Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  “No, but bring the tabasco sauce in here, I’m thirsty.”

  “Yes, bring the tabasco sauce in here,” Amanda deadpans, her eyes judging me. “You can join Hollyn in licking her trash.”

  Never wanting to be a terrible hostess, I hold out the pretzel bag to her and ask, “Want to down the salt at the bottom?”

  “Do you really want tabasco sauce?” Matt asks, holding it out to me. I reach for it but Amanda quickly swats it away, the bottle rolling across the ground, joining the air freshener.

  “She is not drinking tabasco sauce. For God’s sake. Hollyn, look at you.”

  No need for a cursory glance, I know the appalling reflection I will see in the mirror. I’ve already established rock bottom once I started speaking for my fish. To take in my appearance all over again will be detrimental to my already shattered and bruised self-esteem.

  “I’m good.” I wave Amanda off. I don’t want to be reminded.

  Compassion and sympathy quickly take over Amanda’s once sarcastic attitude, warning me that what she’s going to say next is something I’m not going to like. Leaning forward, she clasps my knee and shakes her head. “No, Hollyn, you’re not good.”

  “Let’s not do this,” I say, sitting up and dusting off my shirt that’s accumulated enough crumbs for a small colony of mice to have a Thanksgiving feast. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “You’re never in the mood,” Amanda tosses back, her sympathy quickly evaporating into annoyance.

  “You don’t catch me on good days.”

  “Can you stop being sarcastic and actually talk about this?” I’ve seen Amanda frustrated with me before, but not like this.

  “Uh, this is getting a little awkward for me,” Matt says, rocking on his heels. “I think I might grab the tabasco sauce and test my limits in the kitchen.” He goes to reach for it when Amanda snaps at him.

  “Do not touch the sauce. This conversation involves you, too.”

  “How does this conversation you relentlessly try to have with me involve Matt? It’s the same old thing, Amanda. You’re going to tell me that it’s been over a year and a half since my husband died, that I need to stop sulking, and move on with my life, that I need to go back to nursing school and finish my degree so I can stop waiting tables down at Chuck’s Italian Eatery. I’ve heard it before and I’m not interested.”

  Every few weeks, Amanda tries to have a heart to heart with me about my life and how I can’t keep putting it on hold, how I need to learn to live again. Well, the three bags of chips, Cheez Doodles, and pretzels beg to differ. I’m living quite well, thank you.

  Standing, Amanda adjusts her coat, looking more fidgety and angry than ever. And . . . are those tears forming in her eyes? I lean a little closer to get a better look just as she yanks a petite box out of her pocket.

  Shielding my body for a second, thinking some freaky, demented clown is going to pop out, I look up to see her tapping her foot and motioning me to open it.

  “What is that?” I ask, very unsure what is happening right now.

  “Open it.”

  “Is this where you poison me with some airborne virus to finally end my misery?”

  Rolling her eyes, she motions the box toward me again. “Open it.”

  With trepidation, I snag the little box from her grip and marvel in the quality. Fine craftsmanship right there, and the hinges, they don’t squeak as I open—

  What the hell?

  I look up at Amanda who is smiling brightly and then back down at the box that holds a very large, very expensive-looking, and very crystal-clear diamond ring.

  “Err, are you proposing to me?” An odd moment in my life but, the size of the ring has me itching just to say yes.

  “No, that’s my ring.”

  “What—” I look up at Matt who is beaming with pride and then back to Amanda who is the picture-perfect example for giddiness. “You’re engaged?” This is freaking news to me.

  She nods and claps her hands together. “We are.”

  Scanning the ring once again, thinking about stealing it and fleeing to Mexico, I say, “Why aren’t you wearing it? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Wear the ring when you’re engaged?”

  Sighing, her giddiness level drops, and she replies, “Because, I don’t wear it around you.”

  “Wait.” I stand up now, one of my pant legs hiked up to my knee, one of Eric’s firefighter shirts pooling around my waist, and the tube of my socks hanging on the ends of my feet. “You’re telling me you’ve been engaged longer than just tonight?”

