A Curve in the Road(30)
I try my best, but I know it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.
The phone chimes. I scramble to reach for it.
I’m sorry, Abbie. I really don’t think there’s anything I can do for you. I knew your husband from the store, and I felt an affinity because I remember you from high school, but I don’t know anything more than that. Who knows why things happen the way they do? Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason. Again, my deepest condolences. Please take care of yourself. And the next time we bump into each other, I hope it’s under better circumstances.
I finish reading and feel a surge of anger from deep in my core because all my instincts are telling me that she’s hiding something. I toss the phone onto the bed, then sit forward and scratch behind Winston’s ears again until my temper cools.
“Maybe I’m just having a hard time accepting this,” I say to Winston. “Or maybe the accident knocked my brain out of whack.”
I realize that I never returned for a follow-up checkup with Dr. Sanders, and that’s something I definitely need to do.
I set up an appointment to see Dr. Sanders that morning. He asks me all the usual questions to assess a head injury, examines the abrasion on my scalp, and concludes that I’m doing fine, all things considered. He asks how I’ve been feeling overall. I confess that I’ve been excessively fatigued at times and that I find it difficult to stay awake but I can’t get a good night’s sleep either.
He says that’s to be expected, given what I’ve been through. He advises me to get as much rest as I need and not to feel guilty about taking a short nap in the afternoon if that helps.
I thank him, leave the hospital, and return to my mother’s car, where I get into the driver’s seat and grip the steering wheel with both hands. I stare straight ahead like a robot, barely blinking, because my cuts and bruises may be healing, but I’m a widow now—a widow who can’t escape the feeling that her husband may have been keeping secrets.
A sickening knot of dread forms in my belly as I contemplate this new reality, full of doubts about our relationship. And it’s not just that. He’s gone now. From this day forward, there will be nothing but an empty pillow beside me when I wake in the mornings. Alan won’t be around to book family vacations for us or fix the internet when the Wi-Fi kicks me off. I’m a complete numbskull when it comes to technology. He was always there to take care of those things and so many others.
And what about growing old? I’d always imagined we’d take care of each other when the aging process began and the inevitable health problems descended upon us—like hearing loss and not being able to see the tiny print on the pill bottles in the cupboard. Knowing us, we would have joked about it and made fun of each other. Just like my mom, we would never have surrendered our sense of humor.
But now, I’ll have to read the pill bottles myself and always keep a magnifying glass handy. There will be no one to make fun of me and make me laugh when I’m eighty and can’t find my teeth.
Suddenly I burst into tears, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve had complete privacy to sob openly, without constraint, where no one can hear me. The flood is torrential—a massive tsunami of grief and rage. I scream and cry and pound the steering wheel over and over.
Why, Alan? Why were you on the road that night, and what in the world were you up to?
Five minutes later, I’m driving to the hardware store because I’ve made up my mind to talk to Paula. I can’t begin to move forward until I do, and I need for her to understand that.
I drive all the way across town, thinking nonstop about what I’ll say to her when I arrive. My blood is fired with adrenaline because this time I’m determined not to take no for an answer. I’m going to demand that she explain why she snuck into the funeral home before the wake began and why she was skulking around the cemetery during the burial.
When I reach the store, I pull into the parking lot, find a spot, and shut off the engine.
For a few seconds, I hesitate, because I feel like a woman obsessed, but I know that if I don’t see this through, I’ll lie awake again tonight—and every night for the rest of my life—tossing and turning until dawn, wondering what the hell really happened to my husband that night.
I unbuckle my seat belt and walk into the store.
“I’m sorry. She isn’t in today,” the young clerk at the customer service desk tells me. “She’s home sick.”
My head throbs, and I rub at the back of my neck. This feels very anticlimactic, and I want to grit my teeth together and scream. But it’s not this young girl’s fault, so I fight to keep it together. “I see. Thank you.”
Taking a few deep breaths, I walk out of the store and try calling Paula’s cell phone as I cross the parking lot. She doesn’t answer, and I can’t help but suspect that she’s ignoring my calls. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m being a pain in the ass.
When I reach my car, I get in and sit for a while, watching customers come and go.
Maybe I am going crazy. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Alan was driving under the influence. Maybe there was some sort of medical emergency, and he had to make a choice.
If so, what was the emergency? And did it have anything to do with Paula? Was that why she called him on a Sunday night, hours after the store had closed? On her personal cell phone?