Tori’s hands trembled anxiously as she pushed up off the uncomfortable seat of the metal folding chair. She adjusted her sitting position to relieve the shooting pain in her bottom. Jim had always teased her about her bony bum when she sat on his lap.

It was a hot one. And it was never hot in Park City. But today, in this heat, she longed to be on a Mexican beach, tickling Jim’s arm as the salty ocean breeze cooled her coconut scented body, not in a cemetery.

A blinding light stunned her pupils, causing her to blink uncontrollably. She reached for the sunglasses on top of her head as she tilted her face, squinting to avoid the harsh afternoon sunlight. Not there. She raised her leg slightly, and, using the heel of her black stiletto shoe, opened the tan, leather shoulder bag at her feet.

The cherry red sunglasses Jim had given her for her last birthday rested atop her lime green Coach wallet, another present. She could afford to buy herself those things, but he was a gift-giver. It was his way of showing his affection for her. She sighed in resignation. Tori’s complete emotional exhaustion prevented her from bending over to recover the sunglasses. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip and trickled down the back of her neck.

How could they be burying her husband on a sunny day, when families were having picnics in the park, and adventurers were climbing mountains? Weren’t funerals in the movies always staged in the rain? Why did the skies not echo her sorrow?

Gussie, Tori’s identical twin sister, stood to place a white lily on the casket. Her navy blue, silk dress fluttered over her body like an afternoon ripple across a secluded mountain lake. Gussie sobbed. She leaned over to rest her forehead on the casket, and, as she ran her hands along the seam of the lacquered, copper embellished box, the hem of her dress raised up to caress her upper-thigh. In her early thirties, Gussie still had the perfect body. The scene would have sent a priest to confession.

Tori took in a sharp, nervous breath, and glanced back at the rows of mourners behind her. She shook her head in disappointment. Only a handful of men who weren’t family had the class, or previous marital training, to look away.

Gussie, despite her name, was a gorgeous run-way model. Tori had had her day in the spotlight, along-side Gussie in those revealing evening gowns that made her feel like a movie star. They were quite the dynamic duo. That was before her pregnancy. Tori no longer dressed to impress. None of that glam and pretense appealed to her now. Nothing appealed to her now, and most likely never would, ever again.

Why wasn’t she crying uncontrollably? Was this the shock stage of grief that friends whispered with sideways glances in her direction?

Whispers.

Why was whispering allowed in a civilized society? It was the worst form of torture.

Tori felt a tug on her arm. She looked down at her eight-year-old, toe-head son. His eyes were tired, but not as red as hers.

“I’m hungry,” Ethan whispered with a pleading face that shot a dart into Tori’s heart.

“Me too,” she lied. She hadn’t been hungry in days. When did she last eat?

After the funeral services at the church, Ethan had devoured a few treats from a brown paper sack that a well-wishing neighbor had placed into his hands. Her boy was always hungry. He took after his daddy, the ex-collegiate football player. Ethan wasn’t overweight. He was merely your average boy destined to be six-foot-six. He was growing, always growing.

“We’ll eat soon. Our neighbors made us a big, yummy lunch.”

He gave a courtesy nod of acceptance, then rested his eyes on the turned earth at their feet.

If only I were the one in the freshly churned earth. Please, let us get through this day, Tori pleaded silently as she placed her arm around Ethan’s waist and pulled him in close.

* * *

The pale blue, Egyptian cotton sheets rose and fell with Tori’s every breath. She had been lying in bed with the covers over her head since before sunrise. She didn’t have the energy to take a shower, or even brush her teeth. That would normally disgust her, but, at the moment, she couldn’t care less.

It was exactly six months-ago-today, when her husband took his last painful breath. He had refused the heavy painkillers—a true-grit cowboy.

Why did he leave her like this? Tori beat the mattress with her fist. He had left her all alone to raise their son.

