“KARE BEAR,” MY mother calls, wrapping her arm around my slumped shoulder. “You should try to eat something.” She hands me a package of salted square crackers. “Or drink something. Alex would’ve insisted.”
I blink slowly, letting her words register.
Insisted. Past tense.
I lift my eyes to meet her gaze, silently asking if this is all real. Did my husband really die? The endless amount of sympathy combined with such pity shines through her eyes as she nods once and then brushes the hair away from my face.
“He did. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
A constant stream of people flock to the room where I’ve been sitting for the past two hours. Each comes and goes, offering quiet, awkward words of condolence. I nod and thank them, returning the gentle hugs.
“Sweetheart, let’s get you home and cleaned up.”
My gaze travels from a speck on the linoleum floor and follows the sound of my mother’s voice as she places her hand under my arm in an attempt to lift me to my feet.
Our eyes connect and I can see my pain reflected in hers. The dam of emotions breaks free. My face crumples in agony as I throw my arms around my mother’s back and wail. Deep, painful, sorrowful wails. She doesn’t tell me to stop. She doesn’t tell me to be quiet. She doesn’t say a single word. She just holds me and allows me to experience the grief that consumes me.
The circling of her hand on my back finally comes to a rest. I hiccup and wipe my face with my blood-stained scrubs.
“Let’s get you home.”
Feeling helpless and weak, I am once again supported and led out to the hallway. I keep my head down as we pass patients and their worried families.
“Daddy will be here any minute.”
As if he were an angel appearing before me, my father, the man whom I loved first, strides in through the double sliding doors and rushes toward me.
“Kare Bear.” He wraps his arms around me and tucks my head beneath his chin. I feel his chest shudder against my cheek.
“Thanks for coming,” I say as I link my fingers together behind his back. I can feel the perspiration moistening his button down shirt.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he mumbles quietly before speaking to my mother.
“Code Blue to ICU. Code Blue to ICU.”
Untangling myself from my father’s hold, I watch the team of medical experts rush in the direction of John Doe number two.
“I should go help.” I turn, ready to follow them.
Strong hands take hold of me. “Oh, no you don’t.”
“Dad, I have to. I have to save him. I told him I would save him.”
“Sweetheart, let them do their jobs.” He lowers himself to look directly at me. “Please.”
I pull my gaze away from him and look down at my trembling hands.
“I brought him back to life. With my own hands, I brought him back to life.”
Guilt surges at the thought that if I had stayed with Alex, I could’ve saved his life, too. I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped in some way.
***
AFTER TAKING A long hot shower, I wrap myself in my mother’s long white silk bathrobe and lie quietly in the bed of my childhood. I pull the quilt up, tuck it under my chin and close my eyes, praying that when I awake, this will all have just been a horrible nightmare.
A light knock on the door jars me, forcing my eyelids to part and focus on the figure moving closer.
“Alex?” I call.
After slow, quiet steps bring my mother closer, she sets down a black mug which has silver letters, etching the words Lake George, NY on its side. My mother’s proclivity for collecting tourist mugs has become somewhat of an obsession. And it was the last place Alex and I vacationed.
She smiles kindly as she sweeps a hand across my forehead then slides it down to caress my cheek. Her soft touch is warm and comforting.
“I brought you something to eat.”
My lips tighten into a hard line at the sight of the dry toast alongside the cup of freshly brewed tea. While I appreciate the kind gesture, my throat is raw from constant crying and screaming. My stomach muscles ache from vomiting as hard as I did when I insisted that my father pull his SUV over. Even my back muscles hurt.
“Thanks, Mom.” I motion with my chin to the sustenance but decline the offer.
I see her move the picture frame and alarm clock to make more room for the small dish and tea cup before I close my eyes again. My mother doesn’t like to see me like this; it makes her nervous.
“Do you want to talk?” she whispers. I feel the dip in the bed as she sits beside me, smoothing my long hair back.
“What,” I start, clearing my raspy throat before continuing. “What is there to talk about?” My eyes fill with tears and stare at her pointedly. “My husband died today.”
