The Loss Between Us

by Brooke McBride

  “I just got out of bed, Mom. I’m not in the mood for lunch. And as I’ve told you before, Julia was Jeff’s friend, not mine.” I was never crazy about the fact that my husband’s best friend was a woman, but we were always cordial with one another, and she’s tried to be supportive since Jeff’s death. But I’ve done a great job of keeping my distance from her for the past nine months. “Is that the only reason you’re here? Because if so, you can go.”

  "I wanted to check on you, see how you're doing."

  "Mom, I’m the same as I was yesterday. And the day before that, and the week before that.” I glare at her. “Please, this has to stop. I just need some space and some time, okay?” I angle my face away from hers to avoid the wounded look on her face.

  “Jensen, it's been over eight months since you were released from the hospital.”

  “Yep. What's your point?”

  “Mr. Thompson called your father yesterday.”

  I stop searching for the coffee filters, cross my arms, and look at my mother. “Why is my boss calling Dad?”

  She clears her throat. “He said he's been calling you and leaving messages, but you haven't returned his calls.”

  I start digging for something, anything. “That’s because I assume he wants to discuss when I’m coming back to the firm. I’m not ready yet.”

  “Jensen, that may have been why he called two months ago, but that's not why he's calling now.”

  “What’s your point?” I rattle the bowls and plates in front of me, trying to drown her out.

  “Honey, he called to make one last attempt to get you to come back to work, but your father told him you weren't ready.”

  “So what's the problem?”

  “Jensen…” She clears her throat. “Sweetie….”

  Finally finding the coffee filters, I throw them on the counter. "Oh for Christ sakes, Mom, just spit it out. Stop treating me like a child. What?”

  “They had to let you go.”

  Fired? They fired me? My stomach clenches and I feel nauseous. I grip the side of counter and stretch out my arms. Jeff’s face flashes before me. I waited until he came home that night to tell him I had landed a job at one of the top law firms in Kansas City. He smiled, picked me up and swung me around, and then insisted we go out to dinner to celebrate. I miss him being proud of me. I lower my head and focus on the tile grout in the kitchen. I need to clean the grout. It’s been a few weeks.

  I lean down, open the cabinet underneath the sink, pull out my grout cleaner and toothbrush, and sit them on the counter so I don’t forget to add them to my cleaning rotation today.

  “What are you doing?” My mother asks.

  “Just sitting this out so I don’t forget later.”

  “So you have no response to what I just told you?”

  “He’s right.”

  “Who’s right?”

  “Mr. Thompson. It’s time.” I pick up the coffee filters and meticulously try to separate them. “They haven’t been paying me for months anyway, so we might as well make it official.”

  “You’re not upset that you were fired?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “No. I wasn't planning on going back anyway. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “Jensen, come on. That is your dream job. You're just going to walk away from it?”

  The coffee filters aren’t cooperating, so I shove them aside and move on to the coffee scoop. I focus on leveling the scoop so I don’t say something to my mother I’m going to regret. Why she doesn’t understand that I no longer care about that job is baffling to me. It’s like saying the same thing over and over in a foreign language. A language called grief. It doesn’t matter how I say it or how often, she hears what she wants to hear.

  She starts rambling on again about the sacrifices I made for that career, for that particular job. Things that don’t matter in this world anymore. Her voice becomes muffled and she sounds like she’s in a tunnel far away. I feel my face warm and I try to slow down my breathing. She’s my mother. She’s only trying to help. It’s me, not her. Don’t get angry.

  But it doesn’t work. I slide the coffee cup across the counter, willing it to shatter, just so one more thing can be broken in this house. “Jesus, mom! I don't give a shit about the job! Why don't you get it? How the hell could that possibly matter after everything I’ve gone through?”

  “Jensen. Please don’t get angry again. What’s happened is…tragic, but I’m afraid you’re starting to actually make the situation worse. Making it even more tragic.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe Jensen, breathe. “How am I making it worse, Mom?”

  “By not moving on. You know you can’t afford this house without Jeff’s salary. And his life insurance was gone months ago. After the funeral and other expenses, and with no money coming in, you won’t be able to live here much longer.”

  “Mom don’t start on this again. I don’t want to have the ‘how irresponsible’ conversation again.” Jeff and I didn’t have a lot of life insurance. We were young and focusing on our mortgage and trying to build our life. We never dreamed that we would need it. Until I got pregnant. We started talking about it then, but I was only three months along. We thought we had time. Time to do a lot of things we never would.

  “Jensen, I don’t want to fight. But I’m not going to sit back anymore and let you sit in this house with no job, no husband, no children, and no future. This isn’t the life I want for you.”

  “He was my life! What’s so tragic about not leaving him behind? Without him, I’m nothing.” My throat burns from the sudden increase in volume leaving my mouth.

  “Really? Where’s that stubborn daughter I raised? The one who was strong-willed and wouldn’t take no for an answer. You remember, the one who dreamed of becoming a lawyer, to help people and to make a difference in this world. You were something before him, and you can damn well be something after him!” She picks up the coffee cup from the floor and slides it back in my direction before marching through the dining room and slamming the front door behind her.

