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Tribute Tales: In Memoriam

12

While some may disparage the lack of emphasis on unique style or original content on this site, I find certain trends that develop in this free reign writing system to be rather fantastic. Story memes, readers taking the initiative by dreaming up their own endings or sequels for stories they like, even story structure blueprints that grow not out of discussion but more over time, like a sociological experiment. I even enjoy the way these tools essentially allow writers to take a particular theme to explore a concept or feeling to the point of exhaustion or saturation.

So, while my own writing will generally be aiming for a different purpose or goal, from time to time I like to indulge myself in these niche marketing designs. And, since most or all of my other stories will be designed to connect to one another, I have labeled these Tribute Tails to provide them with the distinction of separation.

I really believed, for a while, that the death of my wife was the end of my story.

It's impossible to define that kind of pain for someone who hasn't experienced it firsthand. But if you had asked me, that cold day in February when she was laid to rest, if it was possible for a person to hurt any more than I did right then, I would have confidently told you 'no.'

And I would have been wrong.

Andrea was my wife, and remains the one love of my life. And, as spouses go, she was beyond incredible. Every day I got to spend with her was a gift that I wish I could go back and reopen. It wouldn't matter which one; they were all the best. We'd had nine ambrosial years together, and were proud parents of an eight year old son, when I left for a week's worth of training in St. Louis and lost her forever. The happiest nine years of my life, bar none.

The trip was uneventful, save for one thing: I had dropped my cell phone in the toilet while shaving. I fished it out, cursing, but I had forever ended its usefulness. This was two days before I was due back home. No problem. I figured I'd get a new one; I even had my eye on a Blackberry. Using the hotel phone, I tried calling the house to let Andrea know that my cell was no longer among the living. Nobody answered. I just left a message.

Fifty-three hours later, I was on my way home. Not even the stale, artificial airplane air, or the cramped conditions, could bring me down. I was like a puppy coming home after a week at a kennel. I only knew four words: excited to get home.

I remember being struck by the sunken weariness of John and Amy's faces when I saw them waiting in the terminal. John and Amy, my friends and in-laws, waiting to pick me up. Not my wife and son.

Alarm bells.

Hard truths. Tears.

She wasn't there because she wasn't there.

She'd been gone for two days. In fact she was in an ambulance, dead, while I was trying to call and tell her about my cell phone. Somehow, that thought buried me in guilt. She was so freshly removed from this world, a catastrophic and purposeless ending, and I was wrapped up in the unimportant.

The way I understand it, she was finishing her shower and slipped getting out of the tub. It's an insignificant moment that most people probably face at some point in their life. But instead of stumbling and hurting her knees, or catching herself at the last minute, or even thumping her forehead on the ground and having an embarassing bruise, my wife had fallen and struck her temple hard against the corner of the vanity top. Our son William heard the noise from the fall, but didn't think anything of it. It wasn't until an hour had passed and his mother was still in the shower that he got worried. When she wouldn't respond to his hammering on the door, he called his Aunt Amy. By the time John had broken down the door she was dead.

William, being eight, took it hard. That's an understatement, but the language can't be bent or twisted hard enough to convey the pure anguish a child is capable of experiencing. It was something heavier and more tragic than time itself. But the truth is I wasn't far behind. I was almost totally incapable of being there for him. John and Amy could see this, I suppose, and they stepped in to help us both. William was grateful, I was horrified.

My problem, and his salvation, stemmed from the fact that Andrea was a twin. Her sister, Amy, looked exactly like her. She lived about a block and a half down the street with her husband, the aforementioned John. They'd celebrated their eleventh anniversary the August prior. Small detail, but as it turned out very important. Andrea and Amy were so completely exact that even I had a hard time differentiating between them in conversation. After almost a decade, I still struggled to tell the difference.

It was there, however minute, in the form of a small but thick scar...maybe half the size of a thumb...that was high up on Amy's stomach. It could really only be seen when she wore a bikini. Oh, I'm sure one could see it when she wore less than that, but who would be scar hunting under those circumstances?

