A Curve in the Road(25)
I squat beside Winston and stroke his shoulders. “No need to get up.”
Again, Lester kicks at Winston’s bed with the toe of his boot to try and rouse him. “Is he a dog or a pussy?”
Despite my vow to ignore certain misbehaviors today, I can’t deny a heated surge of anger. I grab hold of the toe of Lester’s boot and shove it away. He loses his balance and stumbles backward.
“He just had surgery,” I explain.
Lester chuckles meanly. “You’re his mommy, are you? I always figured that’s why Alan married you. He loved being a mama’s boy.”
I rise to my feet, look Lester in the eye, and speak matter-of-factly. “You should probably go now.”
Verna is quick to gloss over the altercation. “Thank you so much for lunch. The soup was delicious.” She moves toward the door, tugging at Lester’s sleeve.
Lester and Bruce stride into the foyer, and my mother moves quickly to retrieve their coats from the closet. Winston stands up, watching intently from the kitchen, where he pants as if he’s just run himself to exhaustion.
“We’ll see you at the funeral home tomorrow,” I say, fighting the urge to shove Lester out of my mother’s house like a bouncer.
As soon as I close the door behind them, I peer discreetly out the window. Verna is slapping Lester’s arm and scolding him as they move down the walk to their rental car.
I turn to see Zack leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, shaking his head. “What an ass. No wonder Dad left home and moved across the country. I would have done the same thing if he was my father.”
I pull Zack into my arms and hug him tight. “Thank goodness he wasn’t. You were lucky to have such a great dad.”
In that moment, I think of my own upbringing and how I, too, was blessed to have a happy, perfect childhood with two kind and loving parents who never said an unkind word. Suddenly, I miss Alan desperately. How will we get through the rest of our lives without him?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The following night, my body feels heavy and cumbersome, as if I’m sinking into an abyss—an impenetrable fog of exhaustion and trepidation. Tonight, I will view my beloved husband in an open casket. I’ll no longer be able to imagine that this is just a bad dream. It will be painfully real for all of us.
My anxiety is amplified by the fact that Zack will see Alan in the casket as well and I’ll feel my son’s pain on top of my own. It’s impossible not to worry about how this tragedy will affect the rest of Zack’s life. Up until now, he’s been a well-adjusted, optimistic young man. I don’t want this loss to change him or break something inside of him, but I know I can’t shield him from everything. His father is dead. We have no choice but to accept it and surrender to the fact that nothing will ever be the same again.
It’s a terrible chore to stand in front of the mirror and put on makeup, because my eyes are burning, my legs feel sore and weak, and honestly, I couldn’t care less about how pretty I look. I stare at myself and slap my cheeks a few times to pull myself out of the haze I’m in, and then I try to force myself to care, because Alan wouldn’t want me to give up on myself. He would want me to stand proudly in the funeral home and be strong. Not just today but every day afterward.
When it’s time to go, I leave my bedroom and slowly descend the stairs.
Mom drives Zack and me to the funeral home, while Carla, Braden, and their daughters follow in their minivan.
We arrive fifteen minutes early to pay our respects privately ahead of the other guests. Mom pulls over in a spot across the street from the funeral home, and we get out of the car together.
It’s a clear night with a full moon and bright stars in the sky. Most of the ice and snow has melted.
I notice a woman walking out of the funeral home. She wipes tears from her cheeks as she hurries down the steps, then jogs down the street to her car, which is parked at the far end of the block.
I watch her for a moment with a frown, for there can be no mistaking her. It’s Paula Sheridan, the hardware store owner who called Alan in the hospital on the night of his death. What is she doing here, and why is she so upset? Unless she was making arrangements for someone of her own that she may have lost . . .
Briefly, I’m tempted to call out her name, but I don’t want to cause a ruckus. This whole situation is difficult enough as it is. I can’t be thinking about Paula Sheridan now. I need to focus on what matters most: keeping Zack at my side and saying goodbye to Alan.
The evening passes in a blur. People come and go: doctors we’ve both worked with, patients who loved Alan, and friends, old and new. They all offer the same messages of sympathy and condolence. Nobody mentions that he was drinking and driving, and for that, I am grateful.
I shake their hands and thank them for coming.
Eventually, the visitors stop arriving, the room slowly clears, and it’s time for Zack and me to say our final goodbyes. Zack moves forward and kneels before the open casket. Carla and my mother chat in hushed tones, but I’m not listening to them because my heart is breaking apart as I watch my son bid farewell to his father forever.
When he returns to me, his eyes are wet as he squeezes my hand. “It’s your turn, Mom.”
I nod, kiss him on the cheek, and slowly approach the casket. Alan looks peaceful, but perhaps that’s not the right word, because there is very little left of the man I have loved for the past twenty years. That man is long gone from this body, and it’s excruciating to see him this way—so devoid of life. Part of me wants to look away, to not see him like this. I want to remember him as he was. Yet I know I can’t squander this time with him, because this is my last chance. As soon as I walk out that door, I’ll never see my husband again.