On Friday night, I used my strength to cut free from the person who represented the old, sick me: Sunshine.
The corpse of his old life was me.
My lips started to tremble, and the words jumped around on the screen.
He had to break up with me, the blog said, despite my tender loving care during his "life-and-death battle" because I was "the weight around his ankle," dragging him under. My lack of support, my love of the status quo, my failure to understand that life "demanded more" now that he had "stared Death in the eye."
He described my anger on Friday. How I kept eating lobster (I regretted that now). My insistence that we should get married.
Rather than focus on the heart of the matter, she repeatedly asked me about the Tiffany engagement ring I bought her. And I had bought her one, but that was before I understood my life's new meaning.
And while he regretted having to hurt me, he was nonetheless "ready to take on the challenge of living life in the moment."
Jonathan was silent. Outside his office, the rest of the staff was silent. So they already knew.
"Please," I whispered. "Take...take it down."
"Look at the comments."
I tried. I was blinking rapidly, as if the computer were about to slap me, which, metaphorically, it already had.
There were 977 comments.
The blog posted at 6:00 a.m. every Monday.
977 comments in two and a half hours. No, 979. Nope, 985. 993. 1001. 1019.
Oh, my Jesus.
This guy is a total dick, the first comment read. She's better off without him.
Bruh, good for you! said the second. Women always think it's about them.
As a leukemia survivor, I also had to scrape some people off my shoe...
This column makes me sick. He used her, plain and simple. Live life large, my ass. He should be...
Outside Jonathan's office, the phone started to ring. Another line. Another. I could see the lights on Jonathan's phone. The magazine had five dedicated lines. All were lit up.
"Take it down, Jonathan," I said, my voice shrill.
"I'm not going to do that. I'm sorry."
"You have to! You hate this column anyway."
1034. 1041. 1075. God, it was going crazy! I put my hand over my mouth, unable to process what I was seeing.
Jonathan turned the screen back and clicked a few keys. "Our Facebook page has seven hundred new likes since yesterday. The story has been shared on social media more than a thousand times."
Oh, shit. Shit! The blog automatically linked to our Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter accounts...all of which I'd set up when I started work here.
"Take it down!"
"Ainsley, I can't. It's gone viral. I'm sorry." He almost sounded sincere.
"So? That's my life there! That's me being humiliated! Please take it down." Tears were spurting out of my eyes.
Jonathan folded his hands together. "You're the one who fought for this column. I'm sorry it's your personal life, but that was exactly what you and Eric wanted. And clearly, we can't turn away this kind of exposure."
"Do you have a beating heart, Jonathan? Come on! Please."
His door opened, and Rachelle stuck her head in and looked at me apologetically. "Mr. Kent, Good Morning America is on the line."
"I have to take this," he said. "Excuse me."
Chapter Twelve
Kate
My mother called seconds after Ainsley left. "How are you?" she asked. I could hear the clatter of something in the background. My mom was a multitasker; unless you hired her, she would never just sit in a chair and talk. "Things good?"
"Yeah, they're, uh, fine. Fine." As fine as things could be, considering my husband was dead. I didn't mention that Ainsley was staying here. Mom would not approve.
Today was May 1. Our five-month anniversary. No one had mentioned that so far. I was probably the only person who knew. Nathan would've known. He would've bought flowers.
"It's important when dealing with grief to continue self-care and your normal routine." That was probably a line from one of her books.
"Yes. Well, I'm going to the studio today."
"Good! Work is balm for the soul at a time like this."
"Yes."
"We'll talk soon. I'm here if you need me."
"Okay. Thanks for--" Nope, she'd already hung up.
My mother had never been warm and fuzzy.
I had a vague memory of Dad's second wife, Michelle. She smiled a lot. Baked cookies on the weekends Sean and I came over. When Ainsley was born, Michelle let me give her a bottle, even though I was only seven at the time. But Sean and I didn't go over a lot. Our father's job as an umpire meant that he traveled from April through October, home infrequently for short visits. And Mom didn't like us going to see Michelle if Dad wasn't there.
