by Marie Force
I’m thankful to know that there are no skeletons lurking in Patrick’s closet. No, just clothing that smells like him and a lifetime of possessions I’ll have to contend with eventually. Not yet, though. And while the thought of being a single parent is completely overwhelming, I’m deeply grateful that part of him will live on in our child. After the ultrasound on Wednesday, when we confirm the baby is healthy, I’ll tell our families the good news.
A spark of excitement grows in me as I think about our baby, even as the excitement is weighted by heartache. Patrick would’ve been a wonderful father, and the thought of our child never knowing him is unbearable.
On the subway, I send a text to my family to tell them my first day at the White House was awesome and that I’m working on the president’s new gun-control initiative.
The responses flood in.
Rebecca: I still can’t believe you’re actually working there! So glad to hear it was a great first day.
Penelope: So proud of you, kid.
Mom: That’s wonderful, Roni. Dad and I are so proud! Are you feeling okay about working on the gun-control issue?
I think it will be good for me to feel like I’m doing something to help keep what happened to us from happening to someone else. Both Sam and Lilia, her chief of staff, told me to speak up if it’s too much for me. They’re both great, and I’d feel very comfortable telling them if I can’t handle it.
Mom: That sounds good. I’m so glad you have this grand new adventure to look forward to and are working with and for such good people.
Rebecca: Agreed. Total #girlcrush on the FLOTUS. She’s the bomb!
She really is. I hope you can meet her one of these days.
Rebecca: FAINTS!
Their enthusiasm and excitement make me smile. I’m glad to be giving them something positive to think about rather than worrying incessantly about me. And there’s more good news coming, at least I hope so. It’s weird how I’m refusing to let myself get too invested in the baby until I’m sure it’s actually in there, although the lack of a period, relentless nausea and sore boobs are pretty good signs that I missed before the test popped positive.
When I get home, I make a salad with grilled chicken that I force myself to eat, even though I’m not at all hungry. Both the baby and I need the nutrition, and I’m determined to stay healthy.
I’m snuggled under a blanket on the sofa watching HGTV when Brielle, the woman from Iris’s group with whom I’ve been playing text tag, calls me at eight. “Hi there.”
“Is it too late for you?”
“Not at all. It’s nice to finally catch up.”
“I’m so sorry it took so long. My son is teething, and it’s absolute hell.”
“I’ve heard that from my sisters.”
“Bourbon to the rescue. For Mommy, that is.”
She has me laughing in under a minute. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“How are you feeling about the pregnancy after having had some time to wrap your head around the news?”
“It still doesn’t seem real. How can I be pregnant when Patrick is dead?”
“I know that feeling so well. We’d been trying for years, and we finally succeed, and then he didn’t live to meet our child? It just made a horrible loss that much more so.”
“God, that must’ve been so hard.” Her husband died in a skiing accident while on a trip to celebrate his brother’s upcoming wedding.
“It was surreal. I was so angry about it for the longest time. Like, how could God or the universe or whoever think this was a good idea do this to me and expect me to raise this child without Mark? I kept thinking of ways to end it all for both of us so I wouldn’t have to raise him alone, and he wouldn’t have to grow up without a father.”
“I’m so sorry you went through such an awful time.”
“It was pretty awful, but it doesn’t stay that way forever. Eventually, you begin to accept that this was the hand you were dealt, especially after the baby arrives and gives you no choice but to pull yourself together. I’ll always be heartbroken that Mark isn’t here to help raise Charlie. He would’ve been the best father, and it kills me that Charlie will only know him through photos, videos and stories from the people who knew him. That’s the part that doesn’t get better, no matter how much time goes by.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” I say, saddened to realize once again that’s how our child will know Patrick.
“I’ve come around to understanding that having this part of Mark live on in our son is actually an amazing gift. Of course, on days when he’s teething, it doesn’t seem like a gift,” she adds with a laugh.
I laugh along with her. “I’m sure it doesn’t, but it’s great to think of having part of Mark and Patrick live on in our children. If only the idea of raising this baby on my own didn’t seem so daunting.”
“Oh, honey, you won’t be on your own. Iris told me your sisters live nearby and your parents. Your friends will step up. I’ll be there for you because I know what it’s like to bring that little bundle of joy home by yourself. There’s so much joy mixed in with a fresh wave of grief, coupled with all the postpartum hormones.”
“Ah, so much to look forward to.”
Laughing, Brielle says, “You’ll get through it, and that little person is going to bring you so much happiness. I look at my little guy, even when he’s having a fit, and I just can’t believe he’s mine. As unbelievable as it may seem right now, it’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“This is so incredibly helpful, and it’s so generous of you to share your experience with me.”
“That’s what we do in our group. We help each other through the challenges of widow life. We laugh, we cry, we commiserate, we celebrate, we support, we never judge, and we get it. We just simply get it.”
“And, of course, you know how huge that is.”
“I do. People who’ve never been through this have no idea how to help, even if their intentions are so pure and beautiful. How can they know what it’s like to lose the person you thought you were going to grow old with and to have to live decades without the one you loved the most?”
