orders. Terry showed her gratitude by trying to look professional for Rhonda. She took pains to curl her long hair which she’d turned blonde when she was fourteen, wore skirts, stockings, dress shoes, and, of course, her pin.
It was possible Rhonda had known. Maybe one of the job references told her and the position had been offered out of pity. Usually people who knew avoided her, though.
It wasn’t that John hadn’t grieved with her. He’d closed the shop, stopped eating, stopped showering, and choked on his sobs. But she could do nothing to help him. She was drowning herself, and didn’t even notice whether her husband had a worn a clean shirt or whether he’d shaved for the visitation. His sister came to attend to him while Terry’s brother and her mother, one on either side of her like crutches, had gotten her into St. Mary’s of the Harbor for the funeral.
The fourth week, John had gone back to work. He’d had to. There wasn’t insurance that would replace the income they were losing. By then, people from out of town had gone home, the casseroles that had been coming in daily slowed to four, then two or three times a week, and Terry and John were slowly left to stagger on by themselves, like robots or zombies. When Terry felt suicidal, John took her to Dr. Telmaun, who prescribed drugs that made no difference.
Around them, the house had a sterile, unlived-in look, yet was increasingly in a state of disrepair. One night during the second year, John pointed around him and said, “Look, we’re not even people anymore. We’re like shadows. On Saturday, I’m going to fix the garage door.”
“Don’t you think I want to go on?” Terry said later that month. They’d been in the kitchen, where it had been Chinese take-out again, as opposed to pizza, as opposed to deli sandwiches. It was May and the lilacs outside the baby’s window were blooming. They’d never stopped calling him the baby, even though chronologically, he wasn’t one. Not one item in his room had been changed. Some of the clothes he’d worn still had his smell, even if John didn’t get it. On her worst days, Terry shut herself in his room and buried her face in his red sweater or his denim jacket.
“We have to go on together ,” he said, wrapping his arms around her back and stroking her hair with one hand. She’d forced herself not to pull away although she felt like something carved out of cold stone, like the marble marker over her baby’s grave.
“What do you want from me? I’m trying.”
“Let’s have another baby.” It wasn’t the first time he’d whispered this. Of course, family on both sides had prescribed it. “I am not trying to replace him,” John insisted that night. “I am trying to start over.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Are you ever going to be?”
“I don’t know. Goddammit, John, leave me alone.”
When he moved the stack of read-aloud books off the coffee table in the living room. Terry raged at him. “Put them back, put them back, put him back,” she shouted.
John started sleeping in the spare room, saying it was too frustrating to sleep in the same bed. They had a bitter fight about money; Terry was calling in sick a couple of days a week because of her headaches. She’d used all her sick time and then days and days more. Sometimes she couldn’t get out of bed. Wouldn’t get out of bed was the way John saw it, as in not trying . He said as much.
Still, when he actually left, it was like the cruel surprise of a patch of ice in May, one that flew her feet out from underneath her and landed her hard on her back, breathless and alone.
At first it was much worse to have no one there and then, finally, in a bizarre way it was better. No one criticizing her, no one serving up guilt like a daily gruel. If she got up, she got up. If she didn’t, well, she didn’t. Same with taking a shower.
Predictably, she lost her job in the hardware store. She was fired with great kindness. “We’d
It was possible Rhonda had known. Maybe one of the job references told her and the position had been offered out of pity. Usually people who knew avoided her, though.
It wasn’t that John hadn’t grieved with her. He’d closed the shop, stopped eating, stopped showering, and choked on his sobs. But she could do nothing to help him. She was drowning herself, and didn’t even notice whether her husband had a worn a clean shirt or whether he’d shaved for the visitation. His sister came to attend to him while Terry’s brother and her mother, one on either side of her like crutches, had gotten her into St. Mary’s of the Harbor for the funeral.
The fourth week, John had gone back to work. He’d had to. There wasn’t insurance that would replace the income they were losing. By then, people from out of town had gone home, the casseroles that had been coming in daily slowed to four, then two or three times a week, and Terry and John were slowly left to stagger on by themselves, like robots or zombies. When Terry felt suicidal, John took her to Dr. Telmaun, who prescribed drugs that made no difference.
Around them, the house had a sterile, unlived-in look, yet was increasingly in a state of disrepair. One night during the second year, John pointed around him and said, “Look, we’re not even people anymore. We’re like shadows. On Saturday, I’m going to fix the garage door.”
“Don’t you think I want to go on?” Terry said later that month. They’d been in the kitchen, where it had been Chinese take-out again, as opposed to pizza, as opposed to deli sandwiches. It was May and the lilacs outside the baby’s window were blooming. They’d never stopped calling him the baby, even though chronologically, he wasn’t one. Not one item in his room had been changed. Some of the clothes he’d worn still had his smell, even if John didn’t get it. On her worst days, Terry shut herself in his room and buried her face in his red sweater or his denim jacket.
“We have to go on together ,” he said, wrapping his arms around her back and stroking her hair with one hand. She’d forced herself not to pull away although she felt like something carved out of cold stone, like the marble marker over her baby’s grave.
“What do you want from me? I’m trying.”
“Let’s have another baby.” It wasn’t the first time he’d whispered this. Of course, family on both sides had prescribed it. “I am not trying to replace him,” John insisted that night. “I am trying to start over.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Are you ever going to be?”
“I don’t know. Goddammit, John, leave me alone.”
When he moved the stack of read-aloud books off the coffee table in the living room. Terry raged at him. “Put them back, put them back, put him back,” she shouted.
John started sleeping in the spare room, saying it was too frustrating to sleep in the same bed. They had a bitter fight about money; Terry was calling in sick a couple of days a week because of her headaches. She’d used all her sick time and then days and days more. Sometimes she couldn’t get out of bed. Wouldn’t get out of bed was the way John saw it, as in not trying . He said as much.
Still, when he actually left, it was like the cruel surprise of a patch of ice in May, one that flew her feet out from underneath her and landed her hard on her back, breathless and alone.
At first it was much worse to have no one there and then, finally, in a bizarre way it was better. No one criticizing her, no one serving up guilt like a daily gruel. If she got up, she got up. If she didn’t, well, she didn’t. Same with taking a shower.
Predictably, she lost her job in the hardware store. She was fired with great kindness. “We’d
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