I start crying. I put that wedding ring on him myself, my hand shaking while his was steady as a rock. I remember seeing it on him the next day thinking that I never knew how sexy a wedding ring was on a man until it was my ring, until I put it there.
She comes over to me on the couch and holds me. She takes my left hand and she puts the ring into it, balling my fingers up into a fist as she holds me.
“Shh,” she says. “It’s okay.” She puts her head on top of mine. My head is buried in her chest. She smells like a sweet, flowery, expensive perfume. She smells like she’s worn the same perfume for forty years, like it’s molded to her. Like it’s hers. She is warm and soft, her sweater absorbing my tears, whisking them away from my face and onto her. I can’t stop crying and I don’t know if I ever will. I feel the ring in my hand, my palm sweating around it. My fist is so tight that my fingers start to ache. I let my muscles go, falling into her. I can hear myself blubbering. I am wailing loudly; the noises coming out of me feel like blisters. Once I have calmed, once my eyes have gotten control of themselves again, I stay there. She doesn’t let go.
“He loved you, Elsie. I know that now. My son wasn’t a very romantic person, but I doubt you ever knew that. Because he was clearly very romantic with you.”
“I loved him, Susan,” I say, still stationary, inert. “I loved him so much.”
“I know you did,” she says. “He kept a copy of his proposal in his wallet. Did you know that?”
I perk up. She hands the paper to me, and I read it.
“Elsie, let’s spend our lives together. Let’s have children together and buy a house together. I want you there when I get the promotion I’ve been shooting for, when I get turned down for something I’ve always hoped for, when I fall and when I stand back up. I want to see every day of your life unfold. I want to be yours and to have you as my own. Will you marry me? Marry me.”
“Will you marry me?” is crossed out and replaced with the more forward statement. “Marry me.”
This isn’t how he proposed. I don’t even know what this is. But it feels good to know he struggled with how to ask me. This was one of his attempts. His handwriting was so very bad.
“I found it in his wallet when I went through it. That’s when I got it. You know? Like it or not, you are the truth about Ben. He loved you fiercely. And just because he didn’t tell me, doesn’t mean he didn’t love you. I just have to keep telling myself that. It’s a hard one to make sense of, but anyway, you should have these things. He would want that.” She smiles at me, grabbing my chin like I am a child. “I am so proud of my son for loving you this way, Elsie. I didn’t know he had it in him.”
It feels nice to think that maybe Susan could like me. I am actually overwhelmed by how nice that thought feels. But this is not the Susan I know. And it makes me feel uneasy. If I’m being honest, part of me is worried she’s going to wait until my defenses are down and then sock me in the stomach.
“Anyway, I would love to get to know you,” she says. “If that is okay with you. I should have called before I came up here, but I thought”—she laughs—“I thought if I was you, I’d tell me to fuck off, so I didn’t want to give you the chance.”
I laugh with her, unsure of what exactly is going on and how to respond to it.
“Can I take you to lunch?” she asks.
I laugh again. “I don’t know,” I say, knowing my eyes are swollen and I haven’t showered.
“I wouldn’t blame you for asking me to leave,” she says. “I was awful, when I think about it from your point of view. And you don’t know me at all, but I can tell you that once I realize I’m wrong, I do everything to make it right. I’ve thought about this for weeks and I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready to do better. I really do want to get to know you and I’d love to just . . . start over.” She says “start over” like it’s a refreshing thought, like it’s something people can actually do. And because of that, I start to feel like maybe it is possible. Maybe it’s easier than it feels. We will just start over. Let’s try again.