The Three Stooges consider one another, uncertain.
“How would I know?” Tyler finally counters. “I have no clue what makes girls do what they do.” (His recent break-up with his very first girlfriend has soured him on love.)
“Guys, that’s enough,” our father says. “I’m sure Erin is fine with you going to the game. But there’s no reason to rub her nose in it.”
“He’s leaving tickets for you and Mom, too,” Tyler says.
“Oh.” Dad’s smile is automatic and squashed as soon as Mom gives him the eye.
“He, um, said he was going to leave one for Erin, too. In case she wants it.” Tyler adds this more quietly.
All eyes rivet on me. Silence falls. The last time this happened, Ryan was trying to stab the last piece of steak on the platter and Travis’s hand got in the way.
“You can all relax,” I say as clearly and calmly as I can. “No one needs to miss the home opener on my account.” I smile as best I can and excuse myself. I don’t mention the extra ticket because while I’d love to say that I have no issue with going to the game, I’m not at all sure that’s true. And I definitely don’t see how I could sit and watch Josh pitch while surrounded by my family, watching me like I might fall apart.
The dishes are done and I’m still resisting the lure of my bed when a text dings in from Hailey—longtime friend, member of the gang, and supposed-to-be bridesmaid. Going Away party for Katrina on for Saturday, April 3 8pm at St. Regis.
I’m telling myself everything’s okay, I’m getting my life together, it’ll be fun to see everybody, when a follow-up text arrives. Josh coming, too.
Great. My immediate future now includes a Braves game I’m not sure I can make myself attend and a party filled with people I’ve been avoiding, including the guy who decided not to marry me. Take that, Universe!
I wander into my bedroom and eye the unmade bed. It crooks its finger. I’ve always known that one day I’d have to see Josh again. Only I thought it would be on television or from the stands or at the office, where I could hide my feelings behind a mask of professionalism.
For one very long moment, I consider climbing back in bed, burying my head under the pillow, and becoming the pathetic bag lady my brothers think I am.
Instead, I smooth the sheets, tuck in the comforter, and fluff the pillows. Kick-ass princesses may not come with a manual, but I know they don’t lie around and wallow.
Judith
It’s been two months since Nate died. That’s the equivalent of eight weeks, fifty-six days, 1,344 hours, or 80,644 minutes. Yes, I’m counting!
I’ve spent a lot of those 80,644 minutes wandering through my empty house (and occasionally messing it up enough to keep Rosaria from quitting), trying to come to terms with what happened. Trying to let go of the guilt I carry. Trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do next.
After a whirlwind shopping trip for resort wear, Meena left for the Mayan Riviera with Frank, so I’ve had no one forcing me to get out. The kids continue their daily text tag-teaming, but the only phone calls are from Realtors who’ve learned that I’m widowed and who think I should sell the house.
I’ve spent much of my life worrying what people think of me, but I’m beginning to realize I’m not at the forefront of anyone’s thoughts. (At least no one who isn’t trying to get a new listing.)
All the errands I used to complain about, all the grocery shopping, the meals I planned and cooked, the doctor’s appointments I scheduled for both of us, the hair and nails and everything else I filed under “personal maintenance,” the social life that I organized and kept track of—without Nate, it all feels so unnecessary. What difference do my hairstyle or my nails make? Why cook when I can microwave a frozen meal or pick up or order something delivered? I have no idea how to use up all the time I have on my hands, how to create a life out of all this “nothing.”
For those first months, I could hardly make myself leave the house; now, I can hardly bear to be in it. Listening to the echoing silence. Reliving the life I was ready to discard. Cursing Nate for dying. Chastising myself for not saving him.
When I can’t take it anymore, I get in the car and go . . . somewhere. Often lots of somewheres, most of them within a five-mile radius. I wander through the grocery store for an hour and leave with a head of lettuce. I go to the dry cleaner and finally retrieve the carefully pressed dress shirts and lucky ties that I dropped off when Nate got back from Europe; I’d give anything to feel even an ounce of the fury I felt when I left them there. I go to Costco and push the basket through every aisle, which takes up a good forty minutes, ultimately leaving with exactly enough bottles of wine to get me through the week. (In case you’re wondering, that’s usually three, but I always buy four just in case.) Sometimes I pick up a couple Chickin’ Lickin’ meals from one of our franchises, even though I rarely open them. I wander aimlessly through Stein Mart and T.J. Maxx and Target and leave empty-handed.
But this morning when I wake up, I have something to look forward to. An actual reason to get out of bed and, I think, to bake. Because tonight is book club. Which means I will be out of the house and going somewhere for an actual reason. To be with people I know and like.
I head for the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. While it brews, I scour the Internet for inspiration. And voilà! I find the perfect idea for The Body: A Guide for Occupants. Because who doesn’t love a theme?
For the first time since Nate died, I open the pantry and pull out flour and sugar and food coloring and everything I haven’t touched in so long that I feel like I’ve unearthed buried treasure. I print out pictures from the Internet, then use them to cut out the cookie dough I’ve made.
I spend the entire day making anatomically shaped cookies—brains, kidneys, lungs, and small and large intestines. I don’t tackle the heart, because it’s complicated and too sobering a reminder. And no reproductive or sexual organs, because those make me think of Nate and the night he died, too. Plus, our book club is coed.
I also make a batch of lemon cupcakes with lemon cream cheese frosting for anyone who balks at eating cookies designed to look like body parts.
The entire day practically flies by. Plus, I create a stupendous mess, which will appease Rosaria when she comes tomorrow. This is a win-win.
When I’ve got everything packed up in Tupperware, I jump in the shower for the first time in, well, I’ve kind of lost track. But I’m pretty sure my hair and skin sigh in gratitude.
I close one eye while I blow-dry my hair so that I see only half of the gray roots. I also apply makeup and spritz myself with cologne, then pull on a pair of black pants that now require a belt to hold them up. The black-and-white-striped tunic I pull on to hide the belt hangs on me like a circus tent. Why is it the only time you lose weight without trying is when you’re too miserable to enjoy it?