Silver Threads

by Bette Lee Crosby

  How could she be gone when she was still so alive in every room of the house?

  He thought back to the phone call and remembered how Officer Scott had said it was no one’s fault. An unforeseeable circumstance, he’d called it. But even then Drew knew the truth. It was someone’s fault.

  His.

  When did he stop taking care of his family? When had he let business become the ruler of his life? If he had been here, at home with his wife and daughter instead of chasing after bigger and better clients, everything would have turned out differently.

  They said Jennifer awoke with a headache that morning. If he’d been at home he would have lowered the blinds to darken the room and insisted she stay in bed. He would have driven Brooke to school himself. Then he would have stopped at the drugstore to pick up her prescription.

  A flicker in time, one moment more or less might have made all the difference in the world. It’s possible that he could have wrested the pistol from the perpetrator’s hand and no one would have been killed. The gunman would have gone to prison, and Jennifer would still be alive.

  Perhaps. Maybe. If only. All of it was useless conjecture. It changed nothing.

  Drew sat on Jennifer’s side of the bed and ran his hand across the sheet thinking of how it was when she’d been there. He closed his eyes, pictured the curve of her back and the spread of her hair billowed across the pillow. He remembered how on warm summer nights they’d raise the blinds and lie side by side, naked in the moonlight, belonging completely to one another.

  The tears came, and he broke down.

  “Why?” he sobbed. “Why didn’t she stay home that morning?”

  Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer would never be forthcoming.

  He lowered his face into her pillow and cried for a long while. He cried because he’d done nothing to save her, and now he was left with a loneliness that was almost unbearable. After a long while, exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jennifer was wearing the white cotton dress she’d worn on the Saturday they went to the fair. Her hair cascaded like a waterfall over her shoulders. A soft breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and feathered her hair. A single strand fluttered across her cheek, and she brushed it back.

  “You look so beautiful,” he said.

  She laughed. “I’m only a memory.”

  “A beautiful one.” He took her hand in his, and it felt warm but without weight.

  For a while they walked together, not speaking but somehow sharing thoughts. It was as if she knew and understood his sorrow.

  She stopped and turned to face him.

  “What happened is not your fault,” she said. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

  “I wouldn’t have lost you if I’d been there—”

  She touched her finger to his mouth and stilled his words.

  “You haven’t lost me,” she whispered. The tenderness in her voice was soft as a shadow. “You still have the best of me in Brooke.”

  He looked at her with a saddened smile. “She misses you as much as I do.”

  “I know. I’ve tasted the salt of her tears.” Jennifer fixed her eyes on his, and they were filled with a silent plea. “Our daughter needs you to help her heal.”

  “Me? How can I—”

  She again stilled his words. “Love her as you loved me. Speak not of sorrow but of a happy future.”

  “A happy future? How can there be such a thing when—”

  “I have seen it and know it will happen,” she said. Her voice grew softer still, and she lowered her eyes. “But only after you accept the past and move on.”

  He heaved a great sigh and reached out to touch her shoulder. Suddenly she became thin and wispy like a figure made of smoke.

  He inhaled sharply. “Wait! Don’t go!”

  “I’m already gone,” she said in a voice that was barely a whisper. “Know that I love you, and stay strong for Brooke.”

  He felt a rush of wind cross his brow, and then she disappeared from sight. The last thing he heard was a faraway voice saying, “If you’re okay, she’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t go!” he screamed and bolted upright.

  “Don’t go where?” the childish voice said.

  Drew opened his eyes and saw Brooke standing beside his bed.

  “Don’t go where?” she repeated.

  Finding Closure

  The dream stayed with Drew for days afterward. He wanted to believe in the future Jennifer had spoken of, but it seemed impossible. How could he move ahead when so little of life even made sense? Simply moving through the routines of the day was exhausting.

  Every day there seemed to be yet another thing needing his undivided attention. On Monday afternoon Brooke had dance class—not in town but over in Bellingham, which meant a forty-five minute drive each way. The class was one hour long, so he had no choice but to stay and watch the troupe of eight-year-old ballerinas struggle through their pitiful pirouettes. Once he tried calling a client while he waited, but the plink, plink, plunk of background music made the effort seem absurd.

  Then on Wednesday it was the Brownie meeting. Twice he’d driven to the wrong house because Brooke was unsure about who was hosting the meeting that week. The second time he’d lost his patience and told her she should know these things. After only a few words it turned into a fiasco.

  “Mama had a list telling the right place for the meeting,” she said through her tears.

  Such a declaration only served to make Drew feel more incompetent than he already did. He finally promised to buy her a new Barbie if she’d stop crying.

  On the days when he did manage to squeeze in a full afternoon of phone calls, the clients were less than thrilled to hear from him. Some didn’t bother answering the call; they’d have their secretary say they were tied up or gone for the day. When he finally did talk to someone and asked about a job that had been promised him, they’d say it was delayed or cancelled. It had only been a little over three months, and already he’d lost four clients.

