When Pastor Joe had asked me if I wanted anything special at the memorial service, the only thing I specified was for my father to read some verses from Ecclesiastes. Turn! Turn! Turn! was Greg’s favorite song. We had been driving somewhere once, and the song came on the radio. He was singing the words, and I made a joke about how you’d think he grew up in the sixties.
I would have loved to live in the sixties!
Really? Why? So much insecurity. War, the civil rights movement, the Kennedy assassination, the Martin Luther King Jr. assassination. That’s a lot of death for one decade. It would have been so sad.
Yeah, but a man on the moon, Kennedy elected, the war protests—people believed in what they did then. Instead of apathy or hopelessness, there was so much passion in the country. It was such a crazy time.
At the time, I thought it odd that Greg would ever use the word “passion” about anything. I dismissed him. I couldn’t remember when that conversation took place. Years ago, I was sure. But the Bible quote the song was based on seemed apropos. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die…
When Dad read, tears came to my eyes, but I couldn’t cry. I thought of how Greg wouldn’t see his girls grow up, go on a first date, go to the prom, graduate. He would never walk them down the aisle. I still couldn’t cry. My self-realization that morning had shelled me, and I watched the service through invisible Plexiglas. The voices were muffled; the din of a crowded church was non-existent.
I had Leah on one side and Hannah on the other. Leah squirmed, and I did not scold. Hannah whispered to me, but I didn’t answer her. As we filed out of the church, I was bombarded by people. Parishioners waiting to be able to finally offer their condolences, to officially acknowledge our newfound family of three, like an inverse marriage. Drew followed me and, as usual, understood without being told that I needed only his presence, not his words or his touch. I was gracious to the mourners. Thank you for coming. It’s so nice to see you. How’s little Samantha doing? After all, their relief was palpable. I had a label; I was Claire Barnes, a widow. Her husband died mysteriously. Poor thing! I had no reception after the service.
Mom, Dad, Sarah, and Drew came back to the house, and everyone went out of their way to be overtly happy, laughing and joking, playing with the kids. Sarah and Drew were happy to see each other again. They talked about city life, dating, and their lives, sharing war stories. I watched the scene unfold before me as though it took place in a Macy’s window display at Christmas. Death of a Husband.
Later, Drew left to go back to the city, and Sarah went upstairs to take a nap. She thankfully planned to stay for the week. Under her tutelage, I hoped my drugged haze would go away. The memorial service had triggered a change in my mood, from anger and resolve to the true sadness of a mourning woman whose husband has tragically died, compounded by guilt that accompanied my morning insight into our marriage.
That evening, I went through the motions of the evening, dinner, bath, and bed. Sarah waited for me in the dimly lit living room. A glass of wine stood on the coffee table.
I sat next to her and put my head on her shoulder. “Thank you for coming today. Without you and Drew, I really don’t know where I’d be. All I do is thank you two.”
“That’s because we’re such great people.” She smirked, swirling the wine in her glass. I smiled thinly. No, she wasn’t going to let me wallow very long.
“Let’s talk about Drew,” she blurted.
“What about him?” I asked warily.
“What’s going on there? With you two?”
“Sarah, really? Today was Greg’s memorial service. Nothing about that question seems inappropriate to you?”
“Claire, come off it. You’ve been in mourning for a year now. You’ve run the whole gamut of emotions, some of which landed you in someone else’s bed on the other side of the country. So let’s not act like you just buried the man.”
I sulked for a minute, then I caved. I knew Sarah. We could sit in silence all night; she always won.
“I don’t know. I’m all over the map with Drew.” I recounted the beach story. “I didn’t want him to leave when he did. And then when I called him back and he sprang the Olivia thing on me, I was caught completely unaware.”
“I think you’re both afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of being anything more than friends. Your whole lives, you’ve had each other. If it doesn’t work, you won’t have anything anymore. You’re both terrified.”
“I think it’s more complicated than that. Frankly, I’m scared of dating anyone right now. Drew would feel like the safest bet, I would think.”