five

Tessa

Cold, so bitter it seeps into my pores, claims every nerve ending as it settles into my bones. I’m unable to feel my fingers, but I’m desperate for the numbness to reach beyond my flesh. I yearn for the gelid air to anaesthetize my heart, put my soul out of its misery. Everything hurts. Breathing is fucking painful. Each inhale is a reminder that I’ll never breathe the same air as Trevor. Ever. Again.

Sorrow clings to the gray granite-spotted lawn. People gather near. Like me, they’re dressed in black. Unlike me, they’ll leave this place of perpetual death, and their lives will go on. I’ll be in limbo…irrevocably broken. Because my heart will no longer beat in my chest. Instead, it’ll be buried beneath the cold, dark earth.

The minister’s words are an incessant buzzing, like a thousand bees are in my head. He reads the twenty-third Psalm aloud, and it takes every ounce of restraint I can muster not to leap from this icy metal chair and demand he shut up.

“…for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

God is with me?

Maybe God should have been with Trevor. Because, if God had been with Trevor, I wouldn’t be here. There wouldn’t be a cavernous hole, six feet deep, prepared to engulf my husband. And comfort…the scripture doesn’t comfort me. The words are a poker burning my flesh. Acid poured on a gaping wound.

I tightly clasp my hands together in my lap, digging my nails into my knuckles hard enough to draw blood. An act that keeps me from covering my ears to block out the sound of the officiant.

Minutes later, though not soon enough, the minister’s voice is replaced with the shuffling of feet. I don’t lift my head as mourners file past me or acknowledge the shoulder squeezes or the whispered apologies for my loss. Instead, I focus on the ground, my eyes trained on the spot where people pause to place flowers atop my husband’s casket.

When everyone is gone and Dante is the only one left, aside from me, I rise to my feet and take a step forward.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

A single red rose trembles in my grasp as I lay it on top of the white ones left by the other mourners. With my hands placed on the frigid dark blue steel, I lean forward, laying my cheek on the casket until my flesh is numb. I turn my head, and my mouth meets the freezing metal. Chapped lips linger in a final kiss good-bye. My forehead rests against the surface, and the magnitude of my loss consumes me. An endless river of tears begins to flow.

I don’t want to let you go.

I need you.

I love you, Trevor.

How am I supposed to walk away and leave him behind?

I want so badly to beg someone to open the coffin, so I can crawl in beside him.

My hands are still flattened against the casket as sobs rip from the deepest part of me. Shattered keening wails split the sacred silence.

Masculine warmth blankets my body, and for a split second, I can feel him. Trevor. His presence palpable. I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

But it isn’t Trevor’s hands that cover my own. It isn’t Trevor who pries my frame away from the box that holds the center of my world.

Dante’s strong arms protectively wrap around me. He pulls me into his chest and tightly clutches me to him. Somehow, he knows that I can’t stand on my own.

“Shh…shh,” he shushes into my hair.

I’m not sure how long we stand like this—me clinging to Dante, him bearing the weight of my brokenness. I struggle to get myself under control, and when my heart finally calms enough that I won’t have to be carried, I let Dante lead me away.

We file past headstone after headstone, moving in the direction of the waiting town car. My vision remains fixed on my shoes. One foot and then the other. I don’t lift my head until Dante nearly misses a step, the action drawing my focus from the ground. In my periphery, I notice a woman standing next to a tree. As we draw closer, I try to place her, but I can’t. Nothing about her is familiar, but there’s something in the way she looks at me.

I glance at Dante. He wears an odd expression, and his jaw is clenched.

“Do you know her?” I gesture toward the woman.

“No,” he says, quick and dismissive. “People will be waiting for us at the house. We should get back.”

I let him steer me away, and the woman is long forgotten as I’m once again swept up in my grief.

Endless dishes full of food blanket every available space in the kitchen, and I’m sickened by the sight of it. I make my way to the chair in the living room—the same one I sat in when the officers delivered the blow that rocked my world off its axis.

I’m surrounded by a sea of faces, and I’ve never felt more alone in my life. People glance my way, all sad eyes and hushed voices. Tossing around clichés about God and mysterious ways. They offer their condolences, and when they can’t find their words, they pat my hand or give it a gentle squeeze. I want them to leave.

I buried my husband today.

I don’t give a shit about social graces.

The smell of food competes with the stench of the people. Garlic and spices clash with flowery fragrances. It makes my head hurt and my stomach roil.

When I can’t take it anymore, I slip away, undetected, shutting myself in the bedroom. Still in the black dress I wore to the funeral, I toe off my heels, pull back the covers, and slip beneath the warm bedding. Heavy-lidded eyes succumb to exhaustion, and I fall into a dreamless sleep.

When I wake, it’s quiet, too quiet for a crowd of people to be here. I listen to the stillness, the noises a home makes when it seems silent but isn’t. The hum of the ceiling fan, the ticking of a clock. Soon, I’m thinking about the sounds I’ll never hear again. Trevor’s hearty laugh, his snore, my name on his lips.

A lone tear rolls from my eye. I swipe it and climb out of bed. The sudden urge to wash today from my skin overwhelms me, and I need to use the bathroom.

I wash and dry my hands and then study my reflection. After reaching for the makeup remover, I dampen a cotton pad with the solution and wipe away the mask. With each swab of softness across my skin, the hardness of my new reality stares back at me.

Tessa Salinger. Twenty-seven years old. Widow.

Widow.

The word echoes through me like the slamming door of a cell. I turn my back and strip out of my clothes.

After my shower, I get dressed and pad into the kitchen. The counters are clear, all traces of the funeral reception gone. I walk to the refrigerator and spot a note Dante left on the door.

TESSA,

EAT SOMETHING. I’LL BE BACK SOON.

DANTE

Completely ignoring Dante’s written order, I forgo the food and grasp a bottle of water, taking it into the living room. I curl into the corner of the couch, wrapping the throw over me, and breathe out a heavy sigh. There’s a new permanent ache living in my chest. I flatten my palm, pressing against it, as if I can make it go away.

My eyes move around the room, settling on the center of the bookshelf, focusing on the framed picture of Trevor and me on our wedding day. Beside the photo is our wedding album. I can’t recall the last time I flipped through its pages. Filled with an innate desperation to be close to Trevor, I rise from my spot and walk over to the bookshelf to remove the album.

Hugging it closely to my body, I carry it back to the sofa and pull the ribbons from the intricate bow. The book lies open and flat across my lap. The memories of that day wash over me. A small laugh escapes as I remember; for someone who plans events for a living, I was a mess on my wedding day.

I stare at the close-up photograph of Trevor and me. My index finger trails over his face. He looks so handsome in his tux, his eyes bright, full of love and life, as he smiles that heart-stopping, panty-dropping grin at me. Somehow, the photographer captured the love that radiated from the two of us.

Trevor was the sum of all my childhood dreams. He was my Prince Charming. And he made me feel like…Cinderella. He gave me everything I could’ve ever wanted. Our castle was a high-rise condo. I had fancy shoes and beautiful clothes. More importantly, we shared a love that ran deep. The only thing missing was a baby, and we’d been trying without luck.

Tears stream over my cheeks, and when the pain is too much to bear, I close the album and set it on the table in front of me. Sorrow thick as quicksand sucks me into its bottomless pit.