And then, of course, Michelle died.
The divorce and Ainsley were never discussed at home; Sean and I were little, after all. Or little-ish. Mom had suffered the all-too-common indignity of being dumped for a younger, shinier woman, who'd been pregnant before the marriage, before Dad left. After the divorce, Mom had to work more hours, and dinnertimes were tense affairs with dry chicken and vegetables from a can.
It was before Mom's books were published, before she'd invested in a face-lift and started coloring her hair white blond and taking karate. Back then, she was just used up, like an old paper bag.
And then Michelle was gone, and Dad came knocking, and Mom took him back. Him, and the progeny of the other woman.
I knew my mother loved Ainsley...in her way. It was just that her way wasn't the most demonstrative, not even with her biological children. The fact that Ainsley looked so much like Michelle didn't help.
I was glad Ainsley was here, even if she kept putting her foot in her mouth. She gave off a lot of energy, and while that often irritated me a little, I welcomed it now. Without her, the house was very quiet.
I fed Hector, who ate his flakes with gusto. Funny, that this fish pre-and postdated Nathan. A fish with a life span of what?--three years?--bore witness to the beginning, middle and end of my time with Nathan.
"That doesn't seem right to me," I told Hector. Considered flushing him down the toilet to balance the (fish) scales of justice. "I'm just kidding, buddy."
On the shelf above Hector's bowl was my everyday Nikon, the same one I'd been using the night Nathan died.
I hadn't looked at the pictures yet, terrified of what I'd see. Once Nathan fell, my memory of that horrible night was sketchy. I hadn't taken a picture of Nathan going down, had I? I mean, I did have professional instincts. What if there was a picture on there of my husband dying or...dead?
The clock ticked.
I actually had an appointment today. Jenny Tate, who owned the wedding dress boutique around the corner from me, needed some pictures for her website. I didn't realize just what a big deal she was in the wedding dress world until I'd gone to her site. She'd made a dress for a member of the Liechtenstein royal family, and one for an Emmy-award-winning actress, and she'd been featured in all the big bridal magazines.
Time to start getting back to the land of the living.
I showered, not looking at Nathan's toothbrush, and got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Converse sneakers and a peach-colored cardigan.
Outside, it was shockingly lovely. I'd almost forgotten it was spring; the past few days had been gray and rainy. But today, the air was soft and clean, and crab apple and pear trees were fluffy with blossoms. I got my bike out of the garage--what was I going to do with Nathan's car?--and got on.
I rode past the tasteful homes and tidy lawns. Nice porch on that house. Pretty pansies there. Maybe I should do something like that. Then again, pansies wouldn't look right at Nathan's place. Something more stark and bold. A cactus, maybe. A statement tree, a phrase he'd used without irony when he first showed me the courtyard.
It seemed like such a long time ago.
Are you there? I asked
. Are you watching me? Are you okay, Nathan?
There was no answer, no sign. I didn't really expect there to be.
But I was out, and it was beautiful, and I had to keep going, keep moving, or be caught by the heavy, dark fog of grief.
I coasted up to the Blessed Bean with its green-and-white-striped awning and wonderful smells. It was past the morning rush, so I didn't have to wait in line, just ordered a large coffee and a larger muffin. Seriously, the thing was the size of a human brain. I was suddenly starving.
Without Nathan at my side--or his mother or Brooke--I was still a stranger in Cambry-on-Hudson. Right now, I was grateful for that. I was just nobody buying a muffin, not a mother with diamond studs in her ears, not a Mercedes-driving businessperson. Just someone passing through, maybe. Someone nobody knew.
"You're Nathan Coburn's widow, aren't you?" the barista asked, handing over my change.
There went my mood. "Yep," I said. "Have a good day."
"His sister babysat me," she said. "Sometimes Nathan would come over and help me with my math homework, and he was always so--"
"Okay, bye," I said, walking out. Kept walking right down the street to my studio, passing Bliss and Cottage Confections.
It was pretty neat, three women who owned wedding-oriented businesses on the same street. Kim and I did events other than weddings, but it made up the bulk of our work. Nathan had been so pleased the one time we three women had gone out for a glass of wine.