My little William latched onto Amy with a hollow-eyed desperation after his mother passed. She looked and talked just like her, she had the same kind eyes and the same bright smile, so why not? When he was with her was the only time he had any life in him. She let him keep some small amount of his former life, and he loved her for it.

I, on the other hand, couldn't stand to be near her. My reasons, obviously, were the same as his. She was a living, breathing reminder of my wife. Every minute with her was a reminder of what I had lost. But unlike William, who only sought to have his mother's gaze and attention back on him for a few short moments, I was missing something Amy couldn't give. When she was around, it was like my wife was in the room, but eventually I would have to watch her go back to another man...her man...at the end of each visit.

At first John would come over with her each time she visited, but Amy seemed frustrated by his presence. She paid him little attention and gently pushed away whenever he tried to touch or hug her. All of her energy was spent on us, William and me. All of Andrea's chores, she took care of. When the conversation went morosely silent, she perked it back up. When William cried, she held him. She reached for me, once, when my own tears would not be held back, but I jerked away. I couldn't deal with that.

I think John was a little uncomfortable with her stepping in so fully to Andrea's shoes, and she knew it was hard on me for them to watch them be affectionate with each other. Mostly, they didn't interact much while they were around us. And he always looked so beaten down and drained. He would draw inward and fall silent for long periods of time. I did wonder if maybe he and Amy were fighting about what she was doing. I remember one night he left for home, while she stayed to help put William to bed, and he swung in for a brief kiss before he headed out. She didn't fight it, but she put her hands up to his chest and stepped quickly away afterwards. She glanced over at me, anxiety on her face. He saw that, his face darkened, and he left quickly. I pretended I hadn't seen anything, but I doubt I did a very good job of acting casual. She watched me for a few moments, an unreadable expression on her face, and then went off to find William.

John stopped coming over with her, after that. I never asked about it.

She tried to help us, to find a way to be a part of our healing. She gave of herself completely, spending far more time at our house than I thought was fair to herself or to John. She wanted to do whatever she could. I saw that. I just couldn't accept it. She would come to the house and help with housework, or spend time with William, and even try to sit across from me at meals and talk about my day. Worse, I could clearly see affection in her eyes when she looked at me, affection greater than that of a concerned sister-in-law. Sometimes, I even imagined she was falling in love with me.

It was killing me. Finally, I started avoiding the house when she was there. This strategy only worked for a few days before she confronted me on it.

I had stayed out late Wednesday, hoping to avoid talking to her. I'd called and left a message that I would be working late again and, as was becoming my new custom, I drove to Borders and grabbed a random book off a random shelf. When the store closed, I went for a walk by moonlight until I thought it was late enough for her to have gone. But when I drove by the house at 11:30 her car was still there. Sucking it up, I pulled my van into the garage and headed for the kitchen.

She was sitting at the table, looking for all the world like Andrea. A sad, weary expression drew lines on her forehead, but her gaze was locked on me and full of hurt. More hurt than I would have expected, actually. It took me by surprise. "Chris," she said softly, "I know what you're doing. Please don't hide from me like this."

Busted.

I sighed, and eased myself into the seat opposite her. "Sorry, Amy. I know I'm pushing you away, and I know it's not fair. Andrea was your loss as much as it was mine." I saw her wince at the name, and drop her gaze. We were carrying Andrea around like some heavy ghost we must all share in keeping in this world. "But I just can't do this. I can't see you every day. My whole life is torn open. The life I wanted to have, that I thought lay ahead of me, is over and gone. No growing old with my wife, no sharing the adventures of the next forty years. There's not a single moment left to be shared with my soul mate. I can't be forced to see her face...hear her voice...two, three times a week. I can't be with her and still learn to be apart from her. I need to find a way to live without her. I haven't been able to find that yet, because as long as you're here she is too."

Tears had begun trickling down Amy's face as I started talking, and by the time I finished she was sobbing openly. I thought it was strange that she wouldn't look at me as she cried, but who knows what goes on in a woman's mind.

