In This Life (31 page)

“Each night, when I go to sleep,

I die.

And the next morning, when I wake up,

I am reborn.”

—Mahatma Gandhi

MAGGIE TOOK ME
to the mountain resort where Dante’s family had been stationed. Crowds of people jam packed the lobby and spilled into empty conference rooms filled with folding beds and personal belongings. Screams and wails were heard everywhere, people in suits and ties and plastic badges were carefully manning the area, maps and lists were posted on every single wall.

The Leolas refused to acknowledge my presence, blatantly ignoring me as I tried to mix in with the bereaved group of loved ones waiting to hear word from the Thai authorities. It took one day for them to confirm that there were no survivors. Everything happened in a vacuum, and I lived through those days in a blur. The process of identifying the bodies was restricted to immediate family members. I had not one piece of evidence that we were married. Not one form of identity had my married name. In reality, I wasn’t a part of his family, I was no longer his wife. I was an undeserving loved one. I was not even a friend. And so they ostracized me, kept me away, forced me to grieve all alone. I didn’t have a right to hope, I didn’t even have a right to be there.

And still, I sat and waited. At an adjacent hotel in a solitary room with the curtains drawn, seeking comfort in the despair of the darkness, finding hope in the light of the dawn.

Until Maggie walked in two days later, her eyes swollen from crying, her face puffy yet drawn.

“They found his body,” she said as she took a seat next to the edge of the bed.

“Will they let me see him? Will you ask them, Maggie?” I clasped my hands together, brought them to my lips with my eyes closed. The unbearable pain of knowing that I would never see him again had killed me.

“No, Spark. They want you to leave. They want nothing to do with you.”

I nodded my head in acquiescence. “I understand. I betrayed their son. I’ll wait until they’re ready. Let’s go home, Maggie.”

I ENTERED MY
apartment on that wintry night in February, four days after I’d said goodbye to Jude. My phone was filled with messages from him, both texts and voicemails filled with promises and appeals, anger and pain.

“I will wait for you, Blue. For as long as it takes, I’ll wait for you.”

And after I deleted them, there was one message I had yet to retrieve. I would save it for the day that I would need it most. There will come a day when I will hear his voice and it will make me smile. Not that day. Some other time.

I convinced myself to think only of Dante, to channel all my anguish into finding a way to remember the times we had together.

To think that for the past few years, I’d been around death enough to detach myself from it; I had been trained to face it, to humanize it, to socialize it, and to explain it in logical terms. But it kept on brushing up against me, determined to become a part of my life.

Everything around me reminded me of Dante. The cupboard was stocked with his favorite coffee; the refrigerator, his favorite craft beers; the bathroom, his toiletries; and the closet still had his shirts, his jeans, his underwear. I hated him. I hated him for playing this cruel joke on me. Why did he have to leave little bits of himself in a place that was to become my only sanctuary?

“Damn you!” I yelled as I took the bottle of deodorant and threw it against the bathroom mirror. It felt good to watch it break in slow motion—first a crack, then a slight rip, and then the domino effect of its remnants falling one by one. The mirror in the hut in Thailand, my life today, pieces of brokenness spread out across the world.
I followed it up by throwing his soap, his toothbrush, his razor. And then I ran into the kitchen and smashed the coffeemaker on the floor. I emptied the bag of coffee beans on the ground; his beer, the bottle opener in the shape of a naked woman, and his favorite coffee cup all came crashing down around my feet.

“Who’s going to put me back together when I fall apart? Who’s going to love me for who I am now that you’re gone?” I cried. “There! Is this what you want? How much more are you going to take from me?” This was fate’s final act. Its last revenge. I left Dante to be with Jude and now Dante was returning the favor.

When there was nothing else to toss around, I hurled myself to the ground, holding my knees to my chest, and rolled around and around. It didn’t matter that the wood floor was burning my skin or that the shards of glass were dangerously close. I sobbed and wept and thrashed wildly, kicking and screaming ferociously at the top of my lungs. I cursed, I swore. I yelled my shame.

“I wasted five years of my life loving someone else when I should have just loved only you.”

And then I begged and pleaded. “Please, please, please. I give you my happiness, I give you my life. I gave him up, dear God. He’s yours. Please bring him back. Make this all a terrible mistake. Take away my pain. Bring Dante back to me.”

