Patchwork Paradise(11)

The first thing I did when I made it home was get in touch with Sam’s parents. It was a grossly overdue phone call. My knees were trembling so hard, I had to sit down at the kitchen table as I listened to the dial tone.

“Martine Waterslagers,” Sam’s mom answered.

I sucked in a breath. “Martine? It’s Oliver.”

“Oh, Ollie. I’m so glad you called. I’m . . . Are you okay? We tried to get a hold of you, but—”

“I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls. I was . . .” I trailed off. If there was anyone to whom I didn’t have to explain how I’d been feeling, it was Sam’s mother.

“I know, love. We completely understand, but there are some things we need to sort out. Are you ready . . . to talk about them?”

“Yes. I’m . . . That’s why I’m calling. I mean, also to say I’m so sorry for the loss of your s-son.”

She was quiet for a second, and I thought she was steadying her voice. “You don’t have to tell me that. I know how much you loved him, and I know how much you’re hurting too. Are you back at work? You could always come for dinner tonight.”

“I’m not, no.” My heart tripped with nerves. “But dinner sounds good.”

“Let’s say about seven?”

“Sounds good,” I said, and my voice cracked. I winced and tried to cover it by clearing my throat.

“It’s going to be okay, Oliver,” Martine told me gently.

I murmured something trivial and ended the call.

For a while I sat and stared at the warm country kitchen we’d spent so many hours in. This house we’d shared for years had started to feel like a temporary place over the past month, like a dream that would dissolve as soon as I opened my eyes and returned to the real world.

But it wasn’t a dream, and while it wasn’t ours anymore, I knew Sam would always be here with me. In the paint we’d chosen and the off-white kitchen cabinets he’d picked out. In the grout between the bathroom tiles and the roses we’d planted together at the end of the yard. Suddenly the thought of having to leave all this behind suffocated me. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to breathe past the constriction in my chest.

“I miss you so much,” I whispered.

A breeze touched my face, and I glanced around. The window above the sink was cracked slightly, but I didn’t remember opening it. Since I’d be going out that night, I closed and locked it. In the distance, a siren wailed, and I shut the noise out.

A strange energy crackled under my skin, light but undeniably there. I felt like I needed to do something. Although packing for this impromptu trip seemed like a good idea, I wandered up toward Sam’s art room instead. It sat right under the roof and got hot in the summer but, because of opposing windows, remained bearable when there was a breeze.

It was stiflingly oppressive in there now, so I opened the windows and inhaled the fresh air as it mingled with the scents of paint and turpentine. The smell reminded me so much of Sam and how he’d always made me feel when I found him working on his art, paint-stained and focused. Arousal built in the depths of my stomach as I remembered how we’d ended up on the colorful tarp more than once, sticky with paint and our release, because I couldn’t keep my hands off him.

The liquid heat in my belly felt strange at first. It had been almost a month since I’d experienced anything like it. At least I hadn’t lost that. I vaguely planned to have a lazy evening with a bottle of wine, a hot bath, and my right hand soon.

Paintings lined the walls, some framed, some not, all stacked together to be given away, painted over, or thrown out. Sam never sold his work. That wasn’t why he painted. I had no idea what to do with them all now. Even touching them seemed impossible. Maybe I’d leave them here and they’d be forgotten until, in fifty years’ time, someone opened up the attic and found them.

In the middle of the room was his easel. On it stood a large covered painting: his gift to me for our wedding. I took a hesitant step forward and touched the white cloth. I closed my eyes and let myself imagine for a moment.

In another world, an alternate universe maybe, one where I hadn’t insisted on going to the Nine Barrels, where we’d gone home and curled up in bed and made love until we fell asleep—in that world, I saw us standing here, our hands entwined, wedding rings still heavy, unfamiliar weights on our fingers.

Close your eyes, he’d say, and I’d obey him. I’d do anything for him, this handsome man whom I loved more than life itself. Maybe his tuxedo shirt would be unbuttoned. Maybe the bow tie would hang loose over his shoulders. Maybe his pupils would be large and his smile would be crooked the way it always was when he got a little inebriated. Close your eyes, and he’d guide me over and remove the cloth and stand behind me and hold me and say, Open.

I opened my eyes. I was all alone. Nothing had changed. The world hadn’t shifted on its axis. I was still responsible for the death of the only person I’d ever loved with all my heart. The breeze ruffled my hair. I couldn’t lift the cloth. Not yet.

Instead I went down to our bedroom and cried a little over the fresh sheets that smelled only of me now. I pulled one of his sweaters out of a drawer. I savored them like a pile of stolen candy. Only when I couldn’t bear the loneliness did I take one out to smell and hold close. I knew his scent wouldn’t last forever, so I was careful with it. Made sure I didn’t get used to it, so every whiff of it was the sweetest torture.