Digging In: A Novel(74)
I felt, rather than heard, the engine roar to life. I wished I could see Trey’s face, that I could hear what he said to Sean before cranking it into gear. The car moved slowly forward, then climbed to a comfortable speed.
We approached the first telephone pole. Sean said something to Trey, and he turned the wheel, avoiding the pole by driving in a slightly jerky half circle. Then he righted the wheel, and the car picked up speed again, this time more smoothly.
“Good job, Trey,” I whispered, fighting tears. He was doing it. Driving. Without any help from me. It should have been a bittersweet moment, but it wasn’t, just triumphant. This was yet another step toward healing, and those were nothing less than magical.
We reached the end of the parking lot. Trey came to a jerky halt at a stop sign. If he didn’t back up, he’d have to turn onto the main road. I rapped on the glass partition. Trey turned for just a second and flashed me a smile.
Then he took his foot off the brake and drove us into the future.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
On a sunny morning in May 2016, Tom, my husband of nearly two decades, left to play a round of golf. The next time I saw him was in the hospital, but he was already gone. Sudden heart attack. He was forty-five years old.
I’d finished a third of Digging In when Tom died. For months afterward, paralyzed by grief, I couldn’t write a word. Jodi Warshaw, my patient editor at Lake Union, and Patricia Nelson, my agent at Marsal Lyon, kindly supported me through this difficult time. I will always be grateful. When I finally finished the book, Jenna Free, my developmental editor, expertly pushed me to bring the story where it needed to be. Thanks, Jenna.
Paige’s experience with loss in Digging In is completely different from mine. She didn’t have the welcoming arms of a community to fall into, but I did. Parts of her story arose from the question I constantly asked myself—how would I have managed the loss of my husband without the incredible people I’m so lucky to have in my life? My family, both biological and in-law, set aside their own grief to lift me up. My friends fed me and my two sons for six months, using something entirely lovely called a “meal train” (fantastic meals would magically appear on my doorstep, often including chocolate and wine!). Friends, family, and, occasionally, total strangers dropped off cards, some containing a handwritten memory of Tom, some containing money for my sons’ education fund, others just saying, “I’m sorry.” A simple “thank-you” doesn’t seem sufficient to cover my gratitude, but that’s all I have. So thanks to every one of you. Your outpouring of love gave me the strength to get back to writing. This book is for you.
I wish I could thank everyone by name, but if I did, these acknowledgments would run longer than the novel. Still, I’d like to mention a few folks in particular.
To all my La Grange Park friends and neighbors, your kindness is unparalleled. You are the true definition of “community,” especially Scott and Robin Reimer, Bill and Libby Black, Rachel Reid, Paul and Renee Brizz, Dan and Jen Stirrat, Matt Chadesh, Matt and Carolyn Beumer, Mike and Lisa O’Malley, Steve and Suzie Tullis, Tiffin and Mike Bolger, Chrissy and Jay Cmelo, Kelly and Rich Vaicuilis, Karyn and Matt Denten, Maureen Houston, Jeff and Colleen Olsen, Maura and Mike Webster, Kara and Padraig Brophy, Ashley and Brian Long, Phil and Anna D’Amico, Jim and Megan McCarthy, Donna and Brad Dodge, the ladies of Baby’s Got Paperback, and countless others from the LGP.
To Jenny Kales, I think you baked me forty-eight dozen cookies over a twelve-month period. Not one went to waste! Thank you, my friend.
To Erica O’Rourke, thank you for listening and never judging, for advising but never dictating.
To Zen and the gang at The HIT Locker in La Grange, thank you for balancing out my crazy grief brain by encouraging me to keep my body strong and healthy and giving me the tools to do so. Special thanks to Rachel, my yoga guru at Real Yoga, who taught me to find peace within myself. And to those who practice with me—Carry, Amy, Carolyn, and many others—thank you for your positive energy!
To the old neighborhood crew—John and Alexa Frangos, Tim and Erin Powell, John and Teri Nosek, Mike and Michelle Callero, and Joe and Lori Gillespie—to paraphrase Fleetwood Mac, we will never break the chain.
To Gus Richter, sometimes miracles come in six-foot-six packages. Thank you for being so wonderfully you. And special thanks to Sophia and Hannah, who’ve brightened my life immeasurably.
To my dad and mom, Henry and Maxine, and my siblings, Joyce and Brent, Steven and Lori, you always have my back, no matter what. Thank you for your loving support.
To my mother-in-law and father-in-law, Maureen and Tom, and my siblings-in-law, Mike, Erin, Alex, Ann, and Dan, your first words after Tom died were, “How can we help?” even though you were all dealing with horrific loss. Thank you for showing me that the only way to deal with grief is to continue loving life and one another.
To my boys, Dan and Jack, you are the strongest, most loving and resilient boys I know. I love you both so much and am so proud of the men you are becoming.
And, finally, to Tom, who offered me such an incredible amount of unconditional love and support in life that I still feel it, even in death. Thanks, Bub.