by Lori L. Otto
“I’m okay,” I lie. There were times in the past couple of days that I did feel okay... but that feeling was gone as soon as this door opened, as soon as I inhaled the familiar scent, saw the many small reminders of him inside the loft.
“Come in,” she says as she returns to the floor next to the Christmas tree. Dry, brown needles cover the hardwood planks. She is carefully wrapping up all the ornaments and placing them in a box. Two empty stockings hang over his fireplace, one with his name and one with mine. These weren’t here the last time I was. The lump in my throat grows at the thought of his sweet gesture. I look away quickly when I notice a third, smaller stocking laying on the mantle. The empty feeling assaults me again.
His unmade bed seems to call out to me. But is this really his room? This is the place he called home? Gone is the brightness of the sun, replaced by looming clouds and long shadows. A dull grey now stains what used to be his crisp, white sheets. And were his walls always this taupe color? This room was... gleaming white... alive... perfection. Happiness. Full of hope and promise. I barely recognize it now.
Are any of my memories real? Does any part of the Nate I knew remain? I wonder if the bed still smells like him... I try to resist the urge to saunter over, climb in, bury myself in the covers, in the memories, but lose the battle in the end. I amble to the bed and sit next to it, picking up the pillow where Nate typically slept. The other side of the bed is just strangely unmade, my absence obvious. I hold the pillow to my face and inhale deeply. I stand up only to collapse onto the pillow on the bed, moving toward the window and rolling into his awaiting arms as the clouds move out of the way for the afternoon sun.
Why did you leave me, Nate?
I love you, Emi. I feel enveloped by his grasp, my body becoming warm at his touch.
If you loved me so much, why did you leave?
You know it wasn’t my choice. I squeeze him tightly.
Then come back.
“Did you say something, honey?” Donna’s voice interrupts our conversation. My heart stops beating for a few seconds. I warily open my eyes to see the grey pillow in my arms, and not Nate. His mother sits down next to me, patting me on the leg as the sun shrugs back beneath the clouds. She hands me a tissue to wipe my tearing eyes.
“It still smells like him,” I tell her.
“I know.” She lets me cry for a few minutes. I struggle to compose myself, but eventually do, focusing on other things that don’t have such a personal connection to him. “Let’s come sit down,” she says, leading me from the bed to the couch.
“How are you getting through this, Emily?”
“Second by second,” I tell her. “Day by day is still too daunting for me. To think that he’ll still be gone tomorrow is too much for me to think about. I just try not to think about the future... or the past, really. It’s just too sad for me. Still too new, too raw.”
“I know,” she soothes. “It will get better,” she assures me. “Soon, it will start getting easier.” I nod. “I really want you to come to the memorial this weekend, Emi,” she surprises me with this line of conversation. I just shake my head no.
“I’ve already told Chris that I can’t. I’m sorry, Donna,” I tell her, making my decision sound as final as it needs to sound. I’m not prepared for this.
“You can,” she says. “You need to come, sweetie.”
“I can’t...” I choke back the lump in my throat. “I can’t let him go yet.”
She takes my hands into hers and squeezes. “You have to, Emily. It’s time.” She looks at me with caring eyes, eyes that understand every shred of despair and loss that I feel. She lost the love of her life many years ago, and then lost the only thing she had left of him when Nate... left... I sigh heavily.... when Nate left this world. I lost Nate, and the child we would have shared, created out of the most passionate love I’ve known. I know she is the only person in my life who can really relate to me, and I appreciate that she respects what he and I shared. Even though we weren’t married or engaged, she respects the total devotion that Nate and I had felt for one another.
“Nate would want you to have the chance to move on. I know it’s hard. But I think the more time goes by before you get that chance to say goodbye, the harder it will be... the more you live with the idea that he might come back. I’ve been there, honey. I know.”
As tear after tear falls to the ground, my head hanging low, I consider what she’s saying.
“We’re doing this for you, Emi,” she says. “We want to celebrate him, all the great things he brought to this world... honor him in a respectful way, just family and his close friends. We want you to feel the love we had for him, and that we all have, in turn, for you. Just as we were for him in his life, we are here to support you. You were his life, Emi. Not just the past few months. For years, you were his life. A mother knows.
“All the other women, Emily... what he felt for them couldn’t begin to compete with his love for you.”
I remain silent.
“I found one of his songbooks. If you read the lyrics, you just know. Know the songs are about you. Poems... there are even some prose entries where he mentions you by name. Someday you may want to read it.
“He loved you with all his heart, and just wanted to respect your wishes. He just wanted you to be happy.”
“He made me happy,” I tell her. “Every second I was with him. I just wish I had been willing to admit my own feelings sooner. I would have had so much more time with him.”
“I know,” she says, “but it wouldn’t have made this any easier. The loss would be just as great.... you made him very happy, too.”
I smile through the tears. “I had a dream about him,” I tell Donna. I want to assure her that her son was alright, so I tell her of my visit from Nate, from the little girl. I give her every detail I can remember, recount every feeling I felt. I tell her that he says he’s okay, that he’s with her, our daughter. Tears fall from her face, but she remains composed, as if the visit was expected, as if she already knew.