“Yes, he did, sweetheart. Alex is gone, but you’re still here.”
I mop my eyes with my fingertips, suppress the sob waiting to emerge, and shake my head in disbelief.
“I have so many questions. I don’t even know where to begin.”
My eyes glance around the room and land on the shelf where my cheerleading and gymnastics trophies still stand all these years later.
I had my life planned out. Go to college. Perhaps marry John. Become a nurse. Have babies. Live happily ever after.
Then Alex Parker came along and swept me off my feet.
Thoughts about the first day we met flood my mind and I smile as my index finger rubs back and forth against my thumb. Then my mother’s words cut through the memory and my fingers still.
“We need to start thinking about arrangements.”
I close my eyes and exhale quietly.
I don’t want to make arrangements. I want to go home, pick fresh basil for the pot of sauce and make chicken parmesan with a side of angel hair pasta. My husband’s favorite.
“Can you call for me?”
My mom looks down sheepishly and says that she could, but she thinks I need to do it. “A way to begin closure,” she continues with a small voice.
I nod, knowing she’s right. Somehow, my mother is always right.
Struggling to sit up, I reach for the cup of tea and take a quick sip, but it’s hot, causing me to flinch when the liquid burns my lips and the tip of my tongue.
“Easy,” my mom reprimands as if I’m a child.
Needing something to replace the tremendous ache in my heart, I bring the mug back to my lips, and tip my head back, forcing down a huge gulp of the liquid, its heat burning my throat as it travels down to my stomach.
The tightening of my face and the clenching of my teeth do little to erase the fire in me.
My mother attempts to take the cup of tea away from me while tossing me a dirty look. “You’re an adult, Karrie. Act like one.”
I snatch it back and cock my arm back, hurling the cup and its contents across the room, the brown liquid splashing against the closet door.
“I’ll leave these right here for you.”
My mother, my best friend, turns and leaves the room. I know she’s not intentionally being callous; it’s just the way she is. She’s one tough lady who deals with things head on. I usually take after her but…not today.
Glancing at the printed papers, I swipe my hand across the nightstand, sending the toast and paper flying in every direction.
***
BY MID-AFTERNOON of the following day when the arrangements have been finalized, I’ve chosen the funeral home, selected a beautiful casket, spoken to the priest at our church and even picked out a suit for my dead husband to wear. I’ve taken care of every last detail even down to his socks and shoes. I don’t understand why he has to wear them, no one will see them anyway. I begged everyone at the hospital to search for his wedding band. I didn’t want to bury him with the ring; I wanted to keep it.
Three days later on a drizzly and humid morning, I scan the scores of people who’ve come to pay their last respects and say goodbye to my husband before he’s lowered into the ground. I’ve run out of tears as they simply won’t fall anymore. My eyes slide across from my friends and colleagues to the stay at home moms who came to visit as soon as they heard, offering to make food for me and finally to the people, mostly men, who knew a different Alex. Each of them wears a black T-shirt with Alex’s race team logo. I wish I could say I know their names, but I can’t. I’ve only ever met a handful of them at our wedding.
Racing was Alex’s thing, not mine. Although we’d met at the race track, I quickly lost interest when it dominated our time together and transformed him into another person.
Each one of them gave me another “last hug” after commenting that he was such a “great guy.” I nodded and agreed because he really was…in the beginning.
While their faces morph into masks of sorrow, my mind wonders about the petite blonde named Penny who stands solemnly amongst racing friends, waiting to pay her respects to my husband and then mostly likely return to the hospital to sit with Tyler. I hadn’t given him much thought; every thought preoccupied with my own grief and I was unable to see beyond it. But for a brief moment, I thought about him.
Tyler Strong.
I thought about the child growing in Penny’s womb who might never have the opportunity to meet his or her father. The child who might possibly be raised by another man in his or her father’s absence. I wonder what Penny would tell her child. How would she raise the baby on her own?
I close my eyes, silently and, quite selfishly I suppose, thank God for not giving me a child with Alex. As awful as that sounds, I wouldn’t want a constant reminder of him living and breathing while he lies still, forever dead, beneath the earth.
