Fix You (2 page)

This routine cannot, however, help me overlook the necessities prompted by Peter’s death. It is not routine, nor is it a standard household chore, to meet with an attorney to discuss putting things in my name that were in his. There is nothing fathomable or predictable about the way it feels to summarily strip his name off of the title to the car, for instance, or the mortgage to the house. Or to discuss the life insurance policy—the one I tried to talk him out of because we were both so young. I don’t like the way the lawyer says that policy will take care of me and the boys for a good long while. Suddenly we’re comfortable, and it’s because I’ve lost my husband. That’s the worst kind of fortune. It isn’t routine, all of this. What it is, is treason, as far as I’m concerned. It’s an admission that, yes, I believe he really is gone for good and, no, I’m not waiting for him to come back.

The least I could do for the person who waited for me while I fumbled around for my keys for the nine millionth time in the grocery store parking lot is wait for him. It’s the loyal thing to do. Either that or follow him in a prompt manner.

Yet I have no choice but to stay. The other people in the world who rely on me for their basic survival force me to cope with what has happened. That’s actually one comfort: I don’t have any options. I can’t think about doing anything but sticking around, because there are two people who need me to be here, now more than ever.

This doesn’t make it any easier, though. Gray days stretch into one another.

Months slip through the house surreptitiously, like uninvited spirits.

Eventually, I wake up one day to both my boys standing by my bedside. Their eyes are wide with concern.

“What’s up, boys?” I sit up, rub the sleepers out of my eyes, and try to shake off the weight of the anvil sitting on my chest, my familiar companion since Peter died.

Beau elbows Hunter. He’s been appointed spokesperson.

“Mom, we called Gran, and she said to get your butt up out of bed and go see Joe. We told her you slept most all of the weekend.”

This is what they’re wide-eyed about. They tattled on me to Gran, and they’re afraid of the consequences. The thought makes me want to cry.

“Oh, guys, come here.” I pull both of them to me for a long hug. “Listen. I’ll hop in the shower, and I’ll call Joe for an appointment right after, okay?”

Joe is our family doctor. He is also my best friend’s husband. And he used to ski with Peter. He’s patched up every one of the Reynolds clan at one point or another. I guess it’s time he patched me up. This is not something I look forward to, but the way the boys look at me is reason enough to suck it up and call.

Sure enough, when I talk to the receptionist at Joe’s office, my mom has called ahead. Great. She’s staged an intervention long-distance. Since I went to college, we’ve never lived in the same town, but now that I’m alone in Boise with the boys, she keeps tabs on us more closely. Mom and Dad live in LA, and we visit them there and at their condo in Indio a lot. And if I asked them to move in with us in Boise, they just might do it. I’m pretty certain that would be a disaster, which is why the subject has never been discussed, but they do take good care of us.

The appointment is for ten. I drop the boys at the sitter and drive through town in the pouring rain. When I get there, the receptionist hustles me into a room. I check to see if I’m bleeding anywhere; I don’t think I’ve ever gotten such prompt service at the doctor’s.

I sit on a chair next to the exam table. After a few minutes, Joe sits across from me.

“What’s going on, Kelly?” He’s a fit, glossy-haired Asian man, who looks trim and put-together in his white lab coat. I showered, but that’s about the only thing I have going for me currently.

“I feel rotten. I think you may have heard why.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Exercising?”

“No.”

“Sleeping?”

“No. Unless it’s the random times when I can, and then all I do is sleep.”

“Reading? Taking the dog on walks? Entertaining the thought of seeing your friends? Learning how to cook? Thinking about going back to teaching?”

“I get the point. What’s your point?”

“I prescribe activity. You need to get out of the house. If you don’t make an effort at this, to exercise, or call Tessa up to have coffee, or to get a part-time job, I’ll prescribe something stronger. Antidepressants stronger. You catch my drift?”

I surrender. “Yes. I promise I’ll do something.” I start to tear up.

“Oh, Kelly, listen, we all love you, and we’re worried sick about you. But it’s been seven months. It’s time to ease back into it.”

I nod.

He scribbles on a prescription pad. “Try running again. It’s good for you. Gets the endorphins going.” He hands me the slip of paper. “That’s the address of the store I like for running shoes.”

When I leave the office, the sun has come out. I squint and stop for a minute before I get in the car. The smell of the rain on the warming pavement is clean. I remember that I like that smell. I decide to give re-entry into normalcy more of an effort.

I go get new running shoes on the way home. I call Tessa, Joe’s wife, to have coffee. The pain is still there, hanging on under the surface, but I try to live through it, kind of like running through an injury. It feels awkward.

Finally, I’m able to put two days together where I function almost normally. Then I’m able to go three days with only brief crying episodes when I wake and when I fall asleep. And yes, after a long while, there’s the day I make it through without a tear shed. The day after that is spent in bed, inconsolable, but still, the tear-free day is on record.

There’s always an ache under my collarbones, but every day that I brush my teeth and put on pants instead of pajamas, I call a good day. I wait for there to be more of those than the not-so-good days.

