The Good Widow_A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  “She’s a good sister,” Nick whispers.

  “The best,” I concur.

  Beth hugs me so hard the next morning that I have to fight to take a breath, and I gently wriggle from her grasp.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks me again—easily the fiftieth time since we returned from Hana last night. “I still have time to change my flight so we can fly home together.” She looks at the cab that’s waiting for her.

  “I swear, Beth, I’m fine. Besides, I have Nick.”

  Beth gives me a look I can’t quite place. If I had to guess, it’s a cross between hope that I will recover and find happiness again and fear that I won’t.

  But “Be careful” is all she says. I nod, even though that’s something I shouldn’t be promising her. Because I’ve figured out a funny little secret about life: Even if you stay on the sidewalks and pay your bills on time and use hand sanitizer, bad things still happen. Yes, maybe you can cut your odds by playing it safe. By attempting to predict each and every possible pitfall. But your fate will still find you, no matter how much you hide from it.

  And now, just twenty-four hours—but what feels like a month—later, Nick and I are at the airport getting ready to fly back to an uncertain reality. The only certainty that I’ve learned is something about myself: I’m not the same person I was when I left California a week ago. The person who boarded that flight from LAX to Maui was weak. She was scared. Now I feel strong. Not quite indestructible, but much more durable. Like I used to be that crappy paper towel they show in the commercial, and now I’m the five-ply one. I used to break easily when there was a spill. Now I can mop up almost any mess. Pour that shit on me. I can handle it.

  I drop my driver’s license as we’re making our way through security. It’s raining again, the sheets of water hitting the concrete and making everything slick inside the open building that houses the Maui airport. “Would it kill them to put some doors on this place?” I had joked to Nick earlier as we stood in the long line to give the airline our bags.

  “Here.” Nick picks my license up off the ground and sticks it in the side pocket of my purse. “You don’t want to lose this.”

  I smile at Nick and feel a memory flash through the back of my mind, one that I can’t quite grasp. I pause, trying to reach out and grab the thought.

  “What is it?” Nick asks.

  I run through a mental checklist: wallet, phone, toothbrush. I haven’t forgotten anything. “I just got a weird feeling for a second that something wasn’t right. But it’s nothing.” I shake my head and put my canvas bag inside the white plastic bin on the conveyer belt, mentally rolling my eyes at the word stitched in black thread on the side of the tote: Paradise. I think of Beth, who bought it for me years ago as a birthday gift. Telling me that even if I wasn’t traveling, carrying it would make me feel like I was on vacation. And I think of the irony now that I’m in paradise but not on vacation at all.

  Once we get settled into our seats on the plane, I pull out the tabloid magazine I bought at the airport and start leafing through it. It’s time to get back to reality, and the first step is seeing what those Kardashians have been up to while I’ve been mourning. I look up to see Nick watching me, his face pensive.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “For what?” I ask, even though I know what for. But the thing is, I’m not sure he has anything to be apologetic about. If I’m being completely honest, as I’d stood on that cliff without him, just me, my sister several feet off to my right, I was happy I was doing it by myself. Because now I know I can.

  “For bailing on you yesterday. My meltdown after we kissed. I was terrible.”

  I rested my hand on his arm. “No, you weren’t. You were human. And that’s okay.”

  “I need you to understand something. I’ve touched on this with you, but I haven’t really gotten into it. Because it’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t do what I do. But I see things at work. Terrible things. And to survive, you have to develop a shell. That’s the only way you can go on a call where a six-month-old baby has been horribly burned by his crackhead mother and then come back to the station and not fall apart. Because the bells are going to sound again an hour later, and you have to pull on your turnout pants and get back out there.

  “People need me, Jacks. I can’t afford to fall apart. And I couldn’t see where Dylan died. Because my mind would have clicked together all the parts that were missing from the accident report. I’ve been the first responder on calls exactly like that one. I know how she died. And I didn’t want to see it. And I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner. That I wasn’t smart enough to realize that was going to happen to me. I’m sorry I decided to put it in the box.” He points at his chest, and I think I know what he means, but I wait for him to tell me. “It’s where I put all the horrible things I don’t want to deal with.”