Nothingness weighed Tori down, deep into her mattress. The front door’s slam jarred her from her angry thoughts. She touched the iPhone on her nightstand. Relief trickled through her veins. Ethan would make his bus. She lifted her eyes to Jim’s photo on the nightstand. “We were so happy. I’ll never be that happy again.” How was it possible to be in so much pain and still be alive? “Are you waiting for me in heaven?” She touched his face with the tip of her finger then pulled the sheets back over her head.

Why was she so tired all the time? She would start taking those supplements that Gussie had brought over—Bs, Ds, Cs, and one other. Maybe if she started designing again? She had been one of the top interior designers in Park City. Five years ago, a close friend who was involved with the Salt Lake City Parade of Homes asked her to showcase.

After 20,000 people strolled through Tori’s home, and word got out that she’d decorated it herself, she was a wanted woman. When Jim died, she no longer found joy in designing, nor in anything else, really. Tori had passed the torch on to her eagerly awaiting assistant.

Get out of bed! That is the most important thing to do, if nothing else, her therapist had said.

Positive thinking. She couldn’t think of one positive thing. How ungrateful she’d become.

Tori pulled herself out of bed and started the shower.

Number one: Warm water. Some places in the world didn’t have warm water. She was proud of herself for having counted one blessing. It was three degrees outside and cloudy, but she had warm water.

Tori sat on the edge of the copper clawfoot tub and gazed out the picture window. The weepy, dense snow caused the evergreen branches, tipped with thousands of glistening icicles, to bow down toward the earth. Even the snow was icicled. Tori shivered. The worst part of getting into the shower on a frosty morning was undressing and walking on the cold, stone floor. Those few seconds of exposure seemed to stretch out into infinity.

A wondrous thought came to mind; if she never removed her clothes, then she wouldn’t get cold. Why had she not thought of that before? Genius.

Tori swung open the glass shower door, and stepped under the cascading waterfall. The sheet of water blanketed her body in moist warmth. Her nightgown clung to her body as she leaned against the rough, gray and copper stone wall.

“Tori!”

Startled, Tori jumped, hitting her head against the corner of the stone soap holder. She turned as Gussie pried open the glass door. The heat rose in her face. She would have rather been found naked, than discovered bathing in her clothes.

Gussie’s face scrunched with worry. “Are you okay? Why were you crumpled into the wall like that?”

“You scared me to death!” Tori willed her heart to calm.

“Drama.” Gussie dropped her hands to either side. “Obviously not to death.” She paused, her eyes studying Tori as she rested a hand on her popped-out hip. “Why the slip?” Gussie utilized her trademark hip-pop-hand-stance. It was this same exaggerated expression, with its demand for a convincing response, that brought many grown men to tears.

“It was dirty.” Tori motioned to her nightgown. “This is a more organic way of washing it. Silk shouldn’t be laundered industrially.”

Gussie twisted up one side of her face in confusion, but her look quickly transformed into concern. “Oh no, you’re bleeding.”

Tori reached her hand up to where her head had met the unrelenting stone. Warm fluid trickled through her fingers. As she tilted her chin into her chest, the tan Tuscan tile at her feet swirled pink. Her mind went dizzy, and the nausea commenced. She quickly closed her eyes and envisioned lying calmly in her soft bed, but the vertigo continued. She had the weakest stomach of anyone she knew.

Suddenly, Gussie’s hands clamped around Tori’s back, holding her up from under her arms. It brought back memories of Tori’s first dance as a thirteen-year-old with Andy what’s-his-name.

Rambo’s bells jingled at Tori’s feet as his leathery tongue tickled her ankles. His fluffy hair turned to cat-like, whiskery strands.

“Do I need staples?” Tori grew more anxious. “Or stitches?”

“It’s not that deep,” Gussie comforted. “There was a lot of blood at first, but it’s almost completely gone.”

“Gussie, you’re soaked through.”

“No worries. I’ll count this toward the sauna time I was planning on taking tonight.”

“Thanks, sweetie. Sorry to get you wet.”

