The Good Widow(3)
The first time I talked to him was the day after I found out James had died. After the female cop had pressed her card into my shaking hand with Officer Keoloha’s name and number written on the back. After she and her partner had waited with me until Beth arrived. After Beth had thrown her arms around my shoulders and stroked my hair as if I were a little girl. After she had spent the night and held me in our guest bed as I fell in and out of sleep, the harsh reality of the news I’d been given hitting me all over again each time I woke.
Officer Keoloha listened as I told him my story. How I was shocked to find out James had been in Maui, because he was supposed to be in Kansas. I rambled about how we’d been married eight years, about how he’d never lied to me before—that I knew of. I was aware I sounded like a desperate widow not wanting to accept that her husband had secrets, but I couldn’t stop talking. And it didn’t help that he didn’t try to fill the lulls. I think he knew I needed someone to understand that this wasn’t supposed to be my life.
When I asked how he could be sure it had been my husband in the car, he gently walked me through much of what the officers who’d come to my house had already told me: How James’s brown leather wallet with his driver’s license and credit cards had been found not far from the wreckage; that they’d interviewed Heidi from the rental car company, who’d confirmed James had rented the Jeep and that the signature on the agreement matched the one on his ID. They’d also verified that James’s name was on the manifest of a United Airlines flight from LAX to Maui. That he’d used the same Citibank Visa (which I had no idea existed) that had been in his wallet to pay for four nights and several sightseeing excursions at the Westin Resort and Spa in Ka‘anapali.
His voice became tender when he reminded me about the next part, that because of the fire, the only way to be 100 percent sure it was James’s body that had been in that car was for our dentist to confirm James’s dental records. I couldn’t bring myself to think about what that meant. So I held on to the sliver of hope that provided—that there was a possibility it had all been a huge misunderstanding, and James was in Kansas closing the software deal he had told me was so important.
But then our dentist, Dr. Matias, delivered bad news all over again.
So, it was confirmed. My husband was dead. But why had he died in Maui?
Every time I think of James tearing out of our house the morning he left, my insides ache. He was wearing a starched white button-down and gray trousers that rose up a bit too much when he sat. His light-brown hair was longer than usual, hitting the collar of his shirt, his five-o’clock shadow already in full force, dotting his deep-olive skin. Ironically, I had the thought that he looked more like a surfer going to the beach than a salesman on his way to a conference. He blew past me with a tight grip on his carry-on, muttering obscenities in Spanish, his worn black leather laptop bag slipping off his shoulder as his sturdy body barreled toward the driver parked out front. I could see a man with a short white beard watching us and could only imagine what he’d been thinking—how many of these types of scenes he’d witnessed in his amateur driving career. And the worst part? We’d had this fight before, so many times. And I knew we would again. Or at least I thought so.
Was that why he’d gone to Hawaii? Because I couldn’t give him what he wanted? Because I’d let him believe that I could?
That, I was not ready to explore.
I’ve walked through our (my?) house day after day since I found out he died, looking for an answer I’m realizing I’ll never find: why.
I’ve tried to find out why James wasn’t in Kansas like he was supposed to be. But the answer eludes me, the same way his truth seemed to. So right now, I have decided to focus on something I can control, something manageable, mundane.
I’m trying to get the kitchen spout to stop leaking.
The water is almost therapeutic, causing a rhythmic echo as it hits the inside of the sink, reminding me of those drummers in the New York subway making music by hitting the top of a paint bucket. I turn the handle of the faucet to the right, remembering my father’s instruction from when I was a little girl and he’d directed me to turn off the hose that was attached to the Slip’N Slide. Lefty Lucy, righty tighty.
It’s funny the things that stick with you and the things that don’t. Since James’s death, I’m discovering that the mind works in strange ways. I can recall his smell without putting my nose to a single item of his clothing—because I can’t bring myself to. I cannot even look at the sleeve of his crumpled pale-blue button-down shirt peering out from the top of the hamper, but the scent is there, as potent as when I buried my head in his shoulder and breathed him in on our first date, the sake I’d drunk making me brave. His musky aroma is entangled in our bedsheets; it’s emanating off the last bath towel he used. It’s clinging to my nose hairs like my grandmother’s perfume, which she treated like a can of air freshener. It’s a comfort but also a terrible burden, still smelling him. I’ve had moments where I’ve longed for hyposmia—the decreased ability to smell, a definition I only learned because I Googled it at 3:00 a.m. I’d been hugging James’s pillow between my legs like an anchor and smelling him so strongly in the pillowcase that I could almost tell myself he’d just been lying there and had gotten up to go to the bathroom.
His scent assails me, while I try to make sense of remembering only some details about James and not others. Like the way his hands felt. I have no idea. Were they smooth? Calloused? Did I ever take the time to notice? I grabbed Beth’s wrists when she came over this morning, trying to memorize each of her fingers. They felt soft, and as I touched the small scar on her palm from when she’d sliced through it while chopping tomatoes, I promised myself I wouldn’t forget them.