THE CREAKING OF
the floor was startling enough to yank me out of my trance. Someone else was in my apartment. I opened my eyes to the bright reflection of the sun against the pure white snow. I was still on the floor in the fetal position, my back stiff from having my knees up by my face, draped in the warmth of a blanket. Someone had come in the night to cover me up.

It was Maggie, broom and dustpan in hand, directing the broken glass away from my body. I continued to lay there watching as she moved quickly around the kitchen table before taking her place next to me. “I can see that you haven’t done a thing since you’ve arrived.”

I shook my head, my hands firmly clasping the blanket around my neck to protect me from the sudden chill in the air. It dawned on me that I had turned the heat off before leaving for Thailand with Jude.

“We should get ready for the wake tomorrow. Are you leaving the apartment today?” she asked gently while inattentively scrolling through her phone.

I nodded my head.

“I’m so sorry,” she said somberly.

Another nod of my head. I continued to stare into space, aware of the fact that she had reclined herself on the floor facing me. She wrapped one arm around my waist and dabbed the tears in my eyes with the bottom of her sleeve.

“Did you get all those messages from Jude? Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you some coff—oh, never mind,” she said, acknowledging the mess she had just cleaned up. “Listen. Donny gets back today. We can both take you to the church tomorrow. Anytime you want.”

This time I shook my head.

“No? You’re not going?” she asked.

“No, you don’t have to take me,” I muttered. “Thank you, though. Thank you for being here.”

“We’ll get through this, Anna. Trust me. We’ll get through this. Donny and I will move our wedding date so I can be with you. I’ll move in here and we can figure this all out,” she assured me. Far in the distance, I noticed two large designer suitcases. She was serious about moving in.

“No,” I croaked. “Tey wouldn’t want you to do that. He was so happy for you and Donny. You have to go on. At least for him.”

“Anna, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but we have to address it sometime. Jude. What do you want me to tell him?”

I ignored her question and slowly lifted myself up off the floor
.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to hear the sound of his name. I didn’t want to take the easy way out. I deserved to be alone.

I am a widow. I will mourn for my husband.

The blood rushed to my head and the room started to spin. I reached my arms out to her to steady myself. “Has anyone told Mikey?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I was planning to have Donny pick him up from school if he’s done with his classes.”

“He needs to come home for the wake. We need to get him,” I said. “Can we ask Peter to take my car and get him from school?”

“Okay,” she agreed as she looked down to find large droplets of blood at her feet. Her expression immediately shifted to horror. “Oh my God! Anna, your face!”

It was then that I noticed some discomfort. I brought my fingers to my face to find a tiny scrap of glass imbedded in my skin. “Please find me a mirror and a Band-Aid,” I told her.

She dashed back with the items I had asked for. “Oh my God! I’m going to die. I’m going to faint right here! There’s so much blood! I can’t take it! Anna, I’m going to faint!” she said, starting to hyperventilate. I grabbed her by the shoulders to try and calm her down. She was visibly pale and her knees started to buckle.

“No! Listen to me, Maggie! It’s a tiny cut. I’m going to fix it right now. Look!” I held the mirror to my face and removed the piece of glass from my skin. It hurt like hell and left me wincing in pain. I affixed the Band-Aid on top of it and forced myself to smile.

“You see? It’s all better now,” I reassured her, making a mental note to clean the wound out at the hospital.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It’s still bleeding. Oh God.”

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “I’m going to take a shower and go. Please wait for me, I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

FOUR YEARS AGO,
I died alone. In a decrepit old bed, tied up to tubes that did nothing to take my sickness away. I stared into space while my life flashed right by me. Nurses came in and out, asking, “How are you? Do you need more meds? You seem to look fine.”

No! I screamed. It’s not my body that hurts. Please listen to me. Can’t you see? Can’t you see my tears through these smiles? Don’t you know that I would give this all up—the accolades, the honors, the awards—for my heart? I want my heart back. I don’t want to die.

Nobody knew my pain, no one cared. I was trapped in this useless body, pillaged by an overactive mind, slowly deteriorating from a grieving heart. Life was slipping away ever so progressively, and yet no one understood, no one could see my suffering; it was unimaginable how those ten days could have played such a large part in my life.

Ten days? Oh, that was nothing. There’s no way that can be love.