"See? I told you you'd make friends," he'd said when I got back, and it irritated me, since I'd never said I wouldn't. It also seemed as if he'd been implying that... I don't know. That my move from Brooklyn hadn't been as difficult as it had been.
Because yes, I missed the most beautiful borough. Sometimes I'd mention that, how I missed the smell of garlic at Porto's or Ronny, the homeless guy we all bought food for, and Nathan would look a tiny bit peeved, as if he was disappointed that I didn't say, "Gosh, Cambry-on-Hudson is the best place ever! I hate Brooklyn!"
Now I was stuck here in Cambry-on-Hudson, husbandless in my husband's town, where everyone knew him better and longer than I did.
I missed being alone by choice, not by a freak accident and a tiny venous malformation and granite countertops.
There was the rusty spike again.
"Hello," said an older man walking his little mutt.
"Hi." I gave him a fake smile and unlocked the door of my studio. Mercifully, he didn't pull me aside for a tearful memory of my husband. If he tried, I might've punched him.
And then I was inside, and safe. Kate O'Leary: Award-Winning Photography, the sign proclaimed in tasteful letters. The space still felt new to me. New, but clean and bright. Creaky old oak floors and a little courtyard in the back, where Max and I ate lunch the day Nathan died.
My office was its usual mess. I'd come back here for something after Nathan died. Couldn't remember what now. Papers or something. There was a picture of us on the shelf above my desk. I turned it facedown.
Why was I here again? Oh, right, a shoot in about ten minutes. Max wouldn't be in for that; he helped only on outdoor shoots, when the lighting was trickier, or at big events. I had plenty of time to eat breakfast. Had to keep up my strength and all that. I took a big bite of muffin. Cranberry-orange, and damn, it tasted so good. The coffee, too. Crumbs rained down on my sweater, and I brushed them blithely into my keyboard. I was glad it was as big as my head. I might have another one later. Two head-sized muffins in one day.
My thoughts sounded a little crazy even to me.
Maybe tonight I'd go to that grief group Ainsley mentioned.
Three and a half weeks since he died. Almost a quarter of our married life. Almost a month. I wondered if this would be how time was measured now. The days and weeks, the minutes since.
I think I knew the answer.
Oh, and by the way, still no period. I was throwing caution to the wind. See this huge wonking coffee? Damn right, I'm gonna drink it! Take that, Two Lines! I'll be as surprised as anyone when you show up!
Yes. The group might be good.
I went into the other room, where the indoor portraits were done, and started setting up, placing the kicker lights to cast shadows and light on Jenny's face. Checked my portrait camera, made sure I had the mirror angled so she could see herself.
The bell in the front jangled. "Kate? It's Jenny!" In she came, a big black bag over one shoulder, her dark hair shiny.
"Hey, girl!" I said, my cheery voice sounding odd. She wore a soft black leather jacket that I wanted to marry. Oops. No jokes about marriage. I was a widow now. She also had a bag of fabric; I'd asked her to bring some different material to use in the background.
"This is such a great space!" she said, looking around like an eager sparrow. "Oh, here, I brought coffee." She handed me a big cup. "One of those mochaccino caramel things."
"Thanks." I probably shouldn't have more caffeine. You know. Just in case. My uterus snickered.
"You bet. And hey...about Nathan." Her dark eyes were painfully kind. "I'm so sorry." She squeezed my shoulders. "I'm going to email you every week and invite you out for dinner, and you can turn me down as much as you want, but when you're ready, we'll go somewhere fabulous with huge drinks, my treat. And you can tell me about him, or we can talk about bridezillas or gossip or go to a movie. We can talk now if you want, or we can just get down to work."
I should type up what Jenny just said and send it to everyone who said I just don't know what to say. This. This is what you say.
"Let's work," I said, my voice a little husky. "And thank you. I'll take you up on that."
"You better." She paused. "You know, Leo's a widower. My boyfriend."
Oh, God. "No, I didn't know that." He seemed so...normal the only time I met him.