  Cringing slightly but then masking her face with another smile, she slowly nods. “For four months.”

  “Four months?” I shout. “You’ve been engaged for four months and you haven’t told me? Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”

  “Because look at you, Hollyn.” Amanda motions to my appearance. “You barely make it to work and when you’re not working, you’re buried in Eric’s shirts watching videos of your wedding, or listening to the messages you used to send each other on your Voxer app. I didn’t think it was right to spring this news on you.”

  Nodding psychotically, anger starting to boil deep within, I hold the ring out as I speak. “So you chose to wait four months to tell your best friend that you’re engaged and are now springing it on me on New Year’s Eve, the couples’ holiday?”

  “Couples’ holiday would be Valentine’s Day actually,” Matt points out with his finger held in the sky.

  “Shut it, Matt,” I snap. Getting the picture, he picks up the tabasco sauce and goes into the kitchen. I hope he burns the hell out of his tongue.

  “Hollyn, I don’t want to fight.” Coming up to me, she takes the ring box out of my hand and places the ring on her finger. The damn thing sparkles up at me, winking in the dull light of my living area. “I came over here to give you this.” Reaching into her pocket again, I wonder if she’s going to pop out a positive pregnancy test as well, but instead she hands me a pamphlet.

  “What’s this?”

  The first sentence I see on the front of the softly toned tri-fold paper says, “Need a change in your life?” I inwardly roll my eyes. Self-help, not the first time she’s gone this route. The church group she tried to get me to go to a few months ago was a real treat with their horrible selection of tea and median age of sixty.

  “It’s a program run here in Denver called Dear Life.”

  Tossing the pamphlet on the coffee table, I fold my arms over my chest defensively. “Let me guess, it’s a group where we go to talk about our feelings.”

  “No,” she shakes her head, “it’s a program that helps you learn to live again.” She pauses and gathers her thoughts. “Hollyn, I love you so much, and it kills me to see you wasting your life like this. Eric would be—”

  “Do not tell me what Eric would have thought about the way I’m living right now. Do not bring him up in this conversation,” I say, venom spitting with every word falling from my mouth. There is only so much I can take.

  “So we can never mention him? I can never say Eric’s name? I can never talk about the good times we had? He was a part of my life too, Hollyn. He was my friend and I lost him as well. I can’t keep re-living his death every time I come to visit you. And you can’t either. It’s not healthy.”

  “I suggest you leave,” I offer, sitting back down on the couch, letting it swallow me into its worn-out cushions.

  “Don’t do this, Hollyn. Don’t put distance between us because I’m trying to help you.”

  “Have you ever thought that I don’t want to be helped?” I shoot back.

  “Have you ever thought that I don’t want to lose my best friend either?” Amanda says, tears falling from her eyes. “Eric died but you didn’t, Hollyn. You’re not the same person, and I get it. I can’t imagine the heartache you’ve had to endure, but I’ve already lost Eric, don’t cause me to lose you as well.” From Amanda’s tear-filled plea, Matt appears at her side, holding on to her tightly.
Gaining her composure, she says, “I love you, Hollyn, like a sister. We’ve been through everything together and when I get married, I want you there at my side, as my maid of honor, but I know you can’t be there until you’re ready to let go and live your life again.” Linking her hand through Matt’s arm, she leans into him and continues, “I’m moving forward with the plans on this wedding. I really want you to be a part of it.”

  I don’t answer her, I just nod, not sure what to say or how to act.

  “Please think about it at least. If you need anything, you know you can call me anytime.” And it’s true. During the first three months after Eric passed, I would call Amanda in the middle of the night, my heart swollen in grief, Eric’s picture clutched to my chest, tears staining my cheeks . . . and she would come over and hold me until I fell asleep.

  “Bye, Hollyn,” Matt says somberly before he shuts the door, leaving me once again alone. Alone. Just like I am night after lonely fucking night.

  Their footsteps fade in the hallway, the pamphlet Amanda left burns a metaphorical hole in my coffee table, begging and pleading to be opened.