Gussie laughed. “I guess my clothes could use a washing as well.”

Two, she was thankful for Gussie, whose black and gold eye make-up ran down her face—like a heavy metal artist ready to take the stage.

With the help of her sister, Tori stepped out of the shower into the carpeted closet where she removed her suctioned gown with great difficulty. She wouldn’t attempt that one again.

Tori toweled herself dry. “No photo shoot today?”

“Nope,” Gussie sputtered, lathering a foaming cleanser into her face at the sink. “Tori, you okay?” Gussie’s intonation marked her concern.

“Define okay. One minute I’m crying. The next, I’m beating my mattress in anger. Then the next, I feel nothing.”

Gussie dabbed her face with the towel then moved to the closet to change her clothes. “Nothing?”

“The crazy thing is, I’m not scared of the anger, or the grief. But I’m terrified of that nothing feeling. Nothing matters anymore.”

“Do you remember what you told me after Casey left me?”

Tori shook her head out of frustration. “I hope you’re not comparing Jim dying, to your ex-husband walking out on you.” She slipped on a black cotton dress.

“You’re angry at everyone, and everything right now. I get it.” Gussie sighed. “I was there.”

Tori’s hands began twitching with indignation. “You weren’t there. That’s what I’m trying to say. My situation is different than yours.”

“You made me so angry. You said that it would take time. That I needed to be patient, that time would heal my wounds.”

“I remember. You yelled that if one more person mentioned the word time, you would scream.”

“Casey did something worse than dying, he abandoned me. I had a right to be angry.”

“Sorry.”

“Me too. Have you ever heard of a woman named Mary Ann Baker?

“No.”

“She lost her parents, and then her only brother, to a hereditary disease. When her brother died, she couldn’t afford to transport his body home, or bury him. I believe he ended up in an unmarked, public grave.”

“A potter’s field,” Tori lamented.

“Baker was full of sorrow and rage. Then, she bore her soul to God. She wrote lyrics which beautifully capture Christ calming our troubled hearts and minds.”

“What song?”

“Master, the Tempest is Raging. Like Mary Ann Baker, I believe that if you have faith, and ask Him in humility, He will calm your troubled heart. He calmed mine.”

Tori grew defensive and threw her towel at Gussie’s face. “I’ve done that.”

Gussie raised a brow. “In humility. Not our strong point.”

Tori’s jaw tightened. “How dare you?”

“I dare, because I care.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m your twin. I know you better than you know yourself. I wouldn’t tell this to anyone else. Some people need meds and additional therapy.”

“Tried those.”

“And for someone with clinical depression, it would be a slap in the face to them, advising that they humble themselves and pray more.”

Tori narrowed her eyes. “And it’s not a slap in the face to me?”

“I’m telling you what’s helped me, your identical twin. Can I finish my story?”

“No.”

Gussie threw her head back and walked toward the bedroom door.

Soul constricting guilt slithered up Tori’s legs. “Fine.”

Gussie jumped on Tori’s bed and fluffed a pillow she then used to stuff under her chin. “The pain you’re going through is real. It’s not exactly like mine was, but that doesn’t matter. It’s pain. I’m not saying that God can, or will, take away your pain and depression. What I am saying, is that it can’t hurt to ask for comfort.”

Tori laid down next to her sister and buried her head in her feather pillow. Hadn’t she been humbled by her husband’s death? Did she lack faith? “I’m not strong enough for this.”

“We never know how strong we are until we have no other choice. I’m sorry you’re in pain, but I know you’re going to pull through this.”

“I’m not so sure.” Tori exhaled her grief. “I need help.”

“I’m always here for you,” Gussie said, lightly touching Tori’s arm.

Tori felt the electric shock pulse through her body. They rarely touched each other—for this exact reason. It was a bond difficult to explain.

Gussie continued, “But, I realize that’s not enough. That’s why I’ve found a handsome someone who wants to help.”