  Robert Meecham was the largest. Drew had wined and dined Meecham for seven years. Then without a word of apology Meecham up and moved his summer catalogue to Pelham Printing.

  “I’m no longer happy with the quality at Southfield Press,” he said, but Drew knew that was nothing but an excuse. Printing was a one-on-one business. Clients expected to be pampered and paid attention to. They simply weren’t interested in doing business over the phone.

  Nothing was as it once was, not even Brooke. From time to time he’d get a glimpse of the happy little girl she used to be, but more often than not she was moody and fearful. At one time she’d wanted to ride the school bus with the other kids, but no more. Now she clung to him as if he was her one and only hope.

  Each morning as she climbed from the car, she’d turn back and ask, “Do you promise to come back this afternoon?”

  It wasn’t just a question; it was a plea. He could see it in her eyes.

  If he went to the store she wanted to go with him, even if it was for only a newspaper or quart of milk. If he carried the trash to the garage and was gone for more than a few minutes she came in search of him. And she slept with the light on, something she’d not done since the year she turned three.

  On two different occasions she’d asked what would happen if a robber shot him. At the time he’d turned it off with a lighthearted laugh, saying that like Superman he was indestructible. She’d given him a smile, but it was one that was only on her face and not in her heart.

  It was as if life had suddenly divided itself into two eras: before and after that fateful day. They were now stuck in this new era, and Drew had no idea of how to break free.

  On a Tuesday morning in early June, Drew pulled out of the drop-off line and snapped on the talk radio station he listened to for the drive home. The interviews were generally with a local politician, a weight loss consultant or a sports figure, but on this particular morning Frank Lester had
a new guest.

  “Today we are talking with Margaret Hanson, noted psychologist and grief counselor,” Lester said. He went on, listing her many credits, then asked a number of questions about overcoming the depression that often follows the death of a loved one.

  Drew leaned forward and upped the volume.

  “Grief is a natural reaction to death,” she said, “but it can escalate into depression when a person fails to accept the reality of the situation and loses hope. An important part of the healing process is allowing one’s self to experience and accept feelings of grief.”

  “That sounds logical,” Lester replied. “But is there a right or wrong way to go about doing this?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Everyone grieves differently. Most people go through a stage we call denial or numbness before they’re ready to start healing. Often they blame themselves for the loss, so instead of moving forward they dwell on what they could have done to prevent it.”

  “I would assume that could cause long-term problems.”

  “You’re right. Closure is an important part of healing. Hanging on to guilt and anger inevitably leads to hopelessness, and that’s when grief gives way to depression.”

  The questions and answers continued, and when Drew arrived back at the house he sat in the driveway listening to the end of the show.

  “Well, folks, we’re just about out of time,” Lester finally said. “Doctor Hansen, before we go will you give our listeners one last word of advice about dealing with grief?”

  She thanked him for having her as his guest then said, “Those who are grieving should not expect to forget their loved ones. It’s an unrealistic expectation. But they do need to face the truth of what has happened. It’s important for the person grieving to remember they are still alive. And as long as there is life, there is hope. Hope is the single most important building block to the future.”

  Drew snapped off the radio and thought back to the dream again. He remembered Jennifer’s words.

  There is a better future, but it will only come after you accept the past and move on.

  He backed out of the driveway and turned toward Dunninger’s Drugstore.

  Drew parked in the back lot just as Jennifer had that morning, but he sat in the car for several minutes before he gathered enough courage to climb out and walk around to the front door. As soon as he turned the corner he saw the glow of the green neon sign.

  Jennifer had also seen it, and it had no doubt worsened her headache. Her migraines were always like that; any kind of noise or brightness caused the pain to become unbearable. The last few minutes of her life were spent in agony.

  He pushed through the door then stopped and looked around. It had been a year, maybe more, since the last time he’d been inside the store, and yet everything looked the same. Summer was just around the corner, but there was still an aisle of cold medications and cough syrups. Beyond that he could see a rack of sunglasses; that appeared to be new.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” the young pharmacist behind the counter called out.

  Drew shook his head. “Not really.”

  He walked toward the counter then looked back. Just above the shampoos and conditioners was a convex reflector. If Albert Dunninger was behind the counter, he had to have seen her walk in. Why then didn’t he do something or shout out a warning?

  “You new in town?” the pharmacist asked.

  Again Drew shook his head. “My wife died, and I was hoping…”

  “I’d like to help you out, but you’ve got to have a prescription for Xanax or any of the antidepressants. I could lose my license if—”

  Drew gave a half-smile. “I’m not looking for anything like that. In February my wife, Jennifer, was in here when a robbery occurred—”

  “Dear God, you’re the husband…” The pharmacist came from behind the counter and walked toward Drew. “I heard about what happened and can’t begin to imagine what you’ve gone through.”

  “Gone” implied it was in the past, something over and done with, but it wasn’t. It was here and now. Drew gave a grimaced nod.

  “It’s damn hard,” he said. “Not just on me, but our daughter. She’s only eight and…”

  He felt the sting of tears in his eyes, and there was no way he could stop them.

