Chapter One

October

           

           

I DON’T REMEMBER SLEEPING, MUCH LESS WAKING up.

There I was—eyes open, looking at the pillow beside me, untouched, the absence of warmth so obvious it practically choked me while numbing me to any tactile sensation.

My mother was downstairs, making tea and toast, which she already knew I wouldn’t eat. I did everything in a zombie-like fashion: shower; blow-dry my hair; apply makeup. I was running low on body lotion. Sam usually bought it for me. It’s his favorite. Freesia Breeze.

I stood inside the walk-in closet. My skirts and slacks and jeans and dresses hung opposite Sam’s suits and jeans and button down shirts, all neatly aligned on wooden hangers. I pulled out my black velvet, thrift-store blazer, a pair of dark blue jeans, and tan suede boots. Mom knocked and entered without waiting for an answer or an invitation.

            “What on earth are you wearing?” she asked after taking in an eyeful.

            “What’s wrong with this? The blazer is black. It’s Sam’s favorite.”

            “You can’t wear that, Andi. You simply can’t. You’ve got a closet of more appropriate clothes.”

            I had neither the time nor the energy to tell her that I only wear the pantsuits when there’s a function with the university chancellor or when the department is recruiting candidates for hiring, or that Sam thinks I should be walking into court when I’m wearing a pantsuit. I scanned the rack; what else does Sam like? I spied a black cocktail dress and pulled it out, remembering the first time I’d worn it.

“Now that’s a pantsuit,” he’d said.

“How is that possible?”

“’Cause it makes me pant when you wear it.”

Standing in front of the full length mirror, I stared at my reflection, but didn’t recognize who stared back. Long, bottled auburn hair falling in wide ringlets, its real gray appearing at the roots. Lifeless ashen eyes, once the color of emeralds. Round, faded pink lips. Just standing there, staring at me. Who the hell are you?

Mom disapproved again.

            “Don’t you think that’s a little too dressy?”

            “Sam likes it.”

            “Andi, I understand—”

            “No, you don’t. I’m wearing this.”

            She closed her mouth and left the room.

            A half hour later at the kitchen table, Mom stirred her coffee while I pushed away the plate of toast.

            “Are you sure you’re up for giving the eulogy?” she asked.

            “Again with this?”

            “I just don’t see how—”

            “We’re not discussing this, Mom. I’m doing it.”


***

           

I don’t remember how we got to the church or who drove me there; it just sort of magically appeared. I don’t remember walking inside, or seeing anyone in particular. Just a sea of black, like a big tarpaulin spread out over the pews. How depressing, I thought. I don’t remember anything the priest said. I didn’t feel my brother Joey holding my left hand or my brother Tony holding my right. But, at some point, I stood up. Rather, my brothers stood up and pulled me along. One of them escorted me to the lectern. In one hand I clenched a piece of paper folded in quarters, crinkled and damp with perspiration. I looked out at the black tarps on each side of the church. Oh, I know where we are, I said to myself. We got married in this church. I saw my best friend Maggie on the left, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Is the left side for friends of the bride or the groom? I always forget.

            As I unfolded the paper, it then occurred to me that I was inappropriately dressed. When I looked down at the paper and scanned the words scrawled in my longhand, a more horrid realization came to me: this was crappy writing.

            My mouth dry, I licked my lips and tried to clear my throat, but nothing happened. So I opened my mouth and let the sounds come out. I read, and spoke:


“Anyone who knows me knows that my love life was a train wreck from day one. In fact, I don’t think I ever really understood love until I met Sam. We met at a writing conference six years ago in New York. Then we long-distance dated via emails and phone calls. Looking back, I’m glad that’s the way it happened because I’m not sure I would’ve really given him a chance otherwise. I didn’t trust my instincts—hell, when it came to men and love, I didn’t even have instincts. But I fell in love with him over the course of that correspondence and fortunately I was offered a teaching position here so I took it and left New York and the rest is history.”
 

            I looked up from the paper and added, “But you know all of this, don’t you.”

I continued:


“Sam’s my best friend in the world. I can think of no one else who I’d rather be spending my Saturdays with. No one makes a better pancake. No one imitates Jimmy Stewart as badly as he does, and no one can make me laugh quite the way he does.
 

“Did,” I corrected.


“His students absolutely loved him. He often had grad students over to the house, and both they and his undergrads would give him collectibles—the study is filled with these bobble-head dolls. But the real reason they love him so much is because he’s real to them. His humanity comes out on every page that he writes with them, that he reads in their own writing, that he shares. And man, his writing was so good. Sometimes I wanted to cover my own with a sheet…
 

 “…like now, for instance.”

I heard a couple of laughs, albeit nervous ones.

“No, really,” I said. “This is bad.”

I continued.


“He loved being imperfect, being human. He really has—had—this curiosity for life and took pleasure in simple things. Books. Trees. A cup of coffee. A photograph. He couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but loved those who could.”
 

I looked at Joey and Tony; they were smiling wistfully. I looked down at the paper and realized I was at the end. Where’s the rest of it?

“Well, that’s all I’ve written. I don’t know what else to say, except thank you all for coming.”

I left the lectern and returned to my place between Joey and Tony. Aside from the whirring noise echoing through the heating ducts, the church was dead silent. I suppose dead silence was an appropriate metaphor.

How could I write such crap? How could I show up so unprepared? God, Sam, how could I have let you down?


***


The house was full of people to whom I was oblivious. I stood at the window upstairs in Sam’s study, surrounded by his stupid bobble-head dolls, looking out at our bench swing amongst the autumn maples in the backyard—they were more bare than usual at this time of year. I pressed my face against the glass, leaving an oval of steam on it. When’s he coming back? I wondered. He’s coming soon. I know it. He’ll walk through that door any minute, bottle of sparkling cider in hand. It was all a mishap, he’ll say. And he’ll tell me a spectacular story, grossly exaggerated, voices and all, about how one little innocent trip to the store somehow wound him up in Cuba.

I shuddered and folded my arms to grip my shoulders in a self-sustaining hug, wearing Sam’s hooded EdmundCollege sweatshirt over the cocktail dress; it’s the one I always stole from him.