by Megan Rivers
Several moments passed and Meadow responded, “Let's take a walk.” I heard the click of the lock and then I was alone. My eyes flitted between studying the shadows on the wall to shutting my eyes tightly, wishing for that numb oblivion to overtake me once more.
The pillows still smelled like Antony. My thoughts were carried in that direction whether I wanted them to or not, like driftwood caught in the undercurrent of a raging river.
Next to his side of the bed were his socks. He never could manage to put them in the hamper. There was his comb, lying on top of a book he hadn't finished yet because the book mark was sticking out, half way between the covers. He'll never get to finish it.
His clothes still hung in the closet. Just this morning I ran my hand over them as I put on a black dress. His dark blue toothbrush would be on the bathroom counter and his robe would still be hanging on the hook on the back of the door.
Tears came again and blurred my vision. I pulled his pillow closer, taking a deep breath. If only I had said something when I knew there was something wrong with that guy. If only those paramedics got there sooner. If only he shot Antony in a less critical place, or missed him altogether! If only that man didn't choose The Meat Up. If only I knew more first aid, maybe I could've helped him or delayed it. Oh god, please let me close my eyes and make it all go away. I promise to be the best wife and woman in the world if you just let him come back!
Meadow left two days later. I sat on the couch, wishing she didn't have to go. If I said anything she would have stayed in a heartbeat, but I couldn't be that selfish. She rolled her suitcase to the door. “You promise to text me and call me back every time?” she asked firmly.
I nodded.
She sat down on the couch next to me. “Seriously, Stie. I will be on a plane as soon as you need me.”
Again, I nodded, this time forcing a smile.
“Also,” she sounded hesitant to continue. “Galvin said he'd check up on you for me.” She raised a hand as if to stop any protest she foresaw coming from me. “I know he's probably not the first person you want to see, but he's staying in New York and I know he's hurt you in the past and now is not the best time for those feelings to come back, but he's going to be my Nanny Cam to you, so don't be mad at him, be mad at me. I just feel better knowing there's someone here to watch out for you. And since I can't be here, I'm leaving you in the hands of someone who knows you almost as well as I do.” She raised her hand again, avoiding my gaze. “I'm not saying you need a man or anyone or that you're weak. This is a huge life changer and even the strongest person in the world needs someone.”
She was right. Galvin was not the first person I would have liked for company, but knowing that she was leaving me, I felt slighter better knowing I had someone in New York.
And over the next several weeks Galvin did call me and sent me text messages. Once in a while he'd show up as I got off work and would accompany me home. He tried to make small talk, but I would shrug or grunt. It wasn't because I didn't care for his company, I just felt too empty to care.
When the sun rose on September tenth—the day which I was supposed to marry the love of my life—I didn't have the energy to reach for the blanket and wrap it around my chilly limbs, let alone crawl out of bed. I wasn't mourning the lack of a wedding, but another day—a particularly important one—without him.
The sun was high in the sky, no longer visible from my window, when someone knocked on the door. I didn't even have the energy to grunt. I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep to kidnap me.
Then I heard keys fumbling in the lock. Meadow must be in town, I thought, or someone was breaking in...I felt indifferent to either option.
“Christie?” Galvin's head popped into the apartment. He dangled the keys in front of him as he cautiously entered. “Meadow gave me her key.”
His face, scanning the apartment, found me in bed. He made his way towards me as I lie there, on my stomach, staring at a pair of Antony's shoes.
Crouching down beside the bed, he put a hand on my back and said, “Christie, I know it hurts, but you need to get out of bed.”
When I opened my mouth to respond, a gurgle came out instead of words. Galvin's hand on my back felt good, like a weight to keep me in one spot. “I don't hurt,” I said, my voice foreign. “I feel empty.” Galvin shifted so that he sat on the floor, eye-to-eye with me. “Empty and tired.”
His thumb moved back and forth. After a few moments he said, “It's okay.” He looked weary. “When you get hurt, you sleep so you can heal. Sometimes you get so injured that you have to numb the pain so you can get better. This is just your body healing. It's not fun, but these things never are.”
