On Second Thought(30)

Nathan’s bathrobe was still on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. I didn’t touch it, afraid that something inside me would break. His toothbrush was still in the shower. I hated that he brushed his teeth in there, for some reason. It struck me as wrong, spitting at your own feet. So far, I hadn’t said anything.

I caught myself. So far. I wouldn’t have the chance to say anything, ever. Nathan’s legacy of spitting in the shower would last forevermore.

“No, no, that’s good,” I told myself. “He wasn’t perfect.” Yes! Remember his flaws. He spit in the shower! I’d never have to put up with that anymore! Score one for widowhood!

My chest hurt so much it was hard to take a full breath. I almost wished it was a heart attack. Then I could go to the hospital and get taken care of. Maybe they’d put me in a medically induced coma, and when I woke up, everything would be okay again. Maybe Nathan would be by my bedside. Or maybe I’d die and see him in heaven, the heaven I couldn’t quite picture.

I showered fast, threw on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Dared not look in Nathan’s closet, where all his beautiful clothes were. He had a thing for cashmere sweaters. Probably had twenty of them, and if I saw one now, I’d crumple.

I went downstairs, couldn’t find my phone and went into the den (or study). There it was, right in front of Hector’s bowl. “I’m leaving,” I said to my fish, who mouthed obligingly. “Need anything? Tampons? Got it.”

Speaking of tampons, I still didn’t have my period. Probably, I was pregnant. Screw those tests that said I wasn’t. It was just too soon to show up, that’s all.

I got in the car—a battered Volkswagen Golf that was good for holding all my photography gear. It had more than a hundred thousand miles on it, and Nathan and I had discussed getting another car, one with four-wheel drive, big enough for car seats and diaper bags. He’d blushed, and that awkwardness wriggled again—kids with a guy I hadn’t known for even a year.

That conversation had taken place just a few weeks ago.

I realized I was gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

“Turn on the radio, Kate,” I said aloud. I hadn’t slept much lately, and my brain was fuzzy. I started the car, backed carefully out of the driveway, still worried that I’d take down the mailbox, then headed out. On the radio, a man-child scatted and falsettoed about being dumped. “Maybe if your testicles dropped, she would’ve stayed,” I said, then laughed. Hey, look at me! Laughing! See? All was not lost.

I rolled down the windows, the smell of rain and soil hitting me. Spring was here, wedding season. I was booked almost every Saturday from May through August. Maybe going to weddings wasn’t a smart idea. Would I cry? Would I run out, sobbing? Or would I just do what I’d been doing for the past fifteen years?

Oh, goody, a song I liked! “Lose Yourself” by Eminem. Good, good. Very inspirational, seize the moment, step into your power, all that Oprah-speak, but with cussing.

At a stoplight, I found that I was singing the bass line—“Whump whump whump whump bump bump bump bump. You better lose yourself—” And that was where I didn’t know the lyrics but kept singing anyway. You go, Eminem, foul-mouthed genius from the bad side of town! Yeah! “You only get one shot something something something yo!”

My eye caught the car next to me. The driver gave me a nod. I smiled and kept singing. Maybe she liked Eminem, too. She didn’t smile back.

Ah, shit. It was Madeleine, Nathan’s first wife.

Here I was, pretending to be a skinny white rapper, and she looked like...well, like someone had died.

The horn behind me blared, and I floored it, then braked hard as I turned into Whole Foods.

For a second there, I’d forgotten that Nathan was dead.

Inside the grocery store, it was as cold as a morgue. Poor choice of words.

I couldn’t remember what I’d come for. Vegetables? Why not? Whole Foods did have the prettiest produce in the entire world, even if it did cost a million trillion dollars. I tossed a cucumber into my cart. Too bad I didn’t have my camera; the eggplant was downright seductive, all that smooth, dark color gleam. I grabbed one of those, too. I loved eggplant parmesan, not that I’d ever made it before. But I had lots of time on my hands now, didn’t I?

Yes. I’d become a great cook. I’d channel Ainsley and tie on an apron and cook really nice dinners. Salads and everything. Candles on the table, because Nathan had the coolest candleholders. He actually bought those Jo Malone candles that cost the earth and smelled like heaven. Did straight men buy Jo Malone candles? Did they? I guess it didn’t matter anymore.

Nathan had plenty of china, too, and glasses for every beverage under the sun—water, wine (red, white, champagne), whiskey tumblers, martini glasses, all matching, which I still found thrilling. Not to mention his enchanting silverware, designed by a Hungarian woman whose work was featured in the Cooper Hewitt. I knew this because Nathan told me. He was very proud of those forks and spoons.

He’d never eat off those plates again. Never sit at his own table again. Never use one of his perfectly balanced, adorable spoons for ice cream.

Then again, I could paint the dining room. Honestly, every room in the house was white. I was dying to slap some red on a wall somewhere.

That rusty spike seemed to slam through my throat again in an actual, physical pain, as if someone with very strong hands was intent on killing me.