A Curve in the Road(48)

But shopping for groceries only makes me feel more depressed. I move through the store like a zombie, and people stare at my bruised face as I slowly push my cart up and down the aisles. What makes it worse are the festive holiday decorations that start to appear in the stores on the first of December. Songs like “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” are piped through the overhead speakers. The lyrics make me want to grab a jar of salsa off the shelf and smash it on the floor because my husband won’t be home for Christmas this year—or ever. I resist the urge to destroy nonperishables, however.

Later in the week, I try to ignore Alan’s things in the same way that most of us don’t see clutter after living with it for months or years, thinking that will help. I force myself to glance unseeingly over his books on the shelf and his power tools in the basement, which is much easier than making a decision about when I’m going to get rid of everything—including that apartment in Bridgewater.

I tell myself it’s going to take some time before I’m ready, and I just need to be patient. Time heals all wounds, right? But every once in a while, when I go into our closet, I flirt with the idea of burning his belongings in a massive pile in the backyard and spitting on the ashes. Or I could wait for the simmering anger to pass and rummage through every item lovingly, thinking carefully about where it should go and to whom.

Will that day ever come? Will the anger ever pass? I have no idea.

After a week of pure wretchedness, I watch Zack leave for school and decide that it’s time for me to pull myself together too. First, I need to cancel the lease on Alan’s disgusting apartment. Then buy a new car with the insurance money from the accident and get rid of the rental. Zack will be thrilled to help me pick something out. Then I’ll need to return to work. It’ll do me good to be around people again, because I can’t stay at home forever feeling sorry for myself and avoiding my responsibilities.

I drink two cups of coffee and examine my banged-up face in the mirror—it’s looking somewhat better. A thick coat of foundation hides most of the scars and what’s left of the bruises.

Then I look down at Winston and realize he’s doing much better too. I kneel down and give him a scratch behind the ears. “I think we’re over the hump, buddy—at least physically.”

He sits still while I examine his incision, which appears to be completely healed. “That looks really good. In fact, I’m going to text the vet and give him an update.”

Rising to my feet, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, find Nathan in my list of contacts, and begin typing: Hi there. I just wanted to let you know that Winston is doing really well and his incision is healed. Thank you again for everything you did for us last month.

I’m pleased when Nathan texts me back immediately. Hi, Abbie. It’s nice to hear from you. I’m glad Winston is on the mend. How are you doing?

I smile and respond, Oh . . . you know . . . pretty good, all things considered. Taking it day by day.

His reply comes in a few seconds later. That’s all you can do. Just remember not to put too much pressure on yourself to feel normal again. That will take time.

Don’t worry, I reply. Normal is not in my periphery at the moment.

He replies, LOL.

I smile and send one last text: Have a nice Christmas if I don’t talk to you, and say hi to Ruby for me.

He responds, I will. Take care, Abbie!

You too, I reply.

With renewed purpose, I search through my list of contacts again and call the chief of surgery at the hospital to let him know I’m ready to return to work.

“Are you sure, Abbie?” he asks. “Because if you need more time . . .”

“No,” I reply. “It’ll do me good to get out of the house. I need to be with people.”

Especially with the holidays coming. The distraction will be good for me.

He admits he’s overjoyed to hear it because a number of cases have been bumped over the past few weeks. I’ve been sorely missed.

I take a long shower and feel thankful that I have a challenging, rewarding career that I love. I pray that it will help to bring me back to the world of the living.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Zack and I decide that we’ll keep Christmas low-key this year. Personally, I would have preferred to skip it altogether and start fresh next year, but I can’t do that to Zack, so I force myself to get a tree at the farmers market on a Saturday afternoon, drag it home, and stick it in the metal stand.

Together, we agree to keep up the tradition of opening a box of chocolates and listening to holiday music while we hang the lights and decorations, but it’s impossible to act cheerful when every ornament we touch is a reminder of Christmases past.

The “World’s Best Dad” trophy is especially disheartening, because Zack gave that to Alan just last year.

As soon as we hear the song “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by the Carpenters, we exchange a look. Zack nearly trips over a box of garland as he scrambles to shut off the speaker, because we both know that Alan had a secret childhood crush on Karen Carpenter, which we used to tease him about every time this song came on.

“How about I turn on TV instead?” Zack says.

“That’s a great idea.”

He picks up the remote control and tunes in to the Weather Channel. “This should be safe.”