Later that night, I stood in my bedroom and looked around. It looked the same as it did every other night, but it felt different. For the first time, I recognized it as what Steph had called it—a prison. Steph was so present here—her clothing in the closet, her books on the shelves, her shampoo in the shower, our photos on the wall. But it wasn’t entirely in memory of her; it was punishment. A lifetime sentence of solitary confinement.
Yet I’d brought Margot here. Kissed her. Touched her. And when she’d offered to stop, I’d been the one to press on. I’d wanted her more than I’d wanted to preserve the sanctity of this space.
Would she forgive me? Would she still want the chance she’d asked for? I pictured her, and something in my stomach went weightless. I wanted to be happy again. For the first time in years, I felt like it was possible.
I glanced down at my left hand, where my wedding band still circled my finger. Slowly, I twisted it off, looked at it for a moment, then placed it in my nightstand drawer. I was slightly sick to my stomach for a moment, but after a few deep breaths, I was OK again.
It was time.
Over the next week, I made four important phone calls. One to my therapist, who was glad to hear from me, and scheduled an appointment for me within days. The second call was to Georgia, who said she would be happy to help me sort through and remove Steph’s things from the cabin. The third call went to Suzanne Reischling’s voicemail. I left a message saying I was finally cleaning out the cabin and told her to call me if she wanted to come by one night this week and see if there was anything she wanted. And the fourth call was to Brad—I wanted to sit down with him and see if there was anything I could do to help Pete and Georgia buy that house.
It made the most sense for me to buy them out and live there, especially since I was planning on moving out of the cabin anyway—too many memories there, and I was serious about moving on—and I wanted to have a place I was comfortable inviting Margot to.
Brad said he’d be glad to meet with me, and he’d be thrilled if I could buy him out. “Let me talk to the bank,” he said. “I’ll explain the situation, get the numbers, and we can sit down sometime this week.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed. “But don’t say anything to Pete and Georgia yet. I don’t want to get their hopes up.”
My first therapy session was painful, but I’d promised myself I was going to be honest. For the first time, I told him how I really felt about Steph’s death, the way it was connected to the incident in Iraq in my mind, and how that guilt had prevented me from moving on. While he couldn’t ease my conscience completely, he did give me some strategies for coping with my feelings and dealing with the guilt, and urged me to use the meds to get more sleep.
He also told me about a weekly group therapy session for Veterans that he’d organized within the last year, and I began attending them. Hearing others talk about their feelings, tell their stories, admit to struggling with guilt and anxiety just like I did made me feel like I wasn’t alone. Sometimes I didn’t even talk at those sessions, and that was OK too.
Cleaning out the cabin was tougher. I got through it with Pete and Georgia’s help, by remembering Steph’s wish to be set free, and by watching Cooper play with Bridget Jones while we worked. But it wasn’t easy or quick. We worked Wednesday evening and throughout the day Thursday. There were moments I choked up, moments I teared up, moments I had to walk outside and take a few deep breaths. Even so, there was no uncertainty. I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing.
On Thursday night, Suzanne came by, and her eyes misted when she saw the bags and boxes in the front room. “You really did it,” she said, putting a hand over her heart.
“I had to,” I said quietly, but firmly.
Her eyes scanned the room. “You took down the pictures. Why?”
“Because they were making it too difficult to move on with my life, Suzanne.” I met her eyes directly, and noticed she didn’t appear to resemble Steph quite so closely tonight. It was a relief.
“Oh.” She trailed the fingers of one hand along a box. “Are you moving on with that blond woman?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Sorry,” she said meekly. “It’s just hard this week.”
Sympathy softened my tone. “I know. But she wouldn’t want us to sit around and grieve her again. She’d want us to celebrate her life by moving on with our own.”
She nodded sadly. “My mother wants everything, but she was too upset to come.”
“I’ll help you load it. I’ve got a four wheeler here, and we can take it to your car.”