"I'm so sorry, Chris," she said. "Oh, God, I'm sorry."

"None of this is your fault. Please don't think that I could ever think or feel anything negative about you. You and John are good friends. I've been leaning on you both, and you've never complained. You've given William and me so much, and that's what makes this so hard. God knows I could use good friends right now."

This only seemed to make her break down more. "Please wait," she said. "I have to tell you something."

"Amy," I held up my hands, "this is hard for me so please just let me finish. You're right; I can't keep sneaking around hiding from you. But I also can't be around you...not yet, not now. The trouble is, William needs you so badly. He was always much closer to his mother than he was to me, and he's really latched on to you. Being with you is the only time I see him happy, anymore. It makes me jealous, to tell you the truth."

This produced another round of tears.

I bit my lip. "I think I have to get away. I have to leave." I held my hands up again as her eyes went wide. "For a while, not forever. I'm afraid if I stay here, I'll never heal. But I won't take William away from the people he needs most, nor will I take him from his friends. I was hoping..." I took a moment to wipe the moisture from my eyes. This was harder than I'd expected it to be. "...I was hoping that you and John would consider...looking after my son. While I'm gone." There. I'd said it. And without breaking down.

I couldn't say the same for Amy. "No, Chris! You can't go! You don't understand." Tears poured from her face.

"If you can't do this, then I do understand, actually. But with or without William, I am leaving this place. Not forever. Just until I can...well, just until."

Amy closed her eyes tight. For a moment neither of us spoke. Finally she said, "Ok. I'll do it. I can't lose William. Not him, too." When her eyes opened again, there was resignation in them.

I felt pity for her, for the sorrow for guilt she obviously felt, and tried to smile and console her. "In a way, if this had to happen, I am so grateful that my son has you to take care of him. His whole world has been shattered, more than yours and more than mine. I hate to think how this would have gone without you here to help. That's why I need you now. My reserves are burned up. I don't have anything left to give. The last thing William needs is to have his world even more shook up by the selfish desires of his one remaining parent. He needs someone in this world who is looking out for him, not just themselves. He needs safety and consistency and calm. Please. Be that for him."

Her shoulders sagged as if in defeat, but she nodded her head. "I will," she whispered. Then, suddenly, she sat up straight and squinted at me. "But you have to promise to take better care of yourself. I see what's happening to you, maybe better than you do. I have counted the empty bottles in the trash can. I have seen the cupboards stay bare even as your body shrinks. You can't let yourself give up, Chris. For me, please, you can't."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. But I nodded.

"I mean that," she continued, unplacated. "You have no idea how much it's hurting me to see you suffer like this. If you have to leave for a while to find your way through this, I understand," she had that hurt look on her face as she said that, and I suspected she didn't actually understand at all, "but you have to promise to look after yourself and you have to promise to come back to me...to us."

I was a little taken aback by her use of the word 'me,' and I must have looked at her funny because she blushed. I was getting more and more uncertain of just what her feelings towards me were, and I was very uncomfortable. I figured getting out soon was the best thing for all of us.

It was just four weeks later that I was boarding my plane. William had already moved in with his aunt and uncle...he was happy about it. I had only seen Amy a few times after our talk. She was obviously the one avoiding me, now, and I thought that she must be doing that for my sake. I appreciated it. But I still didn't understand the look in her eye, the deep watery sadness, as the three of them saw me off at the airport. I didn't understand the way she cried and clung when she hugged me goodbye. And I didn't understand why John still looked so tired and depressed...much as he had the day he told me that Andrea had died.

And I wouldn't understand it for two years.

It was immediately clear to me, upon relocating, that I'd made the right choice. Without having Amy bring Andrea's face over every other day, I was finally able to begin healing. I'd taken a pretty sizable pay cut in the move, but I was living a spartan lifestyle and sending all my additional money home to Amy and John. I talked to William on the phone every week, although after the novelty wore off and he developed new habits and routines he was no more interested in our little talks than any kid his age would be. I always came back for major holidays and birthdays, and I took William on a week long camping trip every summer. By the end of the first year I was together enough to go on my first date.