“They can’t know.”
“No, they can’t, and they often make a ham-handed mess of trying to help. That used to make me really mad in the beginning, until I realized it’s not their fault they don’t know what to do or say. Lucky for them, they haven’t been where we are, so they don’t possess the language needed to truly support us in the way we need. I’ve learned to pick and choose the parts that are useful and to try to ignore the things that hurt me.”
“I have one close friend who’s seriously disappointed me. I’m wrestling with what to do about her.”
“You’re lucky it’s only one. When you get to know our group, you’ll hear so many stories of people who’ve disappointed us. One thing I’ve learned is that it takes a lot of energy to carry around that anger, and you’re going to need all your energy to deal with the grief while you’re growing a new human.”
“That’s true. Part of me wants to let it go, but the other part…”
“I get it. Believe me. My sister was weird after Mark died. She disappeared for a while. When I asked her why, she said she didn’t know how to manage my grief while dealing with hers. I was like, wait, what?”
“Yes! Exactly that. Like, WTF? How is this about you?”
“But you do come to see that the loss of your Patrick has an impact on everyone in your life who loved him.”
“I’m seeing that. He and my dad loved to fly-fish together, and my dad hasn’t been once since we lost him.”
“Their grief matters, too, but not as much as ours. That’s my line in the sand. You can grieve him all you want, but you have to be there for me, and you need to keep your grief far away from mine.”
“I want you to be my new best friend.”
Brielle’s cackle of laughter makes me smile. “I’m happy to be your new best friend, one of many you’ll make when you join ou
r group.”
“I’m looking forward to the meeting on Wednesday.”
“We’re excited to meet you in person, even if we hate the reason that brings you to us.”
“I’m getting the feeling that contrast is a big part of widowhood. The joy in new things, new friends, new adventures, but the pervasive feeling that someone is always missing.”
“Yes, for sure. It does get easier in time, but you never ‘recover’ from this kind of loss. You just learn to live within it.”
“I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to me and to text with me and to support me.”
“There’s comfort for me in helping others going through this. You’ll find that to be true when you reach back to give a hand to someone just starting this journey. Paying forward the wisdom you gain is very satisfying.”
“Well, thank you for sharing yours.”
“My pleasure. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“See you then.”
I end the call feeling buoyed by her support and the knowledge that I’m certainly not the first woman to have a baby after being widowed. And it’s good to know I’ll most likely survive the challenges that lie ahead, as big as they might seem now.
As I crawl into our king-sized bed alone a short time later, I miss Patrick so much. I wish I could talk to him about the baby, my new job, how weird Sarah has been and so many other things. I lie on my side, facing the empty half of the bed, remembering so many nights wrapped up in him. All these weeks later, it still seems impossible to believe I’ll never see him again, that I will live the rest of my life without the man who was at the center of it for most of a decade. During the first days after he died, that was the hardest part, to imagine a life that didn’t include him.
But so much has happened since he died, and I’m already living my life without him. I’m doing what seemed so impossible then, and from deep inside the pit of grief, I have no choice but to acknowledge that progress.
* * *
Derek
I can’t stop thinking about Roni Connolly and what happened to her husband. As I pour myself a drink after tucking Maeve into bed, I stare out the window into the dark as I contemplate the woman who now works at the same place I do. Since Vic died, I’ve barely noticed any other woman. I haven’t wanted to date or let any of my well-meaning friends fix me up with someone new. I’ve had two meaningless sexual encounters that made me feel worse after the fact, so I’m avoiding that for the time being.
I don’t want someone new.
I want the life I used to have with Vic, even though that’s not possible.
I know it’s time to get back to living for more than my job and my daughter, but the thought of starting over with someone new is so unsettling that I avoid it rather than even consider it.
But now I find myself thinking about the gorgeous young woman who seemed to be stalking me, and let me tell you, that scared the crap out of me. After what I learned about Vic and Arnie Patterson after she died, I’m paranoid about people and their intentions.
Yes, I’ve had therapy. Months of it after Vic died, and it helped me accept what happened—as much as anyone can ever accept such a thing—and to focus on the letter Vic left for me in case something ever happened to her. That letter is my lifeline. It’s my proof that what we had was real and true.
Regardless of how we began, she loved me.
That’s the only thing that matters to me, but trust is going to be hard to come by in any future relationship. How in the hell will I ever trust anyone after the ruse that was perpetrated on me?
Hearing about what happened to Roni in October hung over the rest of my day. I went back to my office, looked up the stories about her husband’s death and felt profound grief on her behalf. I know all too well how it feels to suffer through such a loss and how difficult it is to rebuild your life afterward. That they were married for such a short time when she lost him absolutely gutted me. They never had a chance.
Was it weird that she followed me? Sure, but when she explained it, I understood. I did strange things after Vic died, too. Once in the grocery store, I saw a woman with long dark hair who reminded me of her. I followed her through the entire store, stood behind her in the checkout line and waited in breathless anticipation until I finally saw her face and had to accept that she wasn’t my wife come back to life. Because that’s not possible. But try telling that to someone attempting to acclimate to life as a widower.
