LITMIR.BIZ

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In a coffee shop right now. It’s nice. Hope you’re okay, too. We’d had a similar exchange every morning since I left and I guessed that would be the nature of our communication for a while. Polite and bland. Empty words. The sort you might write to an acquaintance you checked in with once a year instead of a man you’d shared your life with for so long. A man you’d made love to and laughed with and cried with.

      We used to email each other all the time during the day. The days I worked in the pharmacy, I’d check in to talk about dinner or household things or simply to tell him I loved him. The days I was home, I’d describe what Carolyn and I were up to and he’d write back saying he was sad that he wasn’t with us. He meant it, too. My friends had envied that, how close he and Carolyn were. How capable Michael was of taking care of her. If my friends had to leave their kids with their husbands for some reason, they worried the guys wouldn’t be able to manage. I never worried about that with Michael. He’d take Carolyn to the park or just make up a game to play with her on the spot. I’d admired that about him. He was so creative and fun and Carolyn always looked forward to “Daddy Time.”

      How did he stand it, losing her? He’d loved her so much. How could he just go back to normal, talking about having another baby like nothing had happened? I didn’t understand my husband.

      I deleted a bunch of spam, along with a confirmation email from Judith about our next appointment, and that was the sum total of my mail. A few weeks ago, I realized someone had taken me off my neighborhood Mom’s Group email list. I’d been part of that list for four years. It was a way of staying connected and sharing experiences and advice. We made plans for birthday parties or announced a spontaneous get-together at the park. After Carolyn died, they took me off the list for a week or so while they figured out how to help Michael and me. They divvied up food responsibilities, bringing us casseroles and meatloaf and chicken potpie every night. Michael and I didn’t need to think about cooking for a month. The only thing was, we couldn’t eat. Or at least I couldn’t. Some of that food was still in our freezer.

      Then they put me back on the list, but that was torture of the first order. How could I read about what they were doing with their kids? Debates about vaccinations, recommendations of pediatric dentists and ideas for birthday gifts. Temper tantrums and preschool problems and, the worst, the get-togethers I would no longer be part of? The moms emailed me separately to find out how I was doing, but gradually that stopped. I wondered who made the decision to take me off the list? Who said, “She never participates anymore. We should just remove her” or “Maybe it’s hurtful to her to be on the list? Should we take her off?” Yes, it was hurtful to be on the list and just as hurtful to be off it. But what hurt the most was how everyone had disappeared, as though I didn’t matter anymore because I didn’t have a child. I honestly didn’t blame them. We were in different worlds now. My world was scary to them and theirs was painful to me.

      So now I had Harley’s Dad and Friends, and I navigated to that group to see what everyone was up to. I read through the most recent messages. There were some new people and I welcomed them and offered sympathy. They shared their stories in long, wordy, tearful paragraphs and I nodded as I read them. My heart expanded to take them into my world. I’d asked Judith, “Is it nuts that the people I love the most right now are these strangers in the Harley’s Dad group?” and she’d just smiled and said, “What do you think?” turning it back on me as she usually did.

      There was an angry comment written by Mom-of-Five whose sister told her “Life is for the living and you need to get over your grief for the sake of your other children.” I felt indignant on her behalf and I typed an empathetic response, my fingers flying over the iPad screen. In my mind, I lumped her sister together with Michael and with anyone else who dared to tell someone she was grieving the wrong way.

      Early on, Michael and I had been in the same place when it came to our sorrow. We were both in that denial stage where we walked around crying and shaking our heads and saying “I just don’t believe it” and “This can’t be happening.” We held each other and cried for hours and I loved him with all my heart. He was my connection to Carolyn, the person who shared the deepest love of her anyone could imagine. But then he returned to work, just a week after she died. He wanted to go, and I didn’t understand how he could possibly concentrate on work. Right then, I couldn’t imagine ever going back to my job. But Michael simply threw himself into some new project. I used to admire his work. He’d convinced me that his style of video game design went way beyond sport to something with far greater significance. “It’s about social connection,” he’d say. “It’s about people working together to solve problems.” He’d won a few awards for his games and I’d been proud of him. Now, though, I thought his work was superficial and silly. Games! What on earth did they matter? Still, you’d think he was saving the planet with the hours he put in. He’d work till six, then come home, eat dinner, and work some more in our home office. On the weekends, he started doing all the handyman jobs he’d put off for years. Repairing the deck. Painting the family room. Keeping busy so he didn’t have to listen to me rant and rave. As far as I could tell, he was finished grieving.

      We saw Judith together a few times, but Michael was done talking about Carolyn by then, while I felt as though I was just getting started. I needed to talk about her. The way that one lock of hair on her forehead would never lay flat. The way she’d sing to herself in bed at night or come into our room to cuddle with us on Saturday morning. Chatty. She was always chatty. When I started talking about that terrible night on the pier, sifting through every detail of it, I wasn’t surprised when Michael got up and left the room. “This is pointless,” he said over his shoulder to Judith. “She can’t let go of it.”

      After he left the room, I looked at Judith. “See?” I said. “He’s done with her and I’ll never be done with her.”

      “Men and women grieve differently,” Judith said. She was fiftyish with straight, chin-length gray hair and vivid blue eyes. My doctor had recommended I see her shortly after Carolyn died, when no matter what drug I took, I couldn’t sleep. When I did doze off, I’d be back on that pier, reliving the whole thing all over again.

      “I can accept that men and women grieve differently,” I said, “but I can’t live with it any longer.” That was the day I decided to move out.

      After an hour in the coffee shop, I felt a little guilty sitting there with my empty cup and half-eaten bagel, even though no one was fighting for my seat. I went up to the counter and asked Nando for a refill.

      “You’re new here,” he said as he filled my cup.

      “I just moved to the area last week.”

      “You working nearby?”

      “No, I’m taking a little time off.”

      “Room?” he asked.

      “I … What?”

      “Room for cream? I don’t remember how you took that first cup.”

      “Oh. No. Black, please.”

      “I’ll remember for next time,” he said with that dimply smile as he handed me the cup. “So, where did you move from?”

      “Just … not far. A different part of Raleigh.” I wanted to get back to my seat. “Thanks for the refill,” I said.

      “Anytime.”

      I sat down in the leather chair again and opened my iPad. There was a new father in the Harley’s Dad and Friends group and he was in major pain. I wanted to respond to him. To let him know he wasn’t alone. I couldn’t imagine Michael ever baring his soul so openly, online or off. I typed a few lines to him. Donald, I’m so sorry you have to be here, but I’m glad you found us. It sounds like your daughter was a truly special little girl.

      Nando started singing something in Spanish as he waited on another customer. I glanced over at him. He’d said he’d remember how I liked my coffee. So much for anonymity. I’d sounded rude, the abrupt way I’d answered his questions. Questions were becoming a challenge. It was nobody’s business why I’d moved from one part of Raleigh to another.

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