  “I’ve got kids myself,” the pharmacist said. “Two girls, five and six.” He reached across, clasped a friendly hand on Drew’s shoulder and said how sorry he was for such a loss.

  “Thanks,” Drew replied. Then he asked if the man was related to Dunninger.

  The pharmacist shook his head. “Name’s McIntyre. Peter. I bought this place from Dunninger’s lawyer two months ago, and that’s when I learned of what happened.”

  “It was all over the news,” Drew said. “I thought everybody knew.”

  “We’re not from this area,” Peter replied. “We moved here from Chicago because my wife wanted to be near her mom.”

  They stood side by side and talked for a long time. Peter recounted all he knew of what happened that day and told how five days later Albert Dunninger had a heart attack and died.

  “His lawyer was the one who handled the sale of the store.”

  Drew’s expression took on a look of defeat. “You think if Dunninger hadn’t pulled his gun, Jennifer might still be alive?”

  “Not the way I heard it,” Peter said. “My understanding is that Coggan shot her first, and then that’s when Dunninger grabbed his gun.”

  That was it then. There was no one left to hate. Both of the men who had fired shots that day were now dead and buried. It was like a book of heartache slammed shut before coming to the end of the story.

  They spoke for a short while longer; then Drew left the store and walked aimlessly along the boulevard. As he walked his thoughts drifted back to the times he and Jennifer had strolled this same street, his arm draped across her shoulder and hers wrapped around his waist, their steps evenly matched and hips brushing against one another.

  Back then they couldn’t afford to buy much of anything, so they window-shopped and built dreams of what they would do one day. In those early years he’d managed the print shop over on Fairfax, and Jennifer worked for the lawyer three blocks down. Together they made enough to get by, to see a movie now and then and have an occasional dinner out. Sure, there were months when they’d barely scraped by, but he couldn’t remember ever feeling poor.

  The year after Brooke was born, he’d moved into sales. It seemed like a good idea at the time. In less than a year the commissions he earned more than doubled his salary, so naturally he’d jumped at the chance when Southfield Press offered him an expanded territory. It would be good for his family, he told himself. They could buy a house, and Jennifer could be a stay-at-home mom. Three years later, he’d been made vice president of sales with a substantial increase in salary and a hefty override on everything the salesmen in his division brought in.

  Now he had to wonder: did he take that job because it drove him further up the success ladder, or did he truly believe it was best for his family?

  He would leave for weeks at a time. What did Jennifer do in his absence? Did she walk this street alone and feel this same aching loneliness? Did she wish he’d not taken a job that kept him away from her for such long stretches? If so she’d kept her feelings hidden. She’d not once chastised him for being gone. Instead of being angry and sad, she’d spent her days raising a child who was happy and loving.

  Brooke.

  The thought of her settled in his mind, and Drew began to see them side by side. Mother and daughter. Alike in a thousand different ways. Until recently.

  Brooke no longer had her mother’s easy laugh. She seldom smiled. Like Jennifer, she kept her loneliness hidden away and said nothing. But it was there, behind the pretense of a smile and fearful questions.

  You still have the best of me in Brooke.

  Drew

  Before today I thought I was handling things pretty well, bu
t the truth is I wasn’t. I was going through the motions of a day-to-day life almost as if Jennifer would be back. My brain knew she was gone, but my heart couldn’t accept it.

  Walking into that drugstore was the toughest thing I’ve ever done and it took all the courage I could muster to go through with it, but I’m glad I did. Talking with Peter McIntyre forced me to see the reality of what happened. All these months I’ve resented Albert Dunninger. I hated the store for being there, and I hated him for still being alive. Now I know I wasted all that energy on wishing death to a man who was already dead. I feel rather foolish.

  Losing someone you love does that to you; it makes you bitter and angry at everything and everybody.

  It’s not just me; Brooke is carrying her fair share of anger also. There are times when I see her looking at me, and I know she’s wishing God had taken me instead of Jennifer. I can’t fault her for feeling that way. I’ve thought the same thing a thousand or more times myself. But the ugly truth is it didn’t happen that way. I’m here and Jennifer isn’t, so the only thing Brooke and I can do is pick up the broken pieces of our life and make the best of it.

  For the past three months I’ve been just barely getting by. When Brooke settled into her angry pouts, I let her stay there. I had my own problems, and they seemed way bigger than hers.

  This afternoon as I was thinking about the way it used to be, I came to realize that the hardships Brooke and I face from day to day aren’t my problems or her problems. They’re our problems. Our life is what it is, and the only way we can make it better is by loving one another the way Jennifer loved both of us.

  A Place to Start

  By the time Drew pulled into the pickup line, he was determined to find a way to reach out to Brooke. Somehow, someway, he would remove the shroud of anger she was wearing and give her back the childhood she had before that fateful day. He didn’t have Jennifer’s ability to find the magic in the ordinary things of life, but he had a deep down love for his daughter and hopefully that would be enough.