  I stand, unmoving. My mother yelled at me. I don’t think that’s happened since I was four years old and decided to glue her new, custom-made drapes together. I rush to the front door to apologize, but she’s already gone. Yep. I’m still an asshole.

  Coffee calls as I shuffle back into the kitchen. I need to make some decisions about my future. A future I never imagined. But it’s easier to avoid it and pretend that it will work itself out. Especially since I don’t care. Knowing what this day will hold for me, I march back up the stairs. Yet, instead of turning left toward our bedroom, I find myself turning right and standing at the entrance of a closed door.

  I don’t go in here often. I’m not strong enough. But since my mother already broke me today, I turn the knob, focus on the hard steel, and slowly open it. My senses are overloaded, and before I can even process it, a tear is running down my face. I see the crib that Jeff put together two weeks before he died. We settled on a dark cherry wood since we didn’t want to know the sex. I couldn’t wait to get the nursery together. We were so excited.

  I cross the room and pick up the stuffed Sluggerrr mascot Jeff brought home the first day he found out I was pregnant. He’d always been a Royals fan and told me it didn’t matter if it was a boy or a girl, they would be too. I hug it to my chest as I sit down in the glider and take in the room around me.

  The changing table still sits in a box next to the closet. Jeff was going to put it together the weekend he died. A package of newborn diapers sits off to the side. It shows a young, beautiful mother with a baby in her arms. Her face is in awe of the little person she holds in her arms. Those diapers were the first thing I bought after finding out I was pregnant. I shake my head realizing how stupid I was to purchase those first. Not clothes or even something fun or memorable, but something that would be thrown away and forgotten. But instead of being used and thrown away, they sit there, frozen in time, just as I am.

  Chap
ter 5

  Before I became a widow, I led a charmed life. Some might say predictable, maybe even boring. But that’s what I loved about it. It was everything I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. A good job, a good husband, a child on the way. Stable. It was so good that I still spend a lot of time in that life. I often wonder what Jeff and I would have been like as parents. I wonder what choices I would have made as a mother: organic, soy, strict routine, or wandering around so blissfully happy none of it would have mattered. How often would I have put my child above my husband, my career, myself? But now there’s no one to put above myself, and the choices look a little different: should I shower, should I clean, should I eat? Those choices, which probably seem simple to most, are almost too much for me to bear on most days.

  So is deciding if I’m going to group. Nash’s crooked smile flashes briefly through my mind. I don’t want him to be a factor in my decision. I tell myself it’s only curiosity, considering how we left things.

  I go through my normal motions. I get in the car. Drive to the church and back into my usual spot. I begin the countdown. Five minutes. And here he comes. He pulls into the lot like last time. But as soon as he spots me, he pulls forward and slowly backs into the spot next to me. This time I’m ready for him. I watch him climb off his bike and place his helmet on the back. I expect one of two things from him. Either he’ll lean down and try to talk to me through my window again, or he’ll ignore me and walk in. I can’t decide what I wish for more.

  I have a fluttering feeling in my stomach as I watch him cross in front of my car and lean down to talk to me through my passenger side window. I follow him the whole way so we’re looking at each other as he says, “Unlock the door, Jensen.”

  I do, even though I’m confused by my willingness to be so accommodating. He climbs in, and suddenly I’m very aware that there is a man in my car. He smells clean, like hanging fresh laundry on a line to dry. He pulls his sunglasses off and tucks them into the collar of his shirt. He then angles his body to face me and says, “Hi.”

  I don’t ask him what he’s doing in my car. Or yell at him for what he said to me last week before he walked away. I respond with my own “Hi.”

  “How are you today?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Same as every other day.”

  The muscles in his jaw clench as he nods. “Figures.” Several moments pass, and I realize he’s not going to say anything. I glance at the clock. Three minutes.

  “So, mind telling me why you’re sitting in my car?”

  “I’m waiting.”

  I glance around. “On?”

  “You.”

  My mind starts to race. “What about me?”

  “What choice you’re going to make.”

  “Choice?” His steady stare is unnerving and welcoming all at the same time.

  “To see if you’re going to walk in or not.”

  He surveys the parking lot as I study his profile and his five o’clock shadow. “And if not?”

  “If not, I have a different idea.” He pins me with his eyes, and I shift in my seat with anticipation. “But I want you to make the decision for yourself, without any help from me. It’s your choice, Jensen.”

  I look over at the door to the church and see Larry helping Mrs. Olsen up the stairs. I have no desire to get out of this car. “Why do I need to make the decision for myself?”

  “Making decisions gives you control, and I want you to have something in your life that you control.”

  “What makes you think I’m not in control?”

  “Just a wild guess.” He continues to stare while waiting for an answer. “What’s it going to be, Jensen?”

  I already knew the answer the moment he gave me a choice. “I’m not going in.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He’s then out of my car, walking back to his bike. He starts it up he yells, “Follow me.”

  And I do.