"Yeah. It's an ongoing thing, you know? He goes to this grief group once in a while. Have you looked into anything like that?"
"Actually, my sister found one. It meets at the Lutheran church."
"That's the one he goes to. He says it helps." She smiled a little, such a nice person. I tried to answer, but the spike wouldn't let me.
"Okay," she said. "Let's do this. I watched America's Next Top Model last night to prepare. I'm ready to smize." She grinned, and I found that I could speak once again.
"That show has ruined high school girls for years now."
"I know, but I can't help it. It's like crack."
"That and Project Runway," I said. "I watched a marathon last summer." Before I knew Nathan. Before I was a wife, before I was a widow.
"I know Tim Gunn!" she said, pulling me back from the black fog, and we chatted about New York and celebrity sightings.
I kept her talking while I shot. She had a great smile, and her nose was a little big, which saved her from being forgettably pretty and made her beautiful instead.
So her guy was a widower, and he was in the land of the living. Maybe the grief group had something going for it.
Half an hour later, I took the picture I knew would work best. "We can stop now. This is the one," I said. I downloaded it to my computer and pulled it up in black and white.
Perfect. Jenny sitting on the floor in the middle of a mountain of white tulle, her legs crossed, black leather jacket gleaming. She was looking just a bit off camera, and her face was open and friendly with a smile that was the slightest bit mischievous. Happiness shimmered off her in waves.
"Oh, wow," she said. "This is perfect, Kate! I love it!"
I smiled. "Great. I'll email it to you."
"Super. Would you make up a few prints, too? I'll give one to my sister, and one for Leo if the big dope wants it."
"You bet."
She gathered her fabric up and stuffed it back in the bag. "Hey, doesn't your mom work at Hudson Lifestyle?"
"She does a column there. My sister is their features editor. Why?"
"Oh, then you probably already know."
"Know what?"
She put her phon
e in her purse and slung it over her shoulder. "The cancer guy? Now that he's all better, he dumped his girlfriend. And blogged about it. It's everywhere now. Do you know him?"
My skin prickled with dread. "A little," I said.
"Sounds like a dick. Well, I have to run. See you around the neighborhood. And thanks, Kate. This was really fun."
"Yeah. Definitely. See you soon."
The second she was out, I opened my computer. Googled Cancer Chronicles, Eric Fisher.
0.0042 seconds later, I had my answer.
That bastard.
The little worm. When I was done with the article, I read it again. Maybe I should go to his house and beat the living crap out of him. After all, I was a new widow. I'd be forgiven.
I scrolled through the comments.
There were four thousand of them.
From what I could see, they seemed to be split fairly evenly; people saying Eric had the right to do what he wanted, the other half saying he'd done Ainsley terribly wrong. "You think?" I asked the empty studio.
At least he'd never named Ainsley in the blog. Nope, he called her Sunshine all this time.
I called her. It went right to voice mail. "Hey," I said. "I just read the blog. I'm so sorry. I'll see you at home, okay? Call me if you want. I'm free all afternoon."
The rest of the day, I was consumed with thoughts of my sister, and guiltily grateful because of it. It beat wondering if I was pregnant, thinking about Nathan and trying not to think about Nathan.
Sean called me around five. "Did you see Eric's blog?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"I never liked him."
"Me neither." We were quiet for a minute, bonding over our irritation with our sister's boyfriend. Sean had written him off long ago as a bit of a tool.
Eric had his attributes. He was always very nice to me, friendly and upbeat. But he took Ainsley for granted; she was always Gayle, and he was always Oprah.
"Was he really that close with, uh, with Nathan?" Sean didn't like talking about unpleasant subjects.
"No. They were on some charity committee together last year. Nathan's golf thing."
My brother grunted. "How are you doing, by the way?"
"Good, I guess. I had a shoot today. How are the kids?"
"They're great. Maybe you can Skype us some night this week. Not tonight. Matthias has karate."
"Okay. Sounds good."
"Tell Ainsley I'm...well, whatever. Tell her I called."
"Will do. Thanks, Sean."
On Second Thought Page 14