Forever, Interrupted(79)

“Put it out of your head.” She waves her hand at me. “The other thing that I want to tell you is . . . I would have liked you,” she says. “I don’t pretend to understand your relationship with your parents. That is between you and them. But I would have liked you. I would have wanted you to marry my son.”

Hearing her say that, I get the feeling that I have done all of these things out of order. I should have met her, then married him; if I did, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe Ben would be here next to me, eating peanuts and throwing the shells in an ashtray.

“Thank you,” I say to her.

“I’ve thought a lot about you and I recently. I think I haven’t truly begun to cope with Ben’s death. I think that I am still mourning for my husband, and the loss of my son is . . . it’s too huge to bear. It’s too large to even begin to deal with. I think having you as a part of my life, helping you to deal with this, I think it’s helping me to avoid dealing with it. I think I thought that if I could help you to get to a place where you could live again, that I would be able to live again. But I don’t think that’s the case.

“When Ben was little, he used to get in bed with Steven and I and watch Jeopardy! every night. He didn’t understand any of the questions, but I think he liked hearing the blooping noises. Anyway, I remember one night I was lying there, Ben between us, and I thought, This is my family. This is my life. And I was so happy in that moment. I had my two guys. And they loved me and I belonged to them. And now, I lie in that same bed and they are both gone. I don’t think I have even begun to scratch the surface of what that has done to me.”

She doesn’t break down. She’s calm but sincere. She’s lost. I don’t think I could see it before because I was so lost. I’m still lost. But I can see that Susan needs . . . something. She needs something to hold on to. For me, she was that something. She was the rock in the middle of the storm. I’m still in the middle of the storm but . . . I need to be a rock too. I realize it’s time I was supportive as well as supported. I think the time for “This Is All About Me” actually ended quite some time ago.

“What do you need?” I ask. Susan seems to always know what I need, or at least thinks she does with enough confidence that she convinces me too.

“I don’t know,” she says, wistfully, as if there is an answer out there somewhere and she just doesn’t know where to start looking. “I don’t know. I think I need to come to terms with a lot of things. I need to look them in the eye.” She is quiet for a minute. “I don’t believe in heaven, Elsie.” This is where she cracks. Her eyes tighten into little stars, her mouth turns down, and her breathing becomes desperate. “I want to believe so bad,” she says. Her face is now wet. Her nose is running. I know what it feels like to cry like that. I know that she’s probably feeling light-headed, that soon her eyes will feel dry as if they have nothing left to give. “I want to think of him happy, in a better place. People say to me that he’s in a better place, but . . . I don’t believe in a better place.” She heaves again and rests her head in her hands. I rub her back. “I feel like such a terrible mother that I don’t believe in a better place for him.”

“Neither do I,” I say to her. “But sometimes I pretend I do,” I say. “To make it hurt just a little less. I think it’s okay to pretend you do.” She rests her weight on me and I can feel that I am holding her up. It’s empowering to be the one holding someone else up. It makes you feel strong, maybe even stronger than you are. “We could talk to him if you want,” I say. “What does it hurt, right? It doesn’t hurt anything to try, and who knows? Maybe it will feel good. Maybe it will . . . maybe he will hear us.”

Susan nods and tries to gain her composure again. She sighs and breathes deep. She wipes her face and opens her eyes. “Okay,” she says. “Yeah.”





MAY


We’re in Nevada!” Ben screamed as we drove over the state line. He was emphatic and exhilarated.

“Wooo!” I yelled after him. I put both fists up into the air. I rolled down my window and I could feel the desert air rushing in. The air was warm but the wind had a chill. It was nighttime, and I could see the city lights in the distance. They were cheesy and ugly, overwrought and overdone. I knew I was looking at a city of casinos and whores, a city where people were losing money and getting drunk; but none of that mattered. The city lights looked like they were made just for us.

“Which exit did you say?” Ben asked me, a rare moment of logistics in an otherwise very emotional car ride.

“Thirty-eight,” I said and grabbed his hand.

It felt like the whole world belonged to us. It felt like everything was just beginning.





NOVEMBER


It’s evening by the time we muster the strength to try to talk to him. It’s a warm November night even by Southern California standards. We have the sliding glass doors open around the house. I try to direct my voice to the wind. Speaking into the wind seems just metaphorical enough that it might work.

“Ben?” I call out. I had planned to follow it up with some sort of statement, but my mind is a blank. I haven’t spoken to Ben since he said he’d be right back. The first thing I say should be important. It should be beautiful.