Better

by Carey Heywood

  There’s nothing to live for now.

  Just as quickly as that thought enters my mind, the sharp kick to my ribs from my unborn daughter reminds me otherwise.

  I might not want to carry on, but I have to.

  She’ll need me.

  I don’t even know what I end up putting on, but I’m dressed and walking down the stairs ten minutes later where Linda, my best friend, and Ray, my husband’s best friend, are waiting for me.

  They look at me with pity in their eyes and I feel the pain weighing like an anvil in my heart. With more sadness than any of us can put to words, we get in the waiting black limo and drive off to the church to say goodbye to the man I’ve spent my entire life loving.

  The only thing that makes me realize that this is not some kind of horrid nightmare is the kicking baby. Holding my hands over my round belly keeps me focused on something other than the priest’s words. Counting the rhythm of her hiccups pulls my attention away from counting the minutes since Jimmy was taken from me – from us.

  The wind whips outside the church, causing high-pitched whirrs to sound in the knave. The only thing holding me up is the hard bench beneath me and Linda’s warm comfort at my side.

  After a final prayer, I watch the pallbearers carry Jimmy’s casket down the aisle in the church.

  It’s the same aisle that I walked down when we got married. That day, it felt like I couldn’t walk toward him fast enough. Now, watching him be carried away from me, I feel time stand still. I want to scream and curse God for taking Jimmy away from me. But, instead, I find that it takes all of my energy to just get out of my seat and follow behind the coffin.

  Frozen and incapable of talking through the lump in my throat, the ten-minute drive by our house and to the cemetery passes in complete silence.

  My short heels bite into the soft, wet ground. Ray loops his arm through mine and I have to wonder if his intent is to hold me up, or to keep him steady. I look up into his bloodshot eyes and we exchange a sad smile and nod. “I gotcha, Luce,” he whispers and tightens his grip on my arm as he escorts me to the line of chairs arranged before Jimmy’s coffin.

  Words are spoken, prayers offered up to God, goodbyes are said, but I don’t register any of it.

  “May he rest in peace.” The priest softly closes his bible and I feel fingers close around mine.

  The cold and bitter fall air chills me to the bone. Thick, grey clouds threaten overhead. Rumbles of thunder and flickers of lightning are off in the distance somewhere. A thin mist of cold rain hangs all around us.

  Somehow, the clouds manage to reign in the water, just as I’m somehow managing to hold back my tears. It’s numbness really. You can’t cry when you feel nothing. Pain has evaporated and morphed into anesthetized calmness.

  Sitting at my side, Linda squeezes my hand again. “It’s almost time to go, Luce.” Her words and the warmth of her hand shake me from my blank stare. What little glimmers of light the sun was just shining has just been swallowed up by the blackest cloud in the sky. Angrily, I laugh at how appropriate the scene is.

  My light is gone.

  Dead.

  Buried.

  Through the shuffle of people who have come to say goodbye to my husband, my Jimmy, I vaguely feel Ray grip my shoulder. “It’s time, Luce.”

  A fierceness I thought was buried in the ground alongside my love bubbles up in my chest. “No, no, no,” I repeatedly whisper, a tiny, fragile sound.

  Throwing Ray’s hand off my shoulder, I stand as quickly as my almost-nine-month pregnant belly will allow me.

  “Easy, Lucy. Come on, let us help you.” Linda tries to calm me, pulling me to her side. With all the strength I can muster, I push her away. In the distance behind her, I notice that the crowd that had just left the ceremony has now focused their attention back on the scene that I’ve just created.

  A swift kick to the ribs from my baby girl brings me back to the here and now. I take a few shaky breaths and exhale them raggedly through the sobs closing my throat. Ray and Linda sandwich me between them, afraid that I’ll collapse under my pain like I did the other day.

  Wrapping my arms around their waists, I squeeze them tightly and try to garner some strength from their support. “I just can’t bring myself to say goodbye to him.” My chest heaves through the thought of turning my back on him one last time.

  Linda grasps my shoulders and pulls me into an intense hug. When she releases me and steps back, holding me at arm’s length, I see the pain in her eyes. She smoothes my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “I know you don’t want to say goodbye, Luce. But it’s about to pour and we don’t want you getting sick.”

  On her last word, heavy blobs of rain start falling from the sky. Ray pulls off his jacket and holds it up over my head like an umbrella. “Let’s go, Lucy,” Ray grits out through the tears he’s somehow fought off since Jimmy was crushed.

  Looking up into his sad, brown eyes, I break a little more. I force a lame smile, really just to appease them, and ease some of their concerns. “Just give me one more minute with him. Go on to the car. I’ll be right there.” Ray and Linda exchange a look over my head before stepping away from me.

  Inching myself over to the coffin, I reach out a shaky hand. The cold wood finish is glossy with rain and I mindlessly follow the streaks of rain as they travel to the seam that keeps the coffin closed.

  Thoughts of Jimmy, cold and alone, buried in the ground for all eternity ravage my soul. I’ll never be able to hold him again. I’ll never curl up next to him in bed.

  He’ll never hold our daughter.

  “I don’t know how to go on without you, Jimmy. Please tell me…how.” Sobs swallow my words and the rain falls down in sheets through the sky.

  The baby kicks once more.

  With one hand on Jimmy’s coffin and one on my belly – one on my past and one on my future – I say one final goodbye to the only man I have ever loved.

  “I’ll always carry you in my heart, baby. I love you, Jimmy.”

  Carey Heywood is a self-published New York Times and USA Today bestselling author with six books out and many more to come.

  She was born and raised in Alexandria, Virginia. Ever the mild-mannered citizen, Carey spends her days working in the world of finance, and at night, she retreats into the lives of her fictional characters.

  Supporting her all the way are her husband, three sometimes-adorable children, and their nine-pound attack Yorkie.

  www.careyheywood.com

  www.facebook.com/careyheywoodauthor

  www.twitter.com/careylolo

  A Bridge of Her Own

  Uninvolved

  Stages of Grace

  Him

  Her

  Writing is incredibly therapeutic. Before I sat down and wrote about Cameron and what his loss meant to me, I could not even say his name without crying. It might sound silly, but I truly feel as though he helped me write this book. He was my Ally. His kindness and generosity as a friend is his everlasting legacy.

  There are many other people who helped me along the way: my betas—Nasha, Judy, Kendall, Evette (Boom), Amy, Michelle, Jennifer, Keren, Kristy, Rebecca, Bobbie, and Mandy; Yesenia Vargas, my editor; Jovana Shirley with Unforeseen Editing; Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations; Toski Covey Photography, for making the picture in my head come to life; Dan Mandel, my agent; Chastity and Donna with RockStarLit; and Nita, for my beautiful book trailers.

  My girls—Renee, Jennifer, Lisa, Penny, Helen, Rachel, Gareth (honorary girl title bestowed), Michelle, and Kendall—You are always there for me. Thank you.

  My author wife, Melissa Collins—I am thankful for your friendship and support each and every day. You are also totally out of my league, thanks for pretend marrying me and being my happy place when stuff gets scary.

  To Jennifer Berg, the only reason I’m not a dill hole is because you are also not a dill hole. I’m pretty sure if you were my inner dill hole would rear its ugly head. I love you, you are my kind of cray c
ray.

  To Lisa Paul, you kill me, seriously. When we’re together, even virtually, insane stuff happens. How else can I explain witnessing an actual Swat Team raid? If I ever write a crime drama I blame that phone call.

  Thank you to all the readers and blogs who help other readers find out about my books.

  Last but by no means ever least, I owe a huge thank you to real life husband and our three kids.