God, I hate that freaking word.
Widower.
My grandfather is a widower, but he’s eighty-two.
I’m thirty-eight, and let me tell you, there’s a big freaking difference between being a widower at eighty-something versus thirty-something.
I’ve been lucky to have the help of my wonderful parents, who’ve quite simply kept me and Maeve alive with their love and support, as well as wonderful friends, such as our new president, Nick Cappuano, and his wife, Sam. Nick and I go way back to the beginning of both our careers in Washington, and he saved me after President Nelson died and left me without a job. Nick asked me to stay on as deputy chief of staff, which is a huge honor—and a relief to know I can keep doing the job that makes it possible to manage the rest of my life. Not that I couldn’t have found something else if I had to, but staying in the job I already had was the best possible outcome.
It took quite a bit of time and effort after Vic died to set up a new routine that works for Maeve and me. We have a wonderful nanny, Patrice, who drops Maeve at the nearby daycare that gives her time with other kids. Patrice collects her after her nap and entertains her until I get home from work. Maeve loves her, and she’s been a godsend to me.
For a while after she started, I suspected Patrice was hoping she might be more than just Maeve’s nanny, but I shut that down right away so things wouldn’t get weird between us. Sometimes I still catch her eyeing me with that look women get when they’re interested in a man, but I need her too much to ever cross that line with her.
Besides, as lovely as she is, I’m not into her.
But I could be into Roni Connolly, and that strikes me as so damn crazy, especially since I was immediately attracted to her even when I thought she was stalking me. Why her and not the many women I’ve come in contact with since Vic died? Why her and not Patrice, who’s obviously into me, loves my daughter and vice versa?
Because life is bizarre that way. That’s why. I should be annoyed by how weird Roni was when we first encountered each other, but after hearing about her loss, I just want to know more about her. I want to know if she’s okay, if she’s coping and if she needs… well, anything. Which is bizarre. I know it is, but everything about widowhood is bizarre until you get used to it, and then it just hurts. All the time, like an unrelenting ache that nothing can soothe.
It sucks.
But life is so relentless in the way it marches forward like nothing has happened, expecting you to show up—to work, to take care of your kid and to do all the things you did before—only now without the only person who made life worth living. Not that Maeve doesn’t make my life worth living, because she does. But it’s different. Everything is different without Vic, and not in a good way.
I’ll tell you another thing about being a widower—it’s exhausting to feel like absolute shit all the time. That gets old really fast, not to mention it’s contrary to my nature. I’m an overall positive, upbeat kind of guy, and being hideously depressed and heartbroken has worn me out. I’m tired of being tired and sad and often pathetic. I’m ready to get back out there and maybe try again with someone else. Sam and others have offered to fix me up with a wide variety of women, but I hate the idea of that, so I’ve declined their kind offers.
I’d rather it happen organically, such as when a gorgeous, newly widowed woman seems to be stalking me because I remind her of her dead husband from behind. What could go wrong there? That thought makes me laugh as I finish my drink, check the locks for the second time, arm the security system I ins
talled after my wife was murdered in our home and head upstairs to bed.
I stop outside Maeve’s room and tiptoe inside to check my little girl, who’s sound asleep with her thumb firmly planted in her mouth. We’re working on breaking her of that habit, and clearly, it’s not going well. Vic would’ve had her weaned a long time ago. She knew how to take care of our child in a way that was ingrained in her, despite having been parentless for a big part of her life. Bending at the waist, I give Maeve a kiss on the forehead and brush the blonde curls back from her sweet face.
She’s an absolute angel, and I’m so blessed to have her. When I think about the days she was missing… Shaking off those hideous thoughts so I’ll have a prayer of sleeping, I leave her room, propping the door open so I can hear her if she wakes up, and head into the master bedroom that my mother encouraged me to redecorate after Vic died.
I took her advice, and I’m glad I did. I probably should’ve sold this place after what happened in the kitchen, but with so much upheaval in our life at that time, the thought of packing and moving—or finding another place when this one was so hard to come by—was inconceivable. Vic and I searched for months for a place in the Capitol Hill neighborhood and bought this house the day we looked at it so we wouldn’t miss out.
I simply couldn’t bear to go through that again, even if I see her lying in a bloody pool every time I walk into the kitchen, which was also redecorated in an attempt to rid the room of horrible memories. But some things can’t be forgotten no matter how hard we try.
We should’ve moved. I realized that shortly after my awesome mom oversaw the renovations when I told her I wasn’t up for moving. I never told her the renovations haven’t helped, but I think she knows. I unbutton the dress shirt I wore to work and toss it in the dry-cleaning pile that I’ll deal with on the weekend. I go through the motions of changing into pajama pants and a T-shirt.
Vic and I slept naked, which was another thing that had to change after she died. I can’t have my little girl waking up in the middle of the night and finding me in the buff.