And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (23 page)

“Was Daddy sitting or standing when he died? Where was he?”

“He was sitting on the floor in our bedroom, right under the window.”

“Were you there?”

“Yes, I was there.”

“What did you do? What did you say?”

“I worked so hard to help him stay alive. I breathed my air into him, and I pushed on his chest to help his lungs keep working.”

“But then his heart just stopped, right?”

“Right.”

“And his lungs just stopped, right?”

“Right. I heard his very last breath. I was right there, buddy. I listened to Daddy breathe his last breath.”

“What did you say?”

Oh, God. Help me.
I wept as I answered my son.

“I held his face, and I grabbed his shirt, and I said, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,’ and those are the words he took with him to heaven.”

“What does it feel like to die, Mommy?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, because I have never died. But you know what I think? I think an angel came to our house that night or maybe many angels. Daddy tried so hard to stay alive; I watched him trying so hard to stay with us. And then I think an angel whispered to him, ‘It’s okay, Robb. Tucker is okay, and Tyler is okay, and Tricia is okay. And you can come to heaven now. It’s time to go.’ And that’s when I think his soul left his body and he went to heaven.”

“Did he go through outer space to get there?”

“No, the Bible says that as soon as we leave our bodies, we are with Jesus, so I don’t think Daddy had very far to travel. I think maybe it’s like he stepped into a new room he had never seen before.”

I parked the car in the lot at the grocery store.

“Mommy? I can help you find the root beer for our floats.”

“Thank you, lovey.”

They unfastened their seat belts. Tyler climbed into my lap, and Tucker stood behind the driver’s seat, smoothing my ponytail. “Good Mommy. Good Mommy.” He petted my head, as if I were a puppy.

Tyler jumped to the defense. “Tucker, that doesn’t help her when you do that. Don’t pet her. Don’t say, ‘Good Mommy.’ ”

“Actually, buddy, that’s okay. He’s fine.”

“We can say that? We can say, ‘Good Mommy’?”

“Sure.”

He petted my nose. I’m okay with that, just this once.

Tucker said, “Do you think Daddy can see you?”

“I think he can.”

“Do you think he knows you’re crying?”

“You know, buddy, I feel like maybe he does today.”

Tucker opened the van door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He leaned his head back, looked up at the sky, threw his arms wide, and said, “Good Daddy. Good Daddy.”

Either the spiders have gone overly crazy with their web designs in the lofty corners of my front porch, or that is something Robb routinely took care of without telling me. I suspect the latter is the case.
Cobwebs sneaked right into the corners of my porch this fall. They were large in their grayness and clearly visible from the street. That doesn’t make a home so inviting but more like the haunted house of the neighborhood. No need to start any of those rumors. So I headed out there with my broom, and I began sweeping away at the corners, clearing out all the muck. I reached as I high as I could. But the spiders had reached higher. I stood on my tiptoes. I reached with my broom.

Finally I resorted to throwing the broom at the cobwebs, hurtling it up in the general direction, and ducking out of the way before the broom or the cobwebs hit the ground. Repeatedly. In the end I resolved to bring the stepstool outside so I could reach and clear the cobwebs—the task I was avoiding as if it involved a donation of my bone marrow. By the time I finished, I had cobwebs in my hair, in my flip-flops, and I’m pretty sure in my teeth.

But my entryway is inviting again. All to make room for the autumn wreath. I took on the cobwebs. Robb would never believe this to be true.

“When you completed your first draft, what did you do?”

I clicked Save. Then I got out of my chair, and I put my face to the carpeted floor in my office, my palms open and raised.

God, rain your holy fire on this offering.

This is what I can give.

May you breathe life into it. Rain your holy fire.

May these words catch your flame and burn like wildfire.

I closed my laptop. I took one deep breath. Then I grabbed my iPod and left the house. I walked the trail near my home, the one on which I trained for the 5K. I didn’t quite run, but I didn’t quite walk. I danced. When I came home, sweaty with dancing and singing with exhilaration, I took the rest of the day off by cleaning out the basement.