  Live again. Is that even possible?

  I was married to Eric for a year and a week before he was killed during a firefighter training, a beam falling on him and crushing his body.

  A year and one week. That’s all I had. One year and a week to call a man my husband, to hear him call me his wife. To revel in the newlywed glow. One year and a week to soak in the man that so easily stole my heart.

  I don’t think it’s possible to know what life is again, to enjoy the small things like the beautifully brilliant blue sky of Colorado, to enjoy the smell of a fresh cup of coffee brewed to your specific request, or to revel in the sound of a baby’s joyful laughter. Everything is dull. It’s grey. It’s mundane. Lackluster.

  Lifeless.

  Even though we had so little time together, life without Eric isn’t worth living.

  Sorrow encompasses me, throwing me once again into a vicious cycle of depression. Eyeing Eric’s recliner, I walk to my sanctuary and seep into the well-worn cushions. This is safety—warmth and familiar—the closest thing I have to Eric wrapping his arms around me. Opening up the Voxer app on my phone, without even giving it a second thought, I press on Eric’s handle and start to play the most recent messages he sent me, getting lost in his memory.

  “Twigs, you will never believe who I saw at King Soopers while getting guacamole fixings. Chase Styles from the Colorado Miners. Guess what was in his cart? Tampons, apple juice, and a box of frozen White Castle cheeseburgers. Think he’ll be offended if I switch out his apple juice for Ecto Cooler?”

  “Don’t forget to put the laundry in the dryer for me, I need under-roos despite you thinking I can go commando. Got to keep the balls in a sling if we want all those babies.”

  Tears start to fall from my eyes from the rich timbre of his voice, the sweet joking tone he would use with me, and the way he so easily made me swoon from just listening to him. I play another, clutching my phone close to my heart, as if I’m holding him right there with me.

  “Coming home, Twigs. You better be naked, lying on the bed with an arrow pointing at your vagina with a sign that says, Eric owns this pussy. Five minutes.”

  His touch, commanding, yet loving.

  His love, unyielding, yet undeserving.

  His smile, intoxicating, yet charming.

  There’s no denying it, he was my everything.

  “Pretty sure I just saw our neighbor walking a chicken. No joke, Bob Jones was just walking a chicken. Let’s investigate later. I’ll let you wear war paint this time as long as you promise not to try to paint my dick again. It’s stuffed in pants, it doesn’t need camouflage.”

  His humor. His eyes. His scruff. His lips.

  The way he knew how to put a smile on my face despite my mood.

  All I have left are the faint smell in his clothes, the overplayed messages on my phone, and the faded pictures in my album.

  Pulling the collar of my shirt up to my nose, I take in a deep breath, hoping for a small whiff of him, for a small acknowledgement that the man I once thought would be my forever is still living in vivid memory.

  But sadly, I know with each passing day, his memory continues to pale. His scent fading, his laugh silencing, and his warm embrace dissolving, leaving me feeling so cold.

  What was supposed to be a love of everlasting armor was easily cracked, broken, and lost.

  Sorrow, anguish, and heartache pour from my eyes, coating my cheeks and soaking my shirt in a collection of lost memories.

  This is it, this is my life full of . . . nothing.

  I’m lost in a blur of affliction when my phone beeps with an incoming text. Through tear-saturated eyes, I read the message.

  Amanda: I love you, Hollyn. No matter what you decide, I will always be there for you. I will call you tomorrow.

  Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I suck in a deep breath, willing my tears to stop.

  “Pull it together, Hollyn.”

  I really don’t want to be this person anymore. I don’t want to be sad anymore, and I don’t want to once again disappoint the one person who’s stuck by my side when I pushed everyone else away.

  Sitting up, with less gusto than I wish, I push my hair out of my face and stare down at the pamphlet Amanda left.

  Dear Life.

  Learn to live again.

  Am I ready to live again? No, but I also don’t want to let Amanda down either. I pick up the pamphlet and take it to bed with me, leaving my phone and Eric’s messages behind. Not tonight. I’m already broken enough. I will not fall asleep to his voice . . .