2: Departure

A F
EW
M
ONTHS
A
FTER
my visit with Joe I’m able to stitch a few “together” days together. After six months, I make it a few weeks. And now, with the time that’s passed, apart from the recurrent ache under my collarbones and the voids Peter has left all over my life, I’m pretty sure I at least appear to be a functioning human being.

Today, for instance, the boys and I are taking a very functional trip to visit my parents. This is something regular people do. No problem. Tessa takes us all to the airport. I love her dearly. She and Joe take good care of us. In a town without family, they are our family. With Mom and Dad two states away, I’ve leaned on Tessa and Joe a lot in the last two years.

She looks over at me. Her sleek dark bob bounces as she twists her hands on the steering wheel, the conspicuous diamond ring on her left hand glittering with all the movement.

“Are we going to park anytime soon?” I try hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice. Tessa gets worked up when we leave. It’s sweet, but her worry about details and departure times and whatnot does nothing to relax me.

She finally pulls her oversized SUV into the spot at the curb. The boys hop out, shoving each other to get to the tailgate first to unload.

“Boys! Just get your stuff. Get it and go wait by the kiosk. This is not a race. We’re all getting on the same plane.”

“Mind your mother, boys.” Tessa pulls a suitcase from the back of the car. Hunter and Beau finally have all of their stuff and drag their luggage into the terminal, leaving me with my best friend at the curb.

“I want to kill them already, and we aren’t even on the plane yet.”

She pulls one last bag from the back of her car. It’s a shiny tote with the Eiffel Tower on it. “Here’s the remedy. This is my flight bag. Delve into these goodies and ignore the wombats until you touch down in Cali.”

She reveals the contents: a stack of gossip magazines. From the looks of it, most of them are “Sexiest Man” or “Hottest Hunks” editions.

“Quality journalism. I feel smarter already.”

She shows me one in particular, reads from the cover. “Look at this gorgeous creature. And inside, ‘Twenty-Five Things You Didn’t Know About Andy Pettigrew!’”

I look at the tall, lean, handsome man on the cover. “I know nothing about him.”

Tessa strokes the cover guy’s tuxedoed body with a manicured nail. “Except that he’s smoking hot.”

“Thank you, Tessa. I’ll take good care of these. I better go herd the boys on to the plane before they get detained by the TSA.” I give her a big hug, and I probably squeeze a little too tightly for the light conversation we just had.

She pulls back and looks in my eyes. “Take care of yourself. That’s what this trip is for. Run lots, sleep lots, rest lots.”

“I promise.” I sling the bag over my shoulder and head into the terminal.

3: One Morning Run

I W
AKE
U
P
T
O
A D
IM
R
OOM
. Soft, blue light comes from a monitor. I sit in a chair in the corner.

I see Peter. He sleeps in a hospital bed. His skin is gray; his face is thin. I shiver at the sight of him and pull the blanket more closely around me.

I am still trying to center myself, orient myself, when the wind howls.

It grows to a roar, and the window blows open. I feel the ice cold air bite at my skin. I try to shut the window, but snow flies in. It’s everywhere, settling on the chair where I sat, filling the air of the hospital room.

I turn around. Peter is covered in snow.

I rush to him, brush the snow away from him. I uncover his face just as the monitor starts to beep loudly.

Peter’s face is blue. It is the face of a frozen corpse.

I sit up in bed. The alarm continues to beep loudly. I smack it off and turn on the lamp.

Sitting on the bedside table is my wedding ring. I pick it up, feel it between my fingers. I don’t know why, but I can’t put it on. I set it back down and try to focus on finding my running shoes.

I like to run now. That’s a big difference between me before and me now. I used to run on the treadmill when we all went to the gym. I did it because I should. Now I do it because I will go stark raving mad if I don’t. It’s become very cathartic for me. It helps me work through stuff that I might not even realize is a problem until I’m out there breathing hard and sweating.

I have a loop I like to run when we’re here in California. From my parents’ vacation condo in Indio, I run south to this little coffee shop, about two miles, and sometimes I stop and get tea. It’s a holdover from living in the South, home of
sweettea
—all one word—which is iced tea with bucket-loads of sugar in it. Only now I try to redeem myself and drink green tea since everyone is under the impression it’s good for you.

Running is good today. I feel strong. The Indio sun is warm in a very crisp, blue sky. The desert air is dry and cool. I feel so full and happy until suddenly I’m crying. Grief catches me by surprise then hits me hard. Tears stream down my face. After that dream this morning I should’ve known I was in for something seriously cathartic. It was there, lying dormant as I put on my shoes and told the boys and my parents I was heading out.

I’m just outside the little coffee shop when I have to stop. I bend over, elbows on knees, and there’s definitely some heavy sobbing going on. But I’m also trying to catch my breath so I can get it together enough to stop crying.

There’s a light touch on my shoulder. Oh shit.

“Are you all right?”

I look up from my bent-over position. I was kind of hoping it looked like I had a side stitch and was trying to work it out. Clearly it just looks like I’m losing it.

“I’m fine.” The sun is behind the person’s head from my position. I can only see that it’s a guy, and he’s wearing jeans, a coat, and a baseball hat.

“Are you hurt?” He’s still standing there. He has a coffee carrier in his hand, with two cups and a white bag balanced on it. He’s not leaving, so I guess I’m going to have to stand up.