Chapter 1
Determined to distract myself from waiting for the results of a recent round of tests, I dropped a pile of boxes on the floor outside my late husband’s closet. After putting off the inevitable by taking far longer to assemble the boxes than necessary, I opened the door and entered. Nothing had changed in the past year and a half, not even the faint fragrance of his favorite cologne. I choked back a sob, grabbed a carton, and went to work.
Working slowly and methodically, I folded each of Michael’s dress shirts, careful not to fold in wrinkles—as if packing for a trip rather than a ride to the local thrift shop. I moved on to his pants, checking each pocket for loose change, forgotten credit cards, or other reminders of him. Each time my fingers moved across an object, I winced.
Truth be told, I secretly hoped to discover a stray receipt to a local hotel, a phone number scribbled hastily on a bar napkin, or a love letter not written in my hand. Not that I had written any love letters in the last thirty years. Then I would have proof that Michael’s distance and coldness were the result of an affair. I could live with that because then I could let go of my guilt. The guilt of knowing I was the one who ruined our marriage. If only I could blame his indifference on an affair, then I could stop being angry at myself. Stop holding our family together for the sake of our children. And finally let Michael go.
After taping the last box, I took one last look at the empty closet. High on the shelf, where Michael’s athletic apparel had previously been, sat the urn that contained his ashes. It had started out on the living room mantel, but after seeing it every day, I’d finally moved it to his closet where I didn’t have to be reminded.
I took it to the living room and returned it to the mantel.
Running a finger across the smooth porcelain vessel, I said, “What am I going to do with you?” In the months prior to his death, we had talked about his wish to be cremated, but the talk had never progressed to where he wanted his ashes spread.
“Surely you don’t want to remain forever sitting on the mantel, being dusted once a week.” I shook my head. Stop it, Annie. Talking to this urn is why you moved it to the closet. No, the urn would not stay forever on the mantel, but I didn’t know just yet what to do with it. I could put it back in the closet and let the kids deal with it once I was gone, too, but somehow that didn’t seem fair to them.
Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of all the things I should have said to Michael before he died. The answers I wanted but did not get. The possibility that my latest round of tests would reveal that I, too, had a fatal disease. Would we have a different ending if we’d had a different beginning?
Get yourself under control, Annie.
I took my phone and a glass of wine to the patio. I would think about his urn later. For better or worse, the view from my lounge chair was just as depressing as Michael’s closet. Dandelions flourished amid the once-lush hibiscus, lantana, and coreopsis, all in serious need of deadheading and pruning. At some point—I couldn’t remember when—I’d given up on caring. The weeds overtook my backyard, and I let them grow. It seemed too much a chore to dig up each one by hand, being careful not to uproot a neighboring plant or bush. Besides, the bees loved the yellow flowers. Maybe someday I’d make dandelion wine. Probably not.
The phone rang and I jolted. I scanned the display and saw Tim’s name and number—Michael’s best friend. My finger toyed with pressing the icon to answer, but instead, I let it go to voice mail. The irony of the call was not lost on me. I hadn’t heard from Tim since Michael’s memorial service a year and a half ago. Now today, of all days, he reached out. Too little, too late.
I met Michael and Tim my senior year at college. They were both third-year law students. Though they looked enough alike to be brothers, they were opposites in the personality department. Where Tim was outgoing and funny, Michael was introverted and brooding. I had mistaken the brooding as being thoughtful and driven. After several years of marriage, it was not so charming. Michael was often sullen and moody toward me. He hid that trait from our children, the public, and even Tim. But I felt it full force. He was still thoughtful and driven in his work and public life, but at home, the moodiness surrounded him like a dark cloud in a thunderstorm. When he wasn’t interacting with the children, he holed up in his study until the wee hours of the morning, coming to bed only after I had long since fallen asleep.
My memories were interrupted when the phone rang again. Had I not been waiting for the doctor’s office, I would have ignored it. A glance at the screen told me it was the call I had been dreading. My stomach clenched, and I hesitated before finally answering.
“Hello.”
“Annie Chisholm, please.” My doctor’s voice sounded brisk and stern. Not at all sympathetic.
“This is Annie.”
“Annie, it’s Dr. Bench. Do you have a minute to go over your test results?”
I sucked in a breath, bracing myself for bad news. “Yes.”
“Everything came back normal, except your cholesterol is a little high. And like I said when you were here last week, your blood pressure is borderline.” She sighed. “I don’t think it’s anything that modifying your diet and staying active can’t resolve.”
I couldn’t seem to let go of the air in my lungs. “That’s it? All the tests are back?”
“Yes. I have everything. You can check your account online and see all the results, including some dietary suggestions. I’ll want to see you back in six months to review your progress.”
“I’m not dying?” I had bolstered myself for this conversation. Well, not this one. The one where she told me I was terminal.
She chuckled. “You sound disappointed.”
“No. I j—I just thought with all the symptoms I’d been having, there was something dreadfully wrong. Are you sure? Do we need to retake the tests?”
“Blood pressure, my dear, and stress. How long’s it been since Michael’s death?”
“A year and a half. But—”
“But nothing. Annie, I’ve run every test imaginable in the last year, and there is nothing wrong that a little diet and exercise won’t solve. If you’re feeling anxious, I can prescribe something to help.”
I pulled a stray thread from the hem of my shirt and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger. “No.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked, more empathetic this time.
“You are certain I’m not dying?”
“Annie, we’re all dying. None of us can skirt death, but there is absolutely nothing in your chart to indicate that your death is imminent. Losing a spouse is traumatic. Have you been to grief counseling or seen a therapist?”
“No, that’s not really my thing.” Spilling my guts to someone was the last thing I wanted. There was too much baggage in my past to drag it out to a stranger.
“If you change your mind, I can make a referral,” she said.
“No, I’m fine, really. This is great news. I was just prepared for the worst-case scenario.”
“All right then. Can I transfer you to scheduling to get your follow-up appointment on the books?”
“No. I’ll take care of it later.” I forced a smile and vowed to reduce the stress in my life.