“A little girl?” she asks, smiling.
“Yes. She had his eyes, his skin... his smile.”
“He came to introduce you two,” she says, then sighs. “And to tell you goodbye.” She pauses, squeezes my hands again. She takes a deep breath and continues. “When Nate’s dad died, I had a similar dream. I had a very hard time, forgiving him. And I blamed myself, couldn’t help but wonder if it was something that I did that made him go that night.
“It was about a year later, though, a year after he died, when he visited me. After therapy didn’t convince me. He assured me of his love for me and for Nate. He apologized for his selfish actions. He asked for my forgiveness.”
“So I’m not crazy?” I ask her.
“Absolutely not, honey. And the only person I ever told was Nate. He knew how important that was to me. He saw immediate changes in me after that night. Maybe that’s why he came to see you... didn’t waste any time to try to put your mind at ease...”
Even though it was a dream, and even though I hadn’t fully convinced myself that I could believe in such things, it began to feel more real... more possible. I knew most people wouldn’t understand or believe... but this wasn’t about them. He did this for me. I could believe or deny. In this moment, and from here on out, I choose to believe.
I hug Nate’s mother tightly. “Thank you,” I tell her. “Thank you for sharing that.”
“No, sweetie, thank you.” she says. “Since he was able to tell you goodbye, will you do the same for him? Will you come to the memorial?”
I nod slowly, sad to admit that I will begin to let him go. I find solace in the fact that this is just the beginning. It may take years for me to really say goodbye. This is just one small step. I will take it for him.
“And Emily,” she says, taking my hand and leading me to the Christmas tree. “I want you to open this small present.”
“Now?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind. He tol
d me what it is. I want to talk to you about it.”
“If it’s a ring or something, Donna, I will not be able to survive. I just won’t. He said it wasn’t jewelry, but...”
“No, honey, it’s not jewelry. Go on. Open it.”
I take the small box and untie the pretty bow, then lift the lid off of the container. I pull out the lump of tissue paper and begin to unwrap its contents.
It’s a key. I start to shake my head.
“Nate was planning to ask you to move in with him,” she explains. “He told me on Christmas. Even before he found out you were pregnant.”
I stare at the small brass key and allow myself, ever so briefly, to imagine what it would have been like living here, with him. “I would have loved to move in with your son,” I tell Donna. More faded memories of the time before the accident become clearer. “The week before... the accident... after I found out I was pregnant... I told him I needed space. God, Donna, why did I push him away?”
She pulls me into her arms and holds me tightly. “It’s okay, Emily.”
“Every single day that went by, I missed him more and more. I missed spending time with him... just having him near me. Another week, wasted...” My voice trails off.
“He always knew you loved him.”
“Here,” I tell her, relinquishing the key to her open palm.
“No, Emi. Nate would have wanted you to have this apartment... if you want it.”
“I wouldn’t feel right taking it,” I tell her. “I don’t even know if I could... live here... without him...”
“I insist,” she tells me, handing me the key. “I don’t need it, that’s for sure. I mean, I know this would be hard, but please consider it. In a few weeks, maybe we can meet here again and go over a few things. When you’re ready.”
I take the key back, reluctantly. I’m not sure I can ever come back here, ever live a normal life here, without him. A sacred place. A constant reminder of him. “I’ll think about it, Donna. I don’t know that I’d be able to move forward living here. It may just be too painful... too many memories... I just don’t know.”
“I understand, Emily,” she assures me, standing up. “It’s yours if you want it. And like I said, take your time. If you just can’t do it, decide you can’t live here, then let me know. This place meant so much to him... was his haven. Maybe we can make a little gallery out of it or something,” she laughs. “It’s up to you.”
I smile, but still don’t know that I will ever be able to stay here. She leans down to hug me. I pick up another small present addressed to me and unwrap it. It’s a gift card to my favorite home store.
“He wanted to redecorate with you, too.”
“Sweet,” I mumble, taking a deep breath and holding the card out to Donna, internally cringing at the thought of getting rid of things. “Can you give this to one of your charities or something? I think it would go to better use there.”
“If that’s what you’d like,” she answers. I nod. “Is Chris downstairs?” she asks me, gathering the things she’s packed up.
“He’s at the coffee shop down the street.”
“Do you want me to take you there?”
“No,” I tell her. “I think I’ll just hang out here for a few more minutes.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yes, Donna, thank you.” She hugs me once more.
“I love you, Emi,” she says. “I’ll see you this weekend. You call me if you need anything.”
“You, too.” She walks out the door, closing it softly behind her. I take a deep breath and look around the apartment. I walk back over to the bed, picking up the pillow again. I decide to make up the bed, as best as I can with one good arm, wondering how long his scent will stay on the linens. I limp to the window, surveying the beautiful view of Central Park, remembering the afternoon of Nate’s birthday, when we first professed our love for each other.
“Why, Nate?” I ask. “Why did you leave me?” I move toward the dresser, in hopes of finding a few of his shirts to take with me. Everything is how he left it. I hold the shirts close to my chest, happy to have another little token of him with me. The blue Tiffany & Co. box sits on top of the dresser. I had brought it over to wear one night when we went out, always keeping it safe in its case when I wasn’t wearing it. I pick it up and I tuck it into the shirts. I can’t open it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to wear it again, but I will cherish it forever.