Taking small steps in a short black lace dress which seems more appropriate for a bar than a funeral, Penny walks over to me.
“Karrie,” she says with a sympathetic half smile.
“Penny,” I reply in greeting. “Thanks for coming today. I’m sure Alex would’ve been happy to know you made the trip up.”
I don’t know why I say that. This woman is one of the many women featured in the never-ending tales of Tyler’s love fests.
“I’m sorry. I’m really so sorry.” Penny leans in and embraces me, squeezing almost too hard. For God’s sake, I’ve only met her once at the clinic and we hardly spoke at all. It’s not like we know each other well or would even have anything in common.
Patting her back gently, I offer comfort even though I have very little left to give. After several moments, I release her and step back.
“How’s Tyler? Any change?”
She pulls a balled-up tissue from her purse and wipes her eyes then her nose.
“No, he’s the same. I hope he makes it.”
I pinch my lips and nod in agreement as she turns to walk in the opposite direction where a small crowd remains gathered.
Tyler Strong was John Doe number two and he remains in a coma. His brain is swollen, the cuts on his face stitched up from going head first through the windshield and his right leg is severely fractured. Apparently, he was the sole passenger seated next to my husband in the truck when Alex suddenly swerved and hit the tree.
My father and I drove by the scene of the accident and saw the skid marks on the black pavement. Not too far from where people had created a makeshift memorial, I had vomited once again.
I searched for the spot where the police say both men were ejected from the vehicle. Supposedly the imprint appeared as if only one person had lain there bloody and broken. Somehow and quite inexplicably, Tyler landed on top of Alex; it’s the only reason he is still breathing, even if it is with the assistance of a ventilator. The multitudes of doctors were skeptical to offer a prognosis, but the fact that he survived at all was a miracle.
At least that’s what Odessa told me they had said.
I haven’t been to the hospital to see him.
Why would I? Why would I become a hypocrite, sitting by his bed, reassuring him he’s going to be okay? Why would I suddenly change how I feel about him just because he’s on the verge of death? Why would I want to look at him and wish he died instead of Alex?
I can’t go there.
I can’t see him because…
I hate Tyler Strong.
“You ready to go?” my father asks with a strong and steady voice as he drapes his arm over my shoulder.
I clear my throat.
“Just another minute.”
With solemn steps, I walk over to the floral arrangement and remove a single red rose, bringing it to my nose as I inhale the sweet scent. My heart quickens and I smile in remembrance of the good times we had, yet I don’t cry. My lips offer a deliberate kiss on the soft petals before I set it down amongst the many others. My husband’s beautiful and exquisitely-crafted casket is covered in a blanket of red and white flowers.
I bow my head, pray quietly, and then whisper, hoping he can hear me.
“Thank you for all the red roses and for sweeping me off my feet. Thank you for making me feel sexy and loved. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for giving me a beautiful life. Thank you for the good memories, for the good times we shared. I love you, Alex Parker.” Despite who you became and what you did.
When I open my eyes and find my father wiping his, my chin quivers and my heart sinks. Please Daddy, be strong for me.
After making sure my grandmother is safely secured in her car, my mother joins us. The fingers on each of my hands are laced and squeezed gently, reassuringly.
I slide into the open door of the black limousine, taking the proffered hand of the driver as I lower myself.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“Again Mrs. Parker, we at Chase Memorial are very sorry for your loss. Please accept our sincerest condolences.”
I look into his eyes and wonder how sincere he really is.
My parents sit alongside me in silence. I can feel the weight of their stare on my face.
I wipe the tears that found their way into my eyes and hiccup.
“Here.” My mother offers another tissue.
Nodding slowly, I wordlessly thank her.
The quiet engine comes to life as we begin our long procession, exiting us from the cemetery, up the winding small crescents of hills then down to the low valleys near an opulent mausoleum.
My eyes remained fixed as everything begins to blur and they close. I lean against the window and reminisce about the man I married, not the one I buried.