“And so you have finished your first draft, Tricia. What a unique way to heal,” my friend says to me. “You are, like, the Queen of Nondenial.”

“That’s a beautiful way to say that.”

“It’s true. You are. You’ve immersed yourself in this over and over again. You’ve lived it a thousand times over because you’ve put yourself in it again and again as you’ve written and rewritten.”

Healing comes in telling the story a thousand times. The next morning I began revising and editing with fresh eyes, a cup of coffee, and a new coat of lipstick. This is one wild ride.

Quite independently, very much on their own, the boys have each begun praying for their “new daddy.”

“Mommy, when will he find us?”

“Mommy, did you pray for him today?”

“Mommy, you know I miss my real daddy, right? You know that, right? But I know there will be a new one. I just know it.”

One of my sons is exceedingly concerned that the “new daddy” will speak only Spanish. They have a growing list, a vision of him, of which I am recording every word.

“Mommy, he will love you so much. I know he will.”

“Let’s pray for him again. Right now, Mommy.”

Robb and I had prayed together for the spouses of our children, for our someday daughters-in-law. I continue to pray for those lovely, lucky ladies. As I prayed for their future spouses, never did I imagine I would listen to my children pray for mine.

“Mommy, when you find my new daddy, I think you won’t be sad anymore.”

Well, my sweet child, I do understand what you mean and what you hope for. Because you are too young to understand the complexities of love and healing and commitments and shared life, I simply smile and kiss you on your downy head.

The truth is, when the new daddy and I find each other, that’s a gift I intend to give him: he won’t have to fill a void. It won’t be his task to replace what has been lost, to heal my heart, to create my joy. There will be a new place that will be all his, and there will be new joy for our family to find together.

And sometimes I’ll still cry. And when I do, it will be okay.

I think I’m ready. I’m not ready to get married, not ready to be engaged, not ready to be in a serious relationship. But I’m ready to have coffee with someone interesting.

Maybe even dinner.

Everybody brings stuff. He brings his, she brings hers, and together they build a relationship that starts with the invisible elements they each brought. Some of the stuff is beautiful: skills and gifts that help
one to love well. Laughter that is contagious. Arms that are safe, strong, familiar. Eyes that listen, eyes that smile.

Some of the stuff is not as beautiful. Scars that show, scars that don’t. Wounds that are contagious. Stories often kept quiet. Secrets left hidden, shrouded in gray. The beauty of all beauties is when the stuff is scattered by a strong gust of wind, a tornado of catastrophe, or the decision to unlock the box. When all the stuff is there, no longer hidden, and when one can say to the other, “You do not disgust me. I love you as I hold this.”

I take the box from the shelf in my closet. How does he fit into that box? It is heavy and light at the same time: heavier than I think ashes should be, lighter than my husband could possibly be. I take off the lid and undo the twist tie; his dust is held together like a loaf of bread. I reach my hands into the bag and touch my fingers to the ash. I scoop some into my hands. It is coarse, rugged, rough. I thought it would be soft and powdery, but there are pieces. I touch them, hold them in my hands, let them slip through my fingers, his dust. I know how they feel, I know what they leave behind, I know what once was mine. In this world, this is all that remains of the man I married.

I lie on the floor of our bedroom, my face to the carpet where he was, where I kissed his forehead, told him good-bye. I stretch my body the length of his, remembering where his head rested, where his palms lay open. I weep with bitterness, drowning. I scratch at the carpet, hungry for any piece of him.
He was here. I held him here. Some piece of him must be here.
I claw and wail until my fingers and throat are raw.

I lie still, poured out. I whisper my promise to him once more, “This does not disgust me. I love you as I hold these ashes.” I curl
myself on the carpet, into the memory of his arms around me. In hiccupping sobs, I fall asleep where he had been.

Stan left a message on voice mail: “Hey, kid. I’m not giving up on you. Let me buy you lunch.”

He sat across the table with his creamy cup of coffee, I with my Diet Coke. He poured his wisdom into me one more time.