The Good Widow(2)

“Mrs. Morales?” The officer looks down, and I realize I’m still gripping the heavy fabric of her uniform, my knuckles bright white against the blue polyester. She puts her hand over mine, her skin cool and smooth. She guides me through the doorway, her partner easing the front door shut behind us. The three of us silently lower ourselves onto the red chenille couch. Ironically, it was purchased on one of my shopping binges when I tried to fill what my therapist had defined as the hole created by James’s perpetual absences while traveling for work. I have a closet full of shoes, a bathroom filled with cosmetics, and a kitchen stacked with gadgets, all bought in the same mindset. Beth would come over to survey my latest haul, then give me one of her looks.

I stare at my sister on the screen of my phone resting in my palm, and together we hear the news that will seem surreal for weeks, like a bad dream I’m fighting to wake up from. May twenty-first. Maui. A car crash. The road to Hana. Cliffs. Lava rocks. A fire. His wallet with ID found several hundred yards from the car. Yes, they’d need his dental records to be absolutely sure, but they felt confident it had been him—confident enough to show up on my doorstep and tilt my world on its axis.

I try to process the words into separate thoughts, but they all blur together into one long rambling sentence. Beth starts to cry the kind of heavy tears I’ve always envied; my emotions have always been much harder to conjure. I know my sobs will come, but I won’t have any idea when—just that my body will finally give.

The screen of my phone goes dark, and I know Beth has hung up and will be on my doorstep in just minutes—she lives only a mile and a half away. She will arrive with a tearstained face, staring at me incredulously when mine isn’t like hers. It’s hard to explain, but from the moment I hear he’s dead, I’m both desperate for and afraid of feeling my husband’s loss.

I stare at the two officers flanking me on the couch that has never been as comfortable as I wanted it to be, then eye the laundry basket filled with mismatched bath towels that I’d been folding earlier that morning. I wish it were five minutes earlier. Because five minutes ago, I was just a fourth grade teacher taking care of the dirty clothes that had piled up this week while I was cleaning out my classroom and getting ready for summer hiatus. Five minutes ago, I was laughing with my sister and making plans to meet her for lunch. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t a widow.

I wonder what the officers will do when they leave my house. Will they think about me again? Or will I be quickly forgotten as they stop at Starbucks for iced caramel macchiatos on the way back to the station?

The male officer speaks for the first time since arriving, his baritone voice sounding out of context. “Is there anything we can do? Anyone we can call? I mean other than—” He doesn’t finish his sentence; instead he motions toward my cell phone.

“My sister—she’ll be here any minute,” I say.

“Okay, good,” he says, and scoots forward on the couch. “Do you have any questions?”

I stare into his eyes. They are kind—pale blue with errant flecks of brown dancing around the pupils. The truth is that there are so many things to do. And there is an overwhelming number of calls to make. I imagine breaking the news to all the people who loved James. I’ll dial their numbers, then lean my head against the cold granite in the kitchen as they cry, in the same desperate, unbelieving way I haven’t, but eventually will. Oh, how I will.

And of course, there are so many questions. But I only have the strength to ask the cop with the kind eyes the most important one.

“What the hell was my husband doing in Maui?”





CHAPTER THREE


JACKS—AFTER

It’s ridiculous how your life doesn’t need your permission to turn upside down. You think you have it under control. That you’re good at handling the colossal disappointments: the ticket for the illegal U-turn, the late fee on your credit card that sends your APR through the roof, the dry cleaner’s fuckup. Okay, maybe you weren’t so good at dealing with that last one and would probably take back that terrible Yelp review you wrote. They’d refused to admit to ripping your favorite black pants that made your legs appear longer and leaner. You’d never find another pair that slimmed you that way again. It was a tragedy.

But then your husband dies, and you think how you’d beg for the apocalypse of the torn pants. Because now it’s your life that has ripped apart at the seams you thought were so tightly sewn.

I’ve been binge watching Shark Tank because I can’t sleep. And it reminds me of James—he’d always wanted to invent the next great thing. When the smug college freshman turns down Mr. Wonderful’s fifty-thousand-dollar offer for his pointless collapsible hangers, I want to tell the kid that life is short. To take the damn deal. That he’ll never miss the 5 percent of equity he’s hanging on to like a life raft. James would have said yes, wrapped Mr. Wonderful in a tight bear hug, and thrown the hangers into the air in celebration while all the sharks erupted in laughter. James charmed people in the same way he took a deep breath: easily and without much thought.

Every day since James’s memorial two weeks ago—still a blur of dark suits and tearstained faces—has started the same way. I haul myself out of bed a little after 10:30 a.m., the haze of the sleeping pill I took the night before still lingering. I pour a cup of dark coffee, add three lumps of sugar, turn on my laptop, and wait for the numbers on the digital clock to hit eleven—eight in Maui. I picture Officer Keoloha staring at his phone as it rings. I know from my Google Images search that he has a round face, thick brown hair speckled with gray, and a wide inviting smile. I can imagine his jolly expression shifting when my 949 area code illuminates on his caller ID and he debates sending me to voice mail. To his credit, he never does.