead a series of provocative relays that required teamwork, erotic positions, and public displays of impropriety. One by one, couples were knocked out of the competition when they didn’t receive the loudest cheers from the crowd, and still we stayed on the floor. Finally, there were two couples left: us and the new bride and groom. He even wore a tie.