  “I understand,” I say. And I really do—because I have a box too. It’s where I put the endometriosis. It’s where I filed James’s temper. It’s where I put James’s death. Until I realized that in order to be free of it all, I had to take the lid off and let it all out. And I hope Nick will be able to do that one day too.

  Nick stares out the window as we taxi down the runway. “I was afraid if I didn’t put Dylan and her accident in that box, the whole thing might come apart.”

  “You’d lose control,” I say, and he nods and wraps his hand in mine—his fingers are warm and comforting.

  When he turns back, tear streaks stain his face. “God, Jacks. I feel like you are the only person in this entire world who gets me right now.”

  “I feel the same way,” I say, and hold my breath as he cups my chin and kisses me so softly, so gently that I almost melt into the seat, his salty tears escaping into my mouth.

  “I don’t want to fight this anymore,” he says.

  “I don’t want to either. You don’t have to be afraid of hurting me.”

  “I would never, ever hurt you. You know that, right?”

  “I do,” I whisper, and lean in to kiss him again before resting my head on his shoulder as the plane begins to ascend into the cloudless sky, both of us returning to a new life.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  JACKS—AFTER

  “Okay, I’m ready.” I point toward the cardboard box in the corner of the bedroom, the one Beth and I have been actively avoiding without discussion for the better part of two hours as she’s helped me pack up James’s things. The word special is scrawled across the top in thick black Sharpie.

  I remember writing it like it was yesterday. James and I were moving from our tiny overpriced apartment in Newport Beach into this house that we’d been able to buy with his mom’s help. What was going to be our starter home, but eventually became just home. At that time we hadn’t accumulated a lot to put inside of the box. But I’d told James that we would as we created more special memories. I was planning to write that, special memories, but he grabbed me by the waist and threw me on our mattress—the last thing still in our otherwise-empty bedroom—before I could get to the second word. He laughed as he looked down at me. “I want your special box,” he said suggestively as he undid the snap of my jeans, his bright-green eyes boring into mine. As he yanked my pants down, he breathed that he wasn’t going to use a condom. That he wanted to start trying.

  My gut had clenched for a split second, but I pushed the guilt away. There was still a chance. I could get pregnant from today’s quick, condomless sex. So I let my hope be stronger than my fear.

  My sister slides the box across the hardwood floor, and I think I can read her mind. By the way her lips are pressed together, she’s probably thinking, What will happen to Jacks when she opens it? Everything inside it is a fragment of my relationship with James, a moment in time we didn’t want to forget. They’re the items that made us an us.

  “I want to do this,” I respond to the question in her eyes. Whether this is true, I can’t be sure. But I think it’s what we bot
h need to hear. And the fact that I was able to clean out his desk drawers without becoming hysterical I took as a positive sign. I’m accepting. I’m understanding. I’m adjusting. He isn’t coming back. But guess what? The old Jacks isn’t coming back either.

  I’ve been home from Maui for three months, but I put this off until today. I knew there would be a day when I’d feel ready to go through James’s things, and I let my heart choose when that would be. I woke up this morning at Nick’s condo, his arms wrapped tightly around me. We’ve been sleeping like that, spooning, my back pressed up against his chest, sometimes even holding hands. Like we haven’t wanted our bond to sever. And as I lay in his arms, his breath hot on the back of my neck, I knew it was time. That I needed to call Beth, get some boxes, and begin. To ensure I didn’t back out, I even texted James’s mom to let her know she could come by at the end of the day to pick up what she wanted to keep.

  “I’m literally right here if you need me,” Beth says as I pick at the edges of the packing tape.

