And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (15 page)
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Authors: Tricia Lott Williford
Still smiling gently, I bit my lower lip and nodded. His gesture wasn’t just about refilling my glass. He held eye contact with me as the soda fizz rose to the top, nearly spilling onto my placemat.
And that was the end of the discussion. I don’t know how it happened, but the whole thing just quieted, like a toddler’s nap at the end of a long tantrum. The tension dissolved into that easy place to be. How does that happen between couples, friends, any two people? When there isn’t an apology? When there is nothing but time? What brings that slow thaw? Add reconciliation to the list of unexplained beauties: a spring rainbow after days of cerulean rain; a serendipitous friendship born over a cup of coffee; Indian summer in October; a wildflower growing through a crack in the sidewalk; the easy, together-again place at the end of a fight.
I watched the unveiling of the change in Robb’s heart, but I was careful not to comment. If I noticed aloud, he would think I was keeping track. He would think it looked like he had changed because I asked him to. He would feel patronized, parented. So I said nothing, but I noticed. He was patient with our noise, messes, and lack of routines. He wrestled playfully with the boys on the floor every evening, and little-boy giggles filled our home. He had more grace for their mistakes, for the fact that they were three and five. He was present in our home, in our lives, in the moment.
On Halloween we took the boys from house to house in their Power Ranger costumes, and when we returned home, he scooped Tyler onto his lap to help him count and evaluate the loot. He didn’t mind that they wanted to eat half their weight in candy that night. He became fun again; his smile became familiar. He was safe, cozy, and
inviting. It was impossible to ignore and so difficult not to comment. I wanted to applaud. I wanted to plant dozens of kisses on this man I loved.
I remember falling into friendship again. While the boys were at preschool, we had coffee dates. He sat across the booth with my feet in his lap. We texted each other often, from across town or across the room. We stayed up late watching Letterman and Leno from underneath one big blanket in our favorite chair. We dated, every day, without needing to make plans. We were the plan. I remember thinking,
So this is what it’s like to enjoy you. I had forgotten what it feels like.
Our home lit up for the Christmas season, and I seemed like a Scrooge compared to my husband, Father Christmas. At the dawn of November 1, he loaded his iPod with Christmas music, and he decorated our front porch and awnings with twinkling lights even before Thanksgiving arrived. We held extensive negotiations on when to turn on those exterior lights—he was content to stretch Christmas into two long, glorious months while I had a firm conviction of enjoying one holiday at a time. He took the lead on shopping for the boys’ gifts, excited that they were now old enough to really enjoy the toys of little boys. He ordered construction kits, helicopters, spaceships, and hordes of army men.
With only a few days left until Christmas, our holiday prep was complete. Robb had taken the week off from work, and we had enjoyed a staycation. The house was spotless, and the toilets sparkled. Robb had whipped up his homemade spaghetti sauce for the Christmas lasagna, and all the other ingredients were stocked in the pantry and the refrigerator. After the boys were in bed, we created a gift-wrapping assembly
line across the living room floor: he wrapped with sparkly paper, and I tied with curly bows. We made a royal, festive mess, and we glittered it with laughter and flirting and chatting about everything and nothing. We had finished wrapping the gifts, which was an odd anomaly for our holidays—Robb especially loved to save something to complete on Christmas Eve. He said he felt most like a dad on Christmas Eve, staying up late to set up a helicopter or put a train on its tracks. As we wrapped, bowed, and tagged the last gift, I wondered aloud, “Well, now what are we supposed to do on Christmas Eve if everything is finished?” What on earth did parents do if everything was complete? The procrastinator in me was at a loss.
Robb elbowed me. “I suppose we could watch a movie. Or, you know, talk. Or just go to sleep and listen for reindeer on the roof. Or maybe not go right to sleep …”
I smiled, catching his intimations about some of the perks of marriage. Our eyes met, twinkling. “Yes, I suppose we could do any of those things.”
In that November and December, laughter and life came out of hiding. Everything was good and healthy and beautiful and fun.
We didn’t know we had only weeks left of life together.
We would have been married for eleven years. It was our wedding anniversary, the first one I would live without him. I sat down and wrote a letter to myself, a few words from me to me, from the widowed woman of today to the bright-eyed bride of so many years ago.
Good morning, Miss Tricia Lott,
Happy Wedding Day to you. Twenty-year-old you. How in love you are. I’m not so far ahead of you … eleven years. Oh, sure, you think that’s a long time. Think again, cute girl. It’ll be here before you know it. Today you will wear your bridal gown, the cathedral-length train, a wedding veil with satin edging.
You will smile all day long. All day long. You will smile so much that your teeth will get dry and your cheeks will hurt. For the rest of your life, you’ll talk about getting ‘a wedding-day headache,’ the kind you’ll experience today. An ache born of euphoric joy, of a heart so swollen with happiness that it makes your head pound.
You’ll see him in a few hours, this groom of yours. Untraditional in your desire to see each other before you say your vows, you’ve chosen to present yourself to him by walking down the aisle in an empty church. A moment for the two of you. He’ll wait for you, all alone, at the front of the aisle. Your bridesmaids will perfect you, fluffing your dress and straightening your train. “No peeking,” you’ll call to him, just to make him crazy with the sound of your voice, the bride he is burning to see. When you give him permission, he will open his eyes. He will see you, his bride. And he will cry.
