On Second Thought(31)

“Kate, isn’t it?”

I looked up. An older woman was addressing me. “Yes. Hello.”

“I’m Corinne Lenster. Eloise’s friend? I was at the funeral, but of course, so was the entire town.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, though I didn’t recognize her. “How are you?”

She smiled sadly. “I’m so sad for you, dear. Nathan was such a wonderful young man. He and my son were friends in high school. He and Robbie—my son—went skiing in Utah their senior year, and they got stuck on the lift, and Robbie...”

Her voice droned on, but the words started blurring together.

Nathan had never mentioned this story. I didn’t know he’d gone skiing in Utah. Did I even know he liked skiing? Yes, yes, I did. We actually went skiing in Vermont over Thanksgiving weekend. Right, right.

But this story? This Robbie-stuck-on-a-lift person? I didn’t know him. Why hadn’t Nathan ever told this story? What else didn’t I know? How was it that there was a great (maybe) story from his youth, and I didn’t know it? Hmm? Huh?

What’s-her-name kept talking. She was extremely well dressed for the grocery store, I noted. I was wearing my If Daryl Dies, We Riot T-shirt. Must avoid Walking Dead references when one is a new widow. Must also remember to wear a bra.

God. She was still talking. Was this normal, people ambushing widows in the grocery store to tell them things they didn’t know about their husbands? I nodded as if I was following the story, and the spike in my throat turned harder.

In the background, I suddenly heard the piped-in music. “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston (who was also dead).

“You gotta be f*cking kidding me,” I said.

“Excuse me?” the woman said.

“It’s the grief talking.” Someone else had said that. It was a good line. I planned on using it often. Horribly, laughter rolled through my stomach. I clamped my lips together hard. Nathan, do you see this?

The lady nodded. “Dear...you’re not wearing shoes.”

I looked down. “Huh. Look at that! I wondered why the floor was so cold.” My toenails were still bloodred. Nathan had painted them for me as I lay on the couch one night a couple of weeks ago.

“Perhaps you should go home,” she said.

“I need half-and-half,” I said. Aha! That was what I was here for! “Bye. Nice talking to you.” With that, I pushed my cart down the aisle, my eggplant and cucumber trembling with the cart’s faulty wheel action. Over the PA, Whitney changed keys, bringing it home. “And I-aye-aye...will always...love you-ooh-ooh-ooh...”

Maybe I should sing along. This one’s for you, Nathan Coburn! I could grab that cucumber and pretend it was a mic and let loose.

Puffs and squeaks of laughter leaked out—poor dead Whitney was killing me.

Oh, what was this? Organic pumpkin pie ice cream sandwiches in April? Hooray! Someone up there must like me, and three guesses as to who it was! The hysterical laughter wriggled and leaped inside my chest, making me snort some more.

Probably, I looked insane. No shoes, no bra, Daryl Dixon on my chest, eggplant, cucumber, pumpkin pie ice cream bars in my cart.

The floor was really freezing. My feet would be filthy. The polish needed changing. But if I changed the polish, it would be gone forever, The Polish That Nathan Applied. Nathan would not return from the dead to give me a pedicure.

The laughter stopped.

I’d leave that bloodred polish on until it chipped off.

Cause of death: cerebral hemorrhage.

Please, Higher Power. Please that it was painless. Please that he wasn’t scared.

He hadn’t looked scared. He’d only looked...dead.

In front of the dairy case was an old, old woman, creeping, creeping, inching along. She stopped right in front of the half-and-half and opened her purse. Shuffled through it. She had several thousand coupons to consider. I considered reaching around her, then decided it would be rude. Waited. Waited some more.

I had the sudden urge to ram her with my cart.

Why was she still alive? She looked to be a hundred and forty-three years old, and she was still alive! Why wasn’t she the one who’d died, huh? Riddle me that, Batman. Why was my thirty-eight-year-old husband dead and this crone still allowed to be here, trying to save a dime on nondairy creamer?

“Would you help me, dear?” she asked. “I can’t see if this coupon’s expired.” She held out a piece of paper in her age-spotted, gnarled hands.

I took it. “It’s good till next week.”

“Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

“You’re very welcome. My pleasure.” I waited till she got her tiny carton, then grabbed a half gallon and walked to the self-checkout as fast as I could.

Driving home, I passed the movie theater where Nathan and I had gone last week. Last week! Last week, he’d been alive. It was the night before Eric’s party, in fact, and the thrill of going to the movies with my husband had engulfed me like a hug. He’d held my hand. He’d eaten popcorn like a ravaging Hun. The movie had been terrible, but that was okay, because we were together.

Last week.

What had we seen? Sci-fi? No. Horror? No. Frat-boy stupidity? No.

It was suddenly incredibly important that I remembered. I pulled over abruptly and fished my phone from my purse. Clicked the calendar and scrolled back a few days.