  I smile at her, thinking back to my conversation with Nick this morning, when I’d told him what I planned to do. His entire body instantly relaxed, as if the words had literally traveled through him. He had admitted early on that he wasn’t comfortable here at my house, so he never stayed overnight. He’d said James’s things—the framed college diploma in the den, his jackets still hanging in the front closet, his jeans and T-shirts still neatly folded in the laundry room—had always made him feel as if James’s ghost were watching us. I’d tried not to take it personally—to understand how the very things that made me feel comfortable made him feel the opposite. And there was something about his point of view that had helped me realize that having James’s aftershave in the medicine cabinet wasn’t helping me let go. I’m not trying to erase James; I’m trying to find myself. And to move forward with someone else.

  The morning after Nick and I returned home from Maui, Beth was on my doorstep with coffee. I knew it was her excuse to come over early so she could grill me about Nick. I told her I had developed feelings for him, because there was no other way to describe it. Was it more than that? Less? My body and heart said one thing (Yes! Yes! Yes!) and my mind chanted another (Be careful!). Beth warned me to take it slow, and I blushed before admitting it was too late for that—we’d already made love for the first time the night before.

  She shook her head at me. “I hope this isn’t a rebound. You’re both definitely due for one.”

  Her words had stung, but I wasn’t ignorant—I knew there was truth to them. But rebound or not, the way I feel about Nick is difficult to explain with words. It’s more of a feeling, like maybe he’s the silver lining in the dark cloud that’s been hanging over me. Nick and I have been moving at a pace that both scares and exhilarates me. I’ve decided if I’ve learned one lesson in all of this, it’s that life can be frighteningly short. So you might as well live it.

  My phone vibrates. A text from Nick telling me he misses me. I scroll up. He’s sent three since this morning. I can’t help but smile.

  I turn my phone on silent so I can focus. And I stare at the box again. I don’t have to pull back the cardboard sleeves to know what I’m going to find inside the special box. I can already feel the lace of my garter that I wore on my thigh under my wedding dress—my “something new” that Beth purchased at a sex shop. It’s hideous, red and black with silver fringe. Her intention. To remind me even vixens could wear white. I can see the pale-blue photo album, filled with snapshots of our history, the way we used to do it before those websites started creating them for us. I’m going to see pictures of James celebrating his twenty-ninth birthday, a shot glass filled with whiskey raised up high, me snuggled into the crook of his arm. I’m going to remember Beth’s beautiful vow renewal at the Hotel del Coronado—how she’d famously cried happy tears as she walked down the aisle, her sassy short white satin dress flapping in the wind.

  And when I dig deeper to the bottom, I’m going to touch the heart-shaped tin. The one that holds our letters to each other. The words we wrote when we were still so in love. The poem from our second anniversary. The proof that he loved me. That I loved him. That we were a we. The words that will continue to live on after him.

  I watch Beth as she takes James’s sport coat off the hanger and folds it neatly. She stacks it in the box marked with his mother’s name. Isabella had texted me back with a list of what she wants, and I’m also putting additional things in that I know she’ll cherish. I check my phone—it’s nearly 4:00 p.m., and she’ll be here soon.

  I decide I need to rip the tape like I would a Band-Aid, and I find our wedding album sitting on top. “Will you put this in Isabella’s box?” I hand it to Beth without opening it.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod as a tear falls down my cheek. “She planned the whole thing anyway. And he looked so handsome that day. She’ll love having it.”

  I sift through the box, taking deep breaths as I contemplate what to keep. I don’t want to lose too much of James, but I don’t want to lose myself either. It’s a fine line.

  I dig toward the bottom, my fingers feeling for the tin. I start tossing everything out: an envelope full of movie ticket stubs, a foam finger from our first Dodgers game, a program from The Lion King. The tears start to fall harder now. The dam has been broken.

  “What is it? What’s happening?” Beth crouches down beside me as I sob.

  “It’s not here.”

  “What?”

  “Our letters. Our words. His words.”

  “Are you sure? Let me look.” She leans over the box.

  “I already did. It’s not there, Beth.”

  Beth searches for a moment and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t see it either. But I’m sure it will turn up. Maybe you moved it? Remember what a haze you were in after everything happened? Is it possible you took it out and didn’t put it back?”

