“Ben, I-”
“Forgive yourself, Liz. Give yourself the freedom to be alive again.” He put his hand on the door and swung it open. I couldn’t stop him tonight. I couldn’t even make words to respond to that speech. He gave me a slow, hopeful smile and disappeared into the sleepy twilight.
I watched him walk across our lawns without looking back. He’d said everything he had to say. He made his point.
And like so many times before, he challenged everything I thought and believed and then asked me to believe it too.
Could I do what he asked?
Did I love him enough to give us a chance? A real chance without the walls I’d built around my heart or the ghosts of Grady’s life haunting us?
Could I do as he asked and give up this buried existence that I’d entombed myself in and live again?
I would never forget Grady. He was my true love.
But maybe some people were allowed to have two. Maybe my love story didn’t end with one man, but continued throughout the course of my life.
Maybe Grady had been able to love the woman that I was, but Ben would get to love the woman I had yet to become.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I pulled the van to the side of the narrow road and slowed to a stop. I hadn’t been here as often as I should have, but this place had a special familiarity I felt every time I came.
I turned the car off and sat in the still quiet of my car for a very long time.
I needed to face something today and I didn’t necessarily want to.
Gravestones spotted the rolling hills on every side of me, making neat, evenly spaced rows. The grave markers came in every size and shape, but they all declared the same sad event-someone had died.
I had always thought gravestones were fascinating. Rarely were they designed by those that rested beneath them. They were in fact, made from the projected feelings of loved ones that remained alive. Or the nearest living relative. Or maybe by the state.
They said what we wanted them to. They represented a part of the deceased that we decided should be displayed.
Grady and I had talked a lot before he died. We had hours to plan his funeral while he wasted away in the hospital. We had long days to make decisions about the kids and their future. We talked about the past, the present and the future. We talked in hopeful tones and despairing ones. We whispered secrets and sweet nothings to each other. And we held on to each other as if our love had the power to keep him alive, to make him healthy again.
Not once did we discuss his gravestone or what would go on it.
After he died, it was the very first realization I had that I would not be able to do this without him.
The man had helped me plan his own funeral. He picked out the songs that would be sung and the people that he wanted to speak. He chose his pallbearers and the minister from his closest group of friends and relatives.
And yet, he had never mentioned what kind of gravestone he wanted displayed above his lifeless body.
When I sat down with the undertaker and he started asking questions about what kind of casket Grady would want to be buried in and what the stone should say, I completely lost it.
Emma and my dad were there to hold me as I collapsed on the floor and wept. The director handed my sister a box of tissues and excused himself from the room. It was obvious he had seen his fair share of grieving widows.
It took me six more hours before I could decide anything.
I cried the entire time.
I just couldn’t bring myself to make such a lasting decision about Grady without him. The color of the stone… the shape… the words engraved into the smooth surface… No matter how much I loved that man, I did not feel equipped to write his final message to the world.
Even now, as I looked at the stone through my windshield, I didn’t like it. It wasn’t Grady. It was my pain and grief. The words weren’t from Grady’s mouth; they were from my broken heart.
This place didn’t remind me of Grady and the life we lived together. This place reminded me of loss and misery. It reminded me of everything that had been taken from me.
When I wanted to see my husband, I looked at his children. I looked at the house he had built for me.
I looked in the mirror at the woman he had loved with everything that he was.
This morning, I had woken with the desperate need to talk to him. I had reached over in our bed and felt the searing slice of loss all over again. He wasn’t there, but I couldn’t shake the pressing urge to talk to him. I had questions I needed to ask him. I had thoughts I wanted to run by him. I needed him here.
I needed him.
Except I couldn’t have him.
So, I had done the only thing I could think to do. I called up Emma and asked her for the millionth time to come watch my kids. For a split second I had contemplated bringing them with me. I dismissed the idea as soon as Jace knocked his full cup of water onto the floor.
I needed peace and quiet or this trip would be for nothing.
When I told Emma what I wanted to do, she canceled her plans and raced over. I told her she didn’t need to do that, but she completely supported this mission of mine. She’d told me so at least thirteen times.
With a heavy sigh, I opened my door and stepped into the crisp morning. October had turned beautiful in the last week. The big trees rustled with bright yellow and orange leaves. The grass had turned brown beneath the layers of fallen leaves. The air smelled like football and harvest.
I pulled my jacket tighter around my waist and trudged toward Grady’s plot.
There wasn’t anyone else around on this Thursday morning. I had the place completely to myself. The only people around to keep me company were the ghosts of other lives.