Although you plan to take your time walking down the
aisle, you’ll run to him. He will wrap his arms around you. He’ll kiss you. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you. He’ll twirl you so he can see you from every angle. Please study the look on his face. It’s worth remembering forever.
He’ll put a ring on your finger today; you’ll put a ring on his. Right now you’re both worried that the rings won’t fit, that your fingers will be swollen and sweaty with nerves, too puffy to receive the new bands. Don’t worry. They’ll fit.
There will be three hundred guests, a line out the door. In fact, they’ll have to retrieve the guest book so the long line of people can come inside, so the wedding can begin.
His dad will marry you; he will announce yours as the closest thing to an arranged marriage this side of India.
Robb will make vows to you.
I, Robb, want to commit myself to you, Tricia, my beloved wife.
I realize that we two are better than one
Because we have a good return for our labor together.
For if you are weak and fall, I will lift you up;
When you are cold and vulnerable, I will make you warm;
And when another attacks and overpowers you, I will protect you.
Our cord of three strands—God, you, and me—is not easily divided.
It is my desire to enjoy life fully with you, my love, all the days of my life—
Through all the many times of our life—
A time to tear down and a time to build up,
A time to weep and a time to laugh,
A time to embrace and a time to push away,
A time to be silent and a time to speak,
A time for war and a time for peace,
A time to give birth and a time to die.
For all times are in God’s perfect plan,
And you are God’s plan for me.
And you will say the same to him.
I, Tricia, want to commit myself to you, Robb, my beloved husband.
You’ll make all the same promises. And together you’ll say,
I will suffer long and be kind.
I will not judge you, nor will I seek my own way.
I will not be easily provoked
And I will not think evil of you.
My love for you will bear all things,
Believe all things,
Hope all things,
And endure all things.
It will never fail.
Faith, hope, and love abide,
But the greatest of these is love.
As his dad pronounces you husband and wife, as he introduces you for the very first time in public with your married names, Robb will dance. Yes, sweet girl, your conservative, reserved husband will bounce on the stage, so eager to claim you. The beaded, stretching train you have been so careful with for so many months, the very one you can’t wait to wear—I know you don’t believe me as you read this—but you’ll kick it out of your way. And together you will run up the aisle, your first steps into life together. He will scoop you up and spin you around, and he’ll whisper again and again in your ear, “We’re married! We’re married! We’re married!”
You will be inseparable for the rest of the day, as you stand together to release each row of guests, as you run through the cascade of bubbles, as you escape into your limousine and tour the city with a honking parade of cars behind you, as you invite all the married couples to join you on the dance floor, as you dance the night away, song after song, as you race out of the ballroom, hand in hand, to the pounding cadences of the Ohio State fight song.
You really should wear your getaway shoes a little on the sidewalk today. I know you want them to be perfect, but Robb’s going to run really fast through that ballroom.
You’re going to slip and slide on those flawless soles, and you’ll nearly fall. I know you won’t listen to this advice right now; you love your wedding shoes too much to take them off, especially to damage a pair you’ll wear later today. I’m just sayin’, girl … he’s going to whisk you away. You’ll wish you had some traction.
This really will be the happiest day of your life so far. Believe it or not, some other good ones are coming too. Hard to imagine, I know.
You may want to stop reading now, young bride. It won’t always be as bright as this moment of yours, with your ringlets under that satin veil. I’ll give you a few headlines.
I know you really can’t imagine moving across the country, but you will. And you’ll love Colorado. It’s as great as they say.
You’ll get pregnant easily, but hold this loosely. You won’t get to keep each of those children. Miscarriage will visit your home half as often as conception.
But you do get two little boys. I won’t tell you their names. I want you and Robb to name your sons together. Nobody should rob you of that joy.
(I know you think you want girls. But I’ll tell you what: you won’t want to trade those little boys for all the girls in the world. You’re made for boys, Tricia. You’re in for the ride of your life with these two genetic composites of you and Robb. One will be serious and linear, a thinker, a
scientist, an athlete. One will be silly and funny, a comedian, a creator, an artist. Brace yourself.)
You get ten years, Tricia. Ten years, plus the two years you have spent dating him. But then you have to give him up, sweet girl. You can’t imagine the story the way it unfolds, and you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. You would miss out on the joy and the beauty of the decade if you could predict how it ends. So live it, dear girl.
Say “yes.” Say “I do.” Over and over. Live this day, and live the next. He’s so worth it. Every day of it.
May each blessing be yours, dear girl. And may you be found faithful.
With deep affection,
Mrs. Tricia Lott Williford
Some days I am not sure if my faith is riddled with doubt or whether, graciously, my doubt is riddled with faith. And yet I continue to live in a world the way a religious person lives in the world; I keep living in a world that I know to be enchanted, and not left alone. I doubt; I am uncertain; I am restless, prone to wander. And yet glimmers of holy keep interrupting my gaze.
—Lauren F. Winner,
Still
A tattoo doesn’t hurt very much. I’m sure it depends on where you get it, how big it is—all the details. But in all honesty, it hurts less than getting an IV. It feels like hot scratching. And if you are confident that you really want it, then the pain feels pretty good. Promise.
I’m sure I looked a little ridiculous walking into the tattoo shop that summer afternoon. I wasn’t typical of their clientele in my cotton dress, leggings, Mary Jane shoes, and no permanent ink yet inscribed anywhere on my body.
