A Notion of Love

by Abbie Williams

  Chris rubbed his tears on one shoulder rather than relinquish his hold on either me or the baby. He pursed his lips in serious consideration and said, “You know, I don’t think he looks like either. You know I like Clint, what about that?”

  I said, “Christopher, we are not naming our baby after Dirty Harry.”

  “But it’s such a cool name,” Chris insisted, warming up. “I think it suits him.”

  It was so rare for my husband to insist on anything. I tipped my head at our baby and tried it out, murmuring, “Hi there, Clint.”

  “Look at that!” Chris crowed in triumph, as the little one opened both eyes and blinked solemnly at us, just as I said his name.

  “All right, you sold me,” I said, and Chris tipped his head to kiss both me and our new son.

  “Clint Daniel, how’s that?” he said. “Or something else?”

  “No, that has a nice ring to it,” I agreed, drawing my husband back for another kiss.

  He caressed my cheek and said, “I didn’t think I could be happier than when we got married, but I am at this moment.”

  “Oh honey,” I said. “I know.”

  “I love you so much, Jillian,” he told me. “Promise me we’ll have a whole pack of kids.”

  I rolled my eyes, teasing, “Give me a minute here. I just forced this one out after nine months.”

  At that moment Mom, Elaine and Aunt Ellen came bustling in, all of them wanting to get their hands on the baby. I grinned at them and said, “Hi you guys, meet Clint.”

  August, 1990

  “Can I take this off yet?” I asked, my fingers going again to the bandana tied over my eyes. Unable to remove it yet, I gathered my long braid over one shoulder and twisted it in my right hand.

  Chris was driving us somewhere, while Clint was home with Elaine and Tom, who’d been smiling mysteriously, obviously privy to some secret that I was not; even with my eyes covered, I could sense my husband’s quivering anticipation. I slapped in his direction, demanding, “Tell me, Christopher!”

  “Okay, here we are,” he said, and the excitement in his voice was contagious. Before he gave me permission, I ripped away the blindfold and then stared out of the windshield in surprise. Chris had parked in a clearing a few miles outside of Landon, a roughly-circular area, probably about an acre, ringed with pines. I tipped my head at him and said, teasing, “You want to have sex in the car like in the old days?”

  Chris laughed and pulled me over for a quick kiss before saying, “Come on,” and bounding out of the car, hurrying around the hood to haul my much slower ass from the passenger seat. He took my hand and pulled me along to a For Sale sign; across its yellow length was stretched a SOLD banner. I looked at it for a moment, and then my gaze flashed over to my husband, who was practically hopping from one foot to the other in giddiness.

  “Sold?” I asked him.

  “To us!” he said triumphantly. “I just put the down payment on it yesterday. I’ll build you our house here, Jilly Bean.”

  I was a little dumbfounded that Chris would do such a momentous thing without consulting me…but then I turned in a slow circle, really observing the place. I squinted my eyes and pictured our house, the one that Chris and I had spent so many hours envisioning and planning in our little bedroom in his parent’s basement. It would have a wraparound porch, and a huge laundry room, one in which I would never bump my hip on the dryer trying to circumnavigate my way clutching a basket of clothes. There would be a flower garden and Clinty would have bunk beds…and there would be rooms enough for at least nine more kids. Tears were spilling down my cheeks and I absolutely leaped into my husband’s arms.

  “Sweetie, isn’t it great?” Chris said, holding me close to his heart and swaying us side to side.

  “I’m just so happy,” I told him, breathing in against his chest to stave off more tears. “Chris, when did you…I didn’t even know you were looking.”

  “I wasn’t exactly looking, but I found the ad for this place just a few weeks ago. It’s been for sale for a long time, so they were willing to lower the price and Dad and Ma helped me with the down payment money. We won’t be able to break ground until next spring, but we can maybe camp out here in the meantime, bring the tents, have a fire…”

  More tears rushed over my face and Chris thumbed them away, looking down at me with so much tenderness and love. I gulped a little and then kissed him, pulling his face to mine. Though I wanted him to lay me down right here in the soft grass, I could tell he was too excited to show off our new property to our friends and family. It was so like him to radiate enthusiasm this way; nothing brought him down and I loved that about him.

  “Come on, there’s a couple of birch trees over here,” he said, again tugging me in his wake.

  “Hey,” I said to his familiar back, and he peered over one shoulder at me, not breaking stride, eyebrows raised.

  “I love you,” I told him, and my throat hurt with the force of it.

  He said, “I love you too, honey. And I promise I’ll build you the most beautiful house you’ve ever imagined.”

  And at that moment I really believed he would.

  February, 1991

  Wrong, something was wrong.

  It was as though a hockey buzzer was going off in my head as I leaped from bed, pulled directly from deep sleep, and for a moment wavered on my feet, utterly disoriented and dizzy. I tipped back to the mattress, my hands seeking at once for Chris, but he was out snowmobiling with Neil and a couple other guys, not yet home.

  Clint.

  I raced across the basement to my son’s room, clicking on the overhead light, heart slamming my breastbone like an angry fist. I saw at once that he was fine; he drew up his knees and shifted under the unexpected glare, but went on sleeping. I allowed a breath, but the hockey buzzer hadn’t quit. My heart was still throbbing inside of me.

  Dammit. Something was still wrong, chilling me to the bone. For a moment I longed for Minnie so much that I felt faint again; she would know, she would be able to tell me what had ripped me out of my bed and flung me into a panic. But she was gone, she’d passed away just this past autumn, along with Chris’s father, both just before Clint turned three.

  Calm down, I commanded myself. You aren’t solving anything this way.

  I turned out the light in Clinty’s room and proceeded back to my own, but couldn’t get back into bed with this sort of agitation rushing through my veins. I tugged on my long braid and then trooped up to the main floor kitchen, debating waking Elaine or calling Gran, or Joelle. But it was nearing midnight. I hated when Chris stayed out so late; we’d had a fight about it just two weeks ago, when I found out that they’d been drinking. He’d felt bad, I knew, but loved these occasional nights out