I fight off tears as I open the door to the guest bedroom, finding it odd that the door is closed. He never closed that door. On the bed are our suitcases from that night. I unzip his bag, sad to see that it’s empty. Mine contains the red dress I wore to the party, my shoes, lingerie I had packed to wear that night, various toiletries, make up... everything I had taken with me. A plastic bag sits next to my suitcase. Curious, I open it and pull out its contents.
Two chocolate bars.
The Pregnancy Book.
A little yellow stuffed giraffe with the tags still on it. Even with the evidence in front of me, I don’t remember picking up the items. I pull the cord on the giraffe, curious.
“Hi little one.” My heart stops, cold, surprised at the sound of his voice. “Thirteen years. One night. Nine months. One small baby will deliver true love. I can’t wait to see you.”
I feel faint, finding a place on the bed as the missing memories of New Year’s Eve come racing back. I fight off the image that’s most prominent. I don’t want to see it. I struggle to piece together the night, avoiding the image. The only thing I could remember up until now was making love to him... But after that, we had a conversation as we lay in bed, naked.
I remember how he talked to the baby after we made love. I remember suggesting we go back to the party because I was craving chocolate cake. I remember him telling me that we weren’t presentable, and suggesting we go elsewhere for chocolate.
I remember sneaking through the lobby. I had apologized when we got into the car. He left me in the store– he left me to get this giraffe that I now hold in my hands. I found the book, couldn’t stop reading it, mesmerized with the information, curious, wanting suddenly to know everything I could expect, wanting answers to questions that had already been filling my eager mind.
I remember that the young clerk said that she was pregnant, too. I remember being surprised to see her wearing a wedding band– she just seemed too young, but it made me feel okay about our situation. We would be married. And I decided in that moment, that the next time Nate proposed to me, I wouldn’t let a second go by before telling him yes, yes, yes, over and over again. If we were going to be Father and Mother, we could definitely handle Husband and Wife.
Nate had joked about the sex of the baby, that he was sure it was a girl because he would have been an unfit role model to a boy. I smiled briefly at the thought. I think I told him he was a good man. He was.
I remember him encouraging me to open the bag, to pull out the toy, to pull its string. I cried when I heard it then.
I pull the string again, ignoring the words, merely focusing on the tiny nuances of his beautiful voice, the voice I hadn’t heard in weeks... the one I would never hear again, except for this token of his love that he had recorded for the baby. If I linger on this, keep playing this, I won’t have to see that image.
But it’s too late.
We looked into each others eyes. We kissed. We both must have seen the light change to green. I saw it. He hit the gas pedal. But then I saw something he didn’t.
I saw the eyes of a younger man, almost a boy, the fear in them matching my own. The eyes, the boy, the SUV he drove, sped for us, raced toward the car, toward the driver’s side of the car, toward Nate. Helpless, I yelled his name, feeling the impact and seeing nothing but white, feeling nothing but fire and pain for a few seconds before I felt nothing, numbness, spreading over my body.
I smelled smoke, tasted blood. Even after I opened my eyes, it took me forever to figure out where I was and what had happened. I could b
arely move the left side of my body, the side closest to Nate. My left arm wouldn’t respond. I couldn’t understand why. I tested my right arm... and it moved... I unbuckled the taut seatbelt and moved to Nate, to touch his face. I felt his breath, I remember that. I remember thinking he was alive... but thinking to myself... that Nate... looked... broken...
And I wondered how I could fix him. Confusion was taking over, but I knew Chris would know what to do. I called him, I remember dialing his number, when Nate moaned a little, seemed to be trying to say something. Another sign of hope, a sign of life. He was fine, would be fine. I focused all my attention to him. I cried out to him. I cried out of frustration, confusion, more than pain or sadness. The events weren’t real to me at that point. I was going to help him. We would be okay.
I leaned over him, as best as I could with my own broken body that wouldn’t respond as it should. That fact eluded me, it was more of a frustration to me than an acknowledgment that I was hurt, too. I don’t think my own pain or condition ever crossed my mind after the initial impact. It was only Nate. He was all that mattered to me. Not myself. Even the baby never seemed to cross my mind in those moments where our lives hung in the balance.
I remember a tear of mine mixing with blood on his face. And the last sound he made, the most beautiful sounds. He had said, “Love ya, Em.” Love ya, Em. He had looked at me, was somehow able to focus on me, met my gaze and held my eyes with his. “Hold me,” he had managed to say.
And then, before I could even return the affirmation of love, his stare pierced through me, through my heart like a dagger. I had felt a rush of wind sweep over my body in that moment. I knew he had died. I felt it, but was unable to accept it. I kept nudging him, touching him, wishing my lips could reach his, to breathe the life back into him. I was determined to help, but unable.
I couldn’t help him. I watched him die. He lay next to me in his crumpled car, lifeless. No amount of pleading– no matter how many tears I cried for him in those moments– nothing was enough to bring him back to me.