  Stopping in the hallway, I grip the wall, my head down, the thought of not hearing Eric’s voice in my head as my eyes drift shut. Can I do it?

  Can I shut my eyes to nothing but lonely silence?

  No, I can’t. Turning back to the coffee table, I set the pamphlet back down and pick up my phone, quickly pulling up the Voxer app again to play another random message.

  “I love you, Twigs, never forget it.”

  My throat closes up, my knees weaken, and I drop to the floor, my arm on the coffee table, my head in the crook of my elbow, more tears flowing viciously.

  Learn to live again.

  I’m not sure I can.

  JACE

  “Congratulations.”

  An older woman wearing pink scrubs with a medical mask dangling from her neck hands me a tiny bundle of baby wrapped in a neutral-colored blanket. So soft and warm.

  With shaky hands, I take the six-pound, two-ounce love of my life and bring her into view. A deep breath leaves me before I glance down and take in the one and only thing that will be able to bring me to my knees.

  This little girl.

  Little button nose, red cheeks, tightly shut eyes, and beautiful puffy lips. She’s so small, so tiny, so innocent.

  She knows nothing of this world. She knows nothing of its complications, of its prejudice, of its shortcomings, and of its opportunities. But she will know one thing: the love pouring from my heart into hers. At least I hope she will.

  I didn’t know it was possible to have an immediate, unconditional love for someone. But here I am, holding my daughter, and it’s there. Love.

  My daughter.

  I don’t know if I will ever get used to the notion that this little bundle is a part of me, that she will always carry my heart, that no matter what happens, she will always hold a huge chunk of my soul.

  Holding back tears and fighting through the knot in my throat I speak softly. “Hey, baby girl.” I sniff, not doing a good job at all with my unexpected emotions. “You’re so beautiful, so tiny, so precious.” Pausing, I take a deep breath and pull the blanket down ever so slightly so I can see her hands. I run my finger across hers and marvel at their size compared to mine just as she wraps her little fist around my finger, gripping me tightly. I lose it, right there and then.

  Tears stream down m
y face as I watch over her and take in this moment, branding it into my brain. “You’re going to be the luckiest little girl to ever walk this planet,” I tell her, tears hitting her blanket. “You’re going to be loved, cared for, and sheltered from everything bad. I don’t want you to ever feel pain, or heartache, and I only want what’s best for you.” I wipe away some tears. “I’m going to love you, so fucking hard, with every bone and fiber in my body. I hope you know that, little girl. I really hope you know how much I love you.”

  “Mr. Barnes,” a nurse interrupts, looking down at me in the rocking chair that rests in a room full of flowers and balloons from my teammates and the front office of the ball club. The past two days have been a whirlwind of visitors and well wishes, but now it’s time to leave and it’s all coming to an end.

  I nod, “Please let June and Alex in.”

  I rock back and forth, speaking softly to my daughter as the door to the hospital room opens once again, June and Alex enter walking hand in hand, their faces full of hope, full of sympathy.

  “Hi, ladies,” I choke back. June has tears streaming down her face, her spare hand over her mouth in awe as Alex clings tightly to June for support.

  With a deep breath, I stand and say, “Are you ready to meet your baby girl?” I choke on the last words, trying to hold it together. They both nod, and with a broken but also full heart, I hand over my daughter to her new parents.

  “Yes,” June says with a watery smile. She holds out her hands and I transfer the baby, along with my cracking heart. Alex wraps her arms around June and looks over her shoulder at their little girl. It’s fucking perfect, seeing these two beautiful women finally fulfilling a lifelong dream of completing their family.

  Stepping back, I observe their pure, unfiltered joy. Seeing them, and their elation, I know I’ve done the right thing. I know I’ve given them the most precious gift ever. I know I’ve given my baby girl the best. I know deep down in my bones that I made the right decision.

  This baby will be loved. She will be blessed every day with a warm home. She will have opportunity, she will have the chance to grow and learn and be anything she will ever want to be. She’ll have two parents who can give her the world, something I know I can’t do.