  Following Nash, I try to keep a safe distance from his bike. I sit up tall in my seat to make sure I can see clearly. I’m relieved when he puts on his turn signal in front of McFadden’s coffee shop so that I don’t have to worry about running into him. But as soon as I park, I rub the back of my neck and rethink my answer to his question. Even though I don’t like group, I’m not forced to talk no matter how hard Pastor Paul tries. But having a cup of coffee with Nash, sitting one-on-one with him, is going to force me to go even further outside of my comfort zone. He’s going to ask questions I don’t want to answer. He’s going to want to discuss things I don’t want to discuss. I’m just about ready to step out of my car and tell him that I changed my mind when he steps off of his bike.

  He motions for me to roll down the window. “You have another choice. Get out, or stay here. I’ve just pulled a twenty-four-hour shift, so I’m going to get some coffee and read the paper. You can join me if you like.” He then walks away again.

  Why can’t I ever predict what this man is going to do? It’s not like me. Part of being a lawyer is always being a step ahead. I’ve always had a keen sense for how people are going to react or respond to situations. But Nash keeps tripping me up. Then I dwell on something he said: twenty-four-hour shift. I wonder what he does for a living. Before I can change my mind, I shuffle out of the car and follow him.

  I walk up behind him as he’s placing his order. “Large coffee, black.” He glances over his shoulder. “And whatever she’s having.”

  “This isn’t a date, so that’s not necessary.”

  He pulls out his credit card. “Suit yourself.” He hands it to the barista, and she grins at him and then drops his card, picks it up, and drops it again.

  “I’m sorry…sir.” Her face flushes bright red. She then says under her breath, “I’m such a klutz.”

  “Don’t worry about it sweetheart.” He winks at her, and I step forward to make my presence known.

  “Thanks.” She hands him his card back. “They’ll have it down there for you.”

  He smiles and saunters off to retrieve his cup of joe. I wait a few seconds and finally clear my throat. Her eyes finally leave Nash, and I order a caramel macchiato.

  Nash already has his coffee in hand and is making his way to a booth in the back by the time I get to the pick-up counter. I snatch some sweetener and join him. He’s holding a newspaper, and his face and the upper part of his body are hidden behind it as I sit down.

  I wait a few minutes and then sigh heavily. Nothing. Finally, my patience gives in. “Excuse me?”

  He lowers his paper and his eyes gaze over it. “Hmmm?”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “I thought you said you had a better idea? Is this it?”

  “I said ‘different,’ and yes.” He then resumes reading his paper.

  “Okay different, so….”

  He sighs and lowers the paper once again. “You had a choice, right?”

  “Yeah, so?” I hit the packet of sweetener against my hand a few times and dump in its contents.

  “And you chose this as opposed to group, right?”

  “Yeah.” I take a sip of my coffee. “Unfortunately.”

  “Would you rather be stuck between Mrs. Olson and Larry right now?” He says his name as if it’s a bad word.

  I squint and feel the wrinkles forming in my forehead. I used to try to avoid that because I didn’t want premature wrinkles. But that whole not-caring side effect has prevented me from thinking about it in a long time. So why am I thinking about that now?

  Nash stares at me, and when I don’t say anything, he slides the Lifestyle section of the paper over and disappears again behind his own paper.

  I sit for a few minutes, staring at the other side of his paper.

  He finally says, “Pick up the paper, Jensen. Read something, just for a little while. Forget where you are, forget who you are. Try it.”

  The fact that a total stranger, who is barely paying me any attention, has dragged me to a coffee shop and convinced me to
do something I don’t want to do is unnerving. But I do it anyway. I can’t remember the last time I read a paper. I have no idea what’s happening in the world outside of my life. And it’s a nice reprieve. A reprieve from the grief and the worrying about the future, and most importantly, a reprieve from the guilt that eats at me every hour of every day.

  Chapter 6

  Before, I never would have been the type to sit in a coffee shop and read a newspaper. The hustle-bustle life of a lawyer never gave me the opportunity. Which is one of the many reasons this has been hard. After I lost the baby, I went into a treatment facility for depression. Even there, my days were scheduled. Group therapy, one-on-one therapy, horseback riding therapy, yoga, meditation, and the list goes on and on. It was all pretty much crap, but it kept me busy. When I was released I came home to nothing but silence and emptiness. Which is why my house is so clean. I had to find something to pass the time. When I was a lawyer, I always worried about when I would find time to clean our big house. I think about how ironic and ludicrous life can be. Before, it mattered and I didn’t have time; now, it doesn’t and I have all the time in the world.

  At some point, Nash and I started exchanging newspaper sections, and I’m almost out of things to read. Before I can dwell on it, Nash is out of his seat ordering more coffee. He comes back with two cups, sets one in front of me, and throws down a sweetener packet and a stirrer.

  “Is this for me?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I don’t see anyone else sitting here.” He takes a sip of coffee, and his eyes lock on mine. “Don’t worry, I’m aware that this isn’t a date.”

  If he only knew my story, he would understand why I’m so sensitive right now. But it’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t automatically think widow. He doesn’t look at me as sad and pathetic, and I think that’s what I like best about him. I’m someone else, even though I don’t know who she is.