  I don’t remember taking it out. But Beth is right: the weeks after James’s death were surreal, and many of my memories of that time are cloudy. Unfortunately, save for the pictures Beth boxed up right after James died and my favorite sweatshirt of his, this tin is the only thing I believe I can’t live without.

  Beth hugs me, and I cry until I can’t anymore, amazed by how many tears I have inside me. That I keep believing they will eventually dry up.

  “This sucks,” I say into her shoulder.

  “I know.” Beth squeezes me.

  The doorbell rings. I pull away and wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweater. “Shit. That must be Isabella. How do I look?” I say as I stand up.

  “Like you’ve been bawling for hours,” Beth says gently.

  “It’s fine. She’s seen me looking even worse than this, I’m sure.” But I wipe under my eyes and run a finger through my hair anyway.

  I walk to the door, my heartbeat speeding up slightly. I haven’t seen her since the memorial. Isabella had been somewhat stoic, thanks to the two Xanax I saw her sister slip her that morning. I suck in a long breath and open the door.

  Nick grins and pulls a bouquet of red roses from behind his back.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised to see him. He told me he was going to a new beer tasting room in Long Beach.

  “Well, hello to you too.”

  “Sorry, I just thought—” I start, then stop. “These for me?”

  “No, they’re for Beth.” He smiles, and I feel my chest warm.

  “Thank you,” I say, and cover his mouth with mine, trying to forget about the heart-shaped tin.

  “Jacks?” I jerk back from Nick and drop the roses at the sound of my mother-in-law’s voice.

  I had planned to tell Isabella everything, eventually. But each time I thought about calling her and asking her to coffee, I’d imagine her face as I destroyed the version of her son that she’d thought she’d known. It’s the same reason my mother still believes James had been in Maui for work. I know how it feels to question every memory you have
of someone you love—I just wasn’t ready to do it to someone else. And now, I’m forced to face Isabella, my heart banging inside my chest, a flush coloring my cheeks. I feel caught, even though technically I’ve done nothing wrong. But still, her eyes are full of questions I’m not sure I can answer. At least not with explanations she’ll want to hear. I meet Nick’s gaze briefly, and I can’t quite read his expression—if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he were enjoying this. The drama.

  I force myself to make eye contact with Isabella, who’s standing there in her loose-fitting floral blouse and capri pants, a large tote slung over her shoulder. She looks out of place, like she meant to arrive at a farmers’ market. And maybe it’s that simple, that she no longer fits in here—into my life.

  “Nick, this is my mother-in-law, Isabella. Isabella, this is . . .” I pause, not sure I can say the word. Not 100 percent sure what that word is.

  “I’m Nick. Her boyfriend.” Nick extends his hand, but Isabella steps back abruptly, as if he had a disease she didn’t want to catch.

  Boyfriend. It sounds so juvenile. But then again, what else is he? For a brief moment I see James leaning against the counter in my tiny kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of crisp white boxers. It’s just two weeks after I’d met him, and he’s grinning at me. And then I’m laughing and kissing him like I might never stop because he’s just asked me not to sleep with anyone else ever again. “Because we’re officially going steady. I’m your boyfriend now.”

  I give Nick a look, wishing he’d have let me handle it, and he mouths to me that he’s sorry.

  The three of us stand there in awkward silence, somehow all understanding it will be Isabella who speaks next.

  “Jacqueline, please tell me this man is not really your boyfriend. That you haven’t moved on. So soon,” Isabella says shrilly, her brilliant-green eyes squinting just like James’s when he was angry.

  When I don’t answer, her face registers understanding. He is exactly who he says he is. She shakes her head as if trying to toss away the information. She opens her mouth to say something, but quickly closes it. She stares at the ground, deep in thought. Finally she looks up at me. “Where are his things?” she asks. “I want them right now, and then I will leave,” she says, every word slow and measured. I move to the side so she can get into the house.