“I have three child psychologists on speed dial. I can’t use them anymore since the collection calls started—”
“I appreciate it, Chloe,” I said, “I really do, but I don’t think Ellie needs therapy. She seems … happy.”
Chloe wasn’t giving up. “I’m not saying this is a substitute, but when children lose a loved one, they need something to fill that void. I know you have Spice, but maybe she needs something small and cuddly—”
“Puppy-pusher,” Jay said.
“Mommy?” Ellie said from the other room. “Lorraine keeps barking at me.”
“She’s herding,” Chloe said. “It’s totally normal. Kids cope with stress in their own ways. It has to do with Billy’s unemployment and evolving social conscience.”
“And nothing to do with your obsession with strays,” Jay said, peering into the living room. “I think Lorraine is shedding.”
Aimee laughed, then grimaced, touching her face. “Ow, ow, ow! Don’t make me laugh—it burns, it burns!”
I looked at Aimee. It’s bad , I thought, when the people who make the most sense in your life are dead .
* * *
“What are you doing, Mommy?” Ellie asked, as I looked through her book basket for something to read aloud. I picked up Love You Forever , then put it down.
Not tonight. That book was too sad, and I didn’t want to hurtle into suicidal depression until Ellie was eighteen and out of the house. Spice scratched at the door. He’d been sleeping on the scatter rug in front of Ellie’s bed. I would let him out around eleven at night. We behaved like an older couple who have nothing in common after the children leave.
“I want to read a book to you, tonight, El,” I said. “I’ve been such a … (neglectful, horrible mother) … Mommy’s been tired … tired and busy …”
Busy? Busy doing what? Grieving is a time-suck .
“No, Mommy,” Ellie said, her eyes wide. “I’m going to bed, see? I’m soooo sleepy!”
Spice on his belly, his head between his paws. Watching me. Waiting for me to leave. Even to a dog, I was the third wheel . Ellie was ensconced in her cocoon, her blanket up to her chin. I bent over her and tucked her in. She was so small.
“Can I read to you tomorrow night?” I asked.
“I’m going to sleep now, Mommy. Go to sleep,” Ellie said.
“Okay. I love you.” I kissed her cheek, her forehead, her other cheek. I sat down on her bed. “I love you so much, Ellie. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
She looked at me with her big, round eyes. “No?”
“I’m here, if you want to talk,” I said. “I mean, about anything. You can always tell Mommy anything, you know.”
“Good night, Mommy,” she said, then rolled over, her back toward me.
“Good night, baby,” I said. Knuffle Bunny was tucked in under the sheets. “God bless you.” Do you hear me, God? You kind of owe me, here .
I patted Spice on the head, then went to the kitchen, poured mysecond glass of pinot noir (why are we counting?), sat on the floor outside Ellie’s bedroom door, and waited. And as I waited, it occurred to me that John might be as consistently late in spirit form as he was in human form. Even in death, he could be insensitive.
I was startled awake by Ellie talking. At first, it sounded like she was having a conversation with her bear. Then I heard questions. “What does it look like there, again?” “Do you have friends?” “Who’s your best friend?” “Is Jesus there?” “When are you coming back?” And “Why, Daddy?”
I felt cold fingers dancing down my arm.
I cracked open the door. Ellie’s Tinkerbell lamp was on. (Okay, so I’m no Westside faux-decorator mom. Sue me.) She was sitting up, Knuffle Bunny on her lap. She turned the pages, slowly, as though reading them to herself. Spice was up on his hind legs, his paws in the air, dancing. Making happy, grunting sounds.
It was the first time I’d seen Spice smile since John
“I appreciate it, Chloe,” I said, “I really do, but I don’t think Ellie needs therapy. She seems … happy.”
Chloe wasn’t giving up. “I’m not saying this is a substitute, but when children lose a loved one, they need something to fill that void. I know you have Spice, but maybe she needs something small and cuddly—”
“Puppy-pusher,” Jay said.
“Mommy?” Ellie said from the other room. “Lorraine keeps barking at me.”
“She’s herding,” Chloe said. “It’s totally normal. Kids cope with stress in their own ways. It has to do with Billy’s unemployment and evolving social conscience.”
“And nothing to do with your obsession with strays,” Jay said, peering into the living room. “I think Lorraine is shedding.”
Aimee laughed, then grimaced, touching her face. “Ow, ow, ow! Don’t make me laugh—it burns, it burns!”
I looked at Aimee. It’s bad , I thought, when the people who make the most sense in your life are dead .
* * *
“What are you doing, Mommy?” Ellie asked, as I looked through her book basket for something to read aloud. I picked up Love You Forever , then put it down.
Not tonight. That book was too sad, and I didn’t want to hurtle into suicidal depression until Ellie was eighteen and out of the house. Spice scratched at the door. He’d been sleeping on the scatter rug in front of Ellie’s bed. I would let him out around eleven at night. We behaved like an older couple who have nothing in common after the children leave.
“I want to read a book to you, tonight, El,” I said. “I’ve been such a … (neglectful, horrible mother) … Mommy’s been tired … tired and busy …”
Busy? Busy doing what? Grieving is a time-suck .
“No, Mommy,” Ellie said, her eyes wide. “I’m going to bed, see? I’m soooo sleepy!”
Spice on his belly, his head between his paws. Watching me. Waiting for me to leave. Even to a dog, I was the third wheel . Ellie was ensconced in her cocoon, her blanket up to her chin. I bent over her and tucked her in. She was so small.
“Can I read to you tomorrow night?” I asked.
“I’m going to sleep now, Mommy. Go to sleep,” Ellie said.
“Okay. I love you.” I kissed her cheek, her forehead, her other cheek. I sat down on her bed. “I love you so much, Ellie. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
She looked at me with her big, round eyes. “No?”
“I’m here, if you want to talk,” I said. “I mean, about anything. You can always tell Mommy anything, you know.”
“Good night, Mommy,” she said, then rolled over, her back toward me.
“Good night, baby,” I said. Knuffle Bunny was tucked in under the sheets. “God bless you.” Do you hear me, God? You kind of owe me, here .
I patted Spice on the head, then went to the kitchen, poured mysecond glass of pinot noir (why are we counting?), sat on the floor outside Ellie’s bedroom door, and waited. And as I waited, it occurred to me that John might be as consistently late in spirit form as he was in human form. Even in death, he could be insensitive.
I was startled awake by Ellie talking. At first, it sounded like she was having a conversation with her bear. Then I heard questions. “What does it look like there, again?” “Do you have friends?” “Who’s your best friend?” “Is Jesus there?” “When are you coming back?” And “Why, Daddy?”
I felt cold fingers dancing down my arm.
I cracked open the door. Ellie’s Tinkerbell lamp was on. (Okay, so I’m no Westside faux-decorator mom. Sue me.) She was sitting up, Knuffle Bunny on her lap. She turned the pages, slowly, as though reading them to herself. Spice was up on his hind legs, his paws in the air, dancing. Making happy, grunting sounds.
It was the first time I’d seen Spice smile since John
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