It was pretty nondescript, but it felt good. A few months after that I met Karen through work, and soon we were sharing evenings and intimacies. It may not have had the intensity that I felt with Andrea, but I was acutely aware that this was someone I could love. My visions of the last years of my life were no longer nightmares, lonely and empty. This was a beautiful woman who cared for me, who I was building new memories with. After six months I was feeling so good about her that I decided to take her to meet the family.

I talked to John about coming out to see them, and he seemed nervous about it. I couldn't understand why...William and I had talked about her quite a bit, and he seemed pretty unphased by the idea of his dad dating. I wasn't sure what the future held, but I knew that Karen was becoming a part of who I was and it was important to me to involve her in the more important aspects of my life. Specifically, my son and the people I considered to be my family. I told John so, but he only seemed to get more uncomfortable.

"I just don't know if it's a good idea, Chris. William..."

"William is not the problem here, and you know that. So just come out and tell me what is."

He was quiet for a moment. "Alright. I think it will upset Amy."

I was stunned. Upset Amy? Why? Were my fears, in the weeks after Andrea's death, justified? Was Amy developing feelings for me? It always seemed to make her sad somehow when I came to visit, but I thought that maybe I had the same effect on her that she had on me: we reminded each other that someone in the room was missing. Someone who had been important to us.

"You're kidding," I said, dumbfounded. "Why would Amy be upset? She suddenly doesn't want me to move on with my life? Tell me what's going on, John."

He sighed. "I don't know. Maybe you moving on is the last step towards Andrea being really gone. In effect, you're letting Andrea go once and for all. You're divorcing her. You can see how that might upset her, right?"

I grunted. "I think maybe it's time to close that coffin. She can't use my pain to protect herself from the truth. If I can live with my wife's death, then she can learn to live with her sister's. Besides, what's the alternative? What if I marry this girl? Do I just not get invited to your house anymore? Am I suddenly not welcome this Christmas because I fell in love again?"

"I honestly don't know," he said.

Shocked doesn't begin to describe it. He doesn't know? Now I was mad, and hurt. Why would these people who mean so much to me not want me to be happy?

"Fuck, John! Are you kidding me?! I guess I'd better start looking for a bigger place, then, because if I'm not welcome at your house then my son sure as hell isn't going to be staying there anymore. It's probably past due anyway. He needs to be with his father."

John was silent for a moment. "Hold on," he said.

He must have put his hand over the receiver, because I could hear him talking in hushed tones. I could hear Amy's voice, too. They almost seemed to be arguing, but I couldn't make out any words.

John came back on. "Hey, uh, Chris? I'm sorry, man. I jumped the gun a little bit. I guess emotions are still riding pretty high for...for all of us, you know? You're right; we should be supporting you on this. It's just...hard. You should come out."

"No, I think maybe I shouldn't. I don't want to go upsetting anybody."

"Please. I insist. We insist."

So I went.

Holy crap, what a mistake that was.

We were there for three days. The first day, Amy was glaring daggers at Karen the whole time. John pretended not to notice, but he sulked a lot. She snubbed her, asked her inappropriately pointed questions, and threw veiled critiques at her every chance she got. I asked John to get her to cool it, but he just looked at me like it was my fault. I think he did try, but he was no more able to contain her than I was. When I confronted her about it that night, while Karen was waiting in the car, she lashed out at me, too.

"What the fuck is your problem, Amy? I've never seen you like this!"

"I don't know what you mean," she folded her arms and gave me a challenging look.

"Bullshit. What was all that crap about taking care of myself, living my life? Did you mean any of that? Here I meet someone I care deeply for, someone I might be falling in love with, and all you can do is attack her! Make her feel unwelcome! Jesus, she's probably crying right now, I'm sure she'll never want to come back here again, and I don't even know what I can do about it."

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