Tori’s eyes narrowed. “Seriously? Are you on drugs? Why would you even bring up the subject of another man? I’m never going to find anyone like Jim again.”

“I thought that too, before I met Ray.”

“Nor, do I want to.”

“That’s fair. But all this guy wants to do is snuggle, and make you happy.”

“What?”

“And there’s a catch. You may need to clean up after him—from time to time.”

“Is he a slob?” Tori anxiously ran her fingers through her wet hair. “Wait. Why am I even entertaining the idea?”

“I’ll go get him. Brush your hair.” Gussie rolled off the bed and smiled. “He’s waiting in the living room.”

Tori’s mouth dropped. “You wouldn’t dare.” Maybe her sister would dare. When they were young, Gussie had done worse things than this. And Gussie had given the disclaimer earlier that she dared to do things for Tori’s own good. She ran to her master bathroom, leaned over her husband’s sink, and prepared her toothbrush.

The peppermint toothpaste swirled in Tori’s mouth, causing her to gag. It had been Jim’s favorite. She used it during her pregnancy, and hated it. It was the instigator of her morning retching ritual. After Ethan was born, she switched to an organic cinnamon paste to avoid the awful memory. Now, with Jim gone, she yearned to have him back, even if it meant reliving her nauseating pregnancy.

She held her hand under the running water, and splashed the sides of the basin out of habit. It was the only idiosyncrasy that drove Tori mad; the one thing about him that grated on her nerves, the constant hair in the sink. He would pull his hair through his fingers every day, and if it was longer than half an inch, he’d snip it into the sink. She would curse as she rinsed his hair down the drain every morning.

Tori ran a wide-tooth comb through her dark, chestnut hair that was cut in a 90s-layered style—reminiscent of an old Friends episode. Tori and her middle-school-aged friends used to see who could come the closest to replicating the stars.

“How do I look, Mom?” Tori said into the mirror. She had always asked her mother that question before leaving home.

Horrific twist of fate, losing her husband to cancer one year, then having her mother diagnosed a few months later. Her mother now resided in an assisted living facility an hour away, close to where she received her cancer treatments. Tori visited her at least once a week. Her visits were too short and too infrequent, but it was all that she could emotionally give.

Her mother would have given more. She had given more. When Tori went to her with the news of her pregnancy, her mother showed love and compassion. She had been a voice of reason, grounding Tori. What would happen when that voice stopped speaking? Tori shuddered. Receiving the news of her mother’s illness was a rude awakening. Suddenly her mother wasn’t the invincible lion tamer of her youth. She was human, and humans die.

Gussie entered the bathroom quietly. “Like heaven dusted your cheeks with angel mist. Remember who you are tonight. You’re an angel sent to me from heaven in my old age.”

“You even sound like her,” Tori said solemnly. “I’m going to miss her so much.”

“Me too. She always has a way of making me feel like I’m really something. You know?”

Tori grasped the sides of the sink with her palms. “Was it her calm, listening ear, or the bowl of ice-cream that she handed us as teenagers when we talked, that created that sense of belonging?”

“I don’t know, but I could go for a bowl of mint chocolate chip right about now. You up for a trip to the store?”

Tori raised an eyebrow. “What about the snuggly guy sitting in my living room?”

“He’s right here,” Gussie said, unfolding a blanket to reveal a wiggly puppy with glossy, black locks. “He can come too.”

Tori squealed with delight. “He’s adorable!”

“And he’s been trained to be an emotional therapy doggy. And I got your shrink to write a letter to confirm the necessity for this little guy. You’re all set. Meet your new beau.”

Tori’s chest warmed as she brought the puppy up to her face and peered into his deep brown eyes. As he snuggled his cold wet nose into her neck, his soft, newborn fur rubbed against her chin, causing Tori to experience the first real sense of comfort since her husband’s passing.

“What would I do without you, Gussie?”

Gussie embraced Tori, sending a warm electrical wave down her spine. “You’ll never have to know.”