“I'm tired of feeling this way, Galvin, but I'm helpless.”
“No you're not.” His voice was steady and strong. “You're one of the strongest people I know. Besides, you are not without help. I'm here for you. Meadow is here for you. Kevin in here for you.”
I should smile, I told myself, but I just stared into his eyes blankly.
“Now, you work on getting out of bed while I make us something to eat.”
When Galvin walked back to the bed—was it ten or forty minutes later?—all I managed to do was sit up. “Your cupboards are pretty bare, Christie, but I found a package of soup,” he said, carrying a bowl, carefully with two hands. He set it on the bedside table, moving Antony's book aside, and turned on the lamp.
“I'm not hungry,” I said with barely enough energy.
Galvin sat on Antony's side of the bed to look at me. “I know, but you need to eat something. I'm going to go to the store. You worry about eating.”
I didn't respond. I watched him grab his keys and walk out of the apartment. Turning my head, I looked at the bowl of soup, watching tendrils of smoke rise and intertwine above it. As the steam dissipated, I decided I should try it, if nothing then as a gesture of thanks to Galvin for putting up with me.
Reaching out, I was surprised at how heavy the bowl seemed in my arms. I brought it to my lips and sipped the tepid liquid. My stomach raged with hunger. Gulping down the broth, the warmth from my stomach radiated to my limbs. I left the noodles at the bottom of the bowl, then put my head on Antony's pillow, letting the temperature of the soup and his disappearing scent lull me back to sleep.
It was darker when I woke up again. The clock on the dresser flashed 6:37 PM. Galvin was on the couch reading a book. The only sound was the traffic outside and the ticking of the clock on the wall. I watched Galvin's eyes move back and forth with each page. He sat with his left ankle resting on his opposite knee and the book in his lap. After each page he'd lick his right finger then rub the corner of the pages. With his head down, in the diminishing light, he looked the same as he did ten years ago—except the hair; it was shorter and didn't fall in front of his eyes.
I suppose he reached the end of the chapter because he looked up and saw I was awake. He walked over and crouched on the floor beside the bed. “Hey,” he greeted and grunted a bit as he reached the floor.
“Still here?” I murmured.
He smiled—his face didn't light up the way Antony's did. “Yeah.” His hand lay on the bedspread beside me, I used it as an anchor for my thoughts. “I don't know what you like, so I bought cereal, milk, bread, deli meat, and some frozen dinners.”
I didn't respond, but kept staring at his hand.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, concern knitting his brow.
“I just want to sit here,” I said.
“Okay. Then I'll sit here, too.” He swung his legs in front of him and sat down, leaning against the nightstand.
He sat there all night with me as I drifted in and out of sleep. Each time my eyes released me from my dreams I'd find him reading his book, sitting deep in thought, or asleep, with his head against the mattress, his mouth open slightly.
For the next two months, I dragged my feet to work and spent my days off in bed. Watching TV took too much energy so I mainly slept, curled up in
my purple and blue quilt. I would watch the sun move from my window and then watch as the shadows stretched further and further across the room.
Galvin would check up on me and come to dinner every so often. He would put an encouraging hand on my back, sit in silence with me, or quietly sit in the background. More often than not he would try to lure me out of bed with food. I went from an inaudible rejection to, eventually, watching Galvin eat in Antony's kitchen chair while I picked at my food.
It wasn't a choice. There was nothing I wanted more than to live normally again. It was like the flame in my life went out and I was a helpless candle sitting in the dark, until a match was lit again. Galvin was the hovering light in the distance and I was grateful he never gave up on me. Slowly, he helped me rebuild that path to humanity.
IX.
Two Inches of Despair
“Tomorrow is Gonna Be Better” – Joshua Radin
I was becoming stronger and gaining more energy. Some days I would sort through laundry or read a few chapters in a book. Then, one day, I was walking to the grocery store.
When Thanksgiving rolled around, I had the option to fly to Chicago, but I chose to revisit Bryant Park. A day out, to where it all began, because there was no cemetery to visit or gravestone to stand over. Antony had been cremated and his remains taken to his family in Italy.
The ice rink was crowded. Families in scarves, little kids yelling, and lovers holding hands littered the rink. Watching the couples happily skate hand-in-hand pierced my heart, but I gave myself a pep-talk to keep it together. I had to do this.
A bitter breeze raced across the park as I sat on a bench, secluded from other skaters and spectators. “Well, this was my plan a year ago: to go ice skating solo,” I said to no one as I tied the laces.
I could just picture Antony lifting an eyebrow saying, “Really, Christie? Ice skating by yourself? You'll leave in an ambulance.” A smile grew across my lips at the thought. It felt strange; I think it was the first time I smiled in months.
“Oh, I miss you, Antony,” I said sighing.
The wind picked up at that moment. Tree branches flung themselves in the direction the dead leaves were soaring. I felt it rustle my hair, even from underneath my red knit cap. Closing my eyes, I let it sweep across my rosy cheeks and breathed it in.
When Antony was here, life was solid, a sure thing. We were equals. He made me laugh and I made him smile. For once in my life it felt like I had a handle on things; that I was normal. I was certain he would be part of my every day from then on, helping each other through and making each other happy. When Antony was plucked from my side—from my future—the ground wasn't solid anymore; I was falling through an abyss.
And yet, there were times where I could picture Antony beside me, stroking my hair and saying, “Oh, tesoro, breathe through this. You'll be fine. I'm right here.” And I had to believe that. Whether or not I believed in a heaven or a hell, I had to believe he was still cheering me on, coaching me through this. I didn't have to believe I was alone.
Sighing, I conceded with the Antony in my head and began unlacing my skates. I left the park, already feeling exhausted, but much better, like finding how the pieces of my shattered heart fit together so I could glue them back in place. I missed him. I missed him so much it hurt, but I wasn't alone.
There was a Saturday that following January when Galvin walked into the apartment as I was watching That Girl on the channel that aired old television shows. “Hey Stie,” he said, walking in and dropping his keys on the counter. He had come to visit more often, usually walking in without knocking. I didn't mind, though. It was nice having someone to talk to outside of work.
“You never call me Stie,” I pointed out, muting the TV.
“It's Meadow, she's getting to me,” he said, sitting on the floor on the other side of the coffee table.
“Meadow? How often do you guys talk?” I asked placing the remote on the coffee table.
Galvin's eyes widened for a moment, scanning my collection of dirty dishes on the coffee table. “Every. Day.” He said each word like they were their own sentence.
“Ohhhh,” I sang, mockingly. “Is there something brewing between you two?”
“No.” Galvin put his hands up for emphasis and shook his head. “No,” he repeated. “She worries about you. At least once a day she texts or calls—so, please, do me a favor and call her.” He lifted an eyebrow as if it was a question mark at the end of his sentence.
“I'll make a note,” I said, throwing the blanket off my lap and reaching for the mug of hot chocolate that was cooling on the coffee table.
“I'd ask if you want to order a pizza, but...” he trailed off, gesturing to my pile of dishes in front of him.
I bit my bottom lip. “Yeah, my appetite came back,” I said. “How's about I do the dishes and you order a pizza?”
“Good plan,” Galvin said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
As he searched his smartphone for a nearby place, I precariously stacked the dishes and walked the few steps it took to get to the sink.
Antony had this coffee mug—a brown, little, nondescript ceramic mug. He'd use it every morning to pour his coffee in. Before heading out the door, he's take the last gulp and place it next to the sink. I never could get him to actually put it in the basin. The mug still sat to the left of the sink, put there on his last morning with me. For nearly six months it sat there. It was one of the last things he touched in the apartment and I never had the courage to move it, let alone wash it.
I looked at it as I stacked the dishes in the sink. All I had to do was move it two inches to the right and I'd be in the sink, in line to get washed. Just two inches, yet I couldn't do it.
As the sink filled with sudsy water, I methodically ran the sponge over each dish. It felt like weights had been added to my shoulder because of that darn mug, which plagued my mind—or, more specifically, those two inches did.
“Christie?”
“Hm?” I didn't look up, I ran the sponge over the spatula I used to make a burger the previous night.
“Does this place look good? They don't have—“ Galvin was suddenly next to me, holding his phone a foot from my face. His sudden proximity startled me and I jolted, turning to face him.
That moment, in my small, crappy kitchen, the spatula whipped across the counter and sent Antony's mug to the ground, breaking into pieces. My eyes followed it like it was the last cup of water in the middle of a thirsty desert.
Dropping the sponge, I bent down touching the ceramic pieces, still not convinced that it had just happened. Why in the hell didn't I just move it those two damn inches? “No, no, no,” I kept saying, letting my butt hit the floor, holding the broken pieces of ceramic. The world became blurry tears that took over my vision.
Galvin reached for the faucet causing the stream of rushing water to halt and the world became quiet. He bent down next to me, likely confused as to what caused the change in my mood. “Let me clean it up, Christie. Don't cut yourself,” he finally said. When my sobbing didn't cease he added, “We can get another mug, it's going to be okay.”
“No.” I was crying and gasping for breaths between my words. “This was Antony's.”
There was a hint of recognition in Galvin's eyes. “Oh. Jeez. Christie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—“
I shook my head. “No, I should've moved it those two damn inches!”
Galvin put a hand on my shoulder, but hesitant to do much else. He let me cry and mourn for the stupid mug, not urging me to stop. My shoulders heaved and I wailed for the pieces of ceramic.
When the wave of raw emotion seemed to nearly pass, I said, “I'm sorry.” My face was warm and my eyes felt slightly swollen.
“Don't be sorry, Christie. You lost something wonderful, it's going to take time to heal from that.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze.
“I just... I think I'm okay, I think things are getting better and then I see his favorite sweat pants, or a pair of his socks next t
o the hamper or his mug,” I picked up the pieces again, “and it's like I'm losing him all over again—another reminder that he's gone. Then it all hits me again.” My breathing was beginning to become more even, though I was sniffing and frequently wiping my nose on the arm of my sweater.
Looking at Galvin, almost pleading, I continued, “I want to be okay. I want to not feel so trapped and helpless. But I always feel the pain of losing him and everything inside me aches. Aches for the things I'll never get to do with him and the things he'll never get to do with me.”
It took a few moments for Galvin to respond. He sat next to me, both hands in his lap. “You're going to grieve forever,” he finally said. It wasn't what I wanted to hear, and I looked up from the pieces of the mug. “But you'll learn to live with it. I'm not saying you're going to go through this pain every day for the rest of your life; you will learn to live with it.
“You'll get back into the rhythm of your life and rebuild yourself, but you'll never be that same person again, but you shouldn't want to be because you have all those memories and Antony undoubtedly changed you and you wouldn't want to lose that. A part of you died with him, but a part of him stayed with you.”
It took a few moments for his words to truly take root in my head. I took a deep cleansing breath. “This is so hard, Galvin. I knew at the funeral it wasn't the worst of it; it was going to get so much worse, but I didn't think it'd be this hard.”
Galvin shrugged his shoulders. “The good news is that grief is something you do—it isn't a place you stay, it's like a journey. You won't be here forever, you just have to travel through it.”
Those words really sunk in and helped. I digested and analyzed them, inspecting them for a false hope. They turned out to be the stitches that pulled close the gaping wound inside so it could begin to heal. I wouldn't be here forever; I just had to make it through.
Galvin sat there next to me, practically under the small kitchen table. He looked defenseless, as if trying to swat away thoughts of a difficult memory. I was so grateful he was there for me, even though I didn't think I deserved it. The things he went through—the self criticisms and self-discoveries that shed light on grievous truths—he probably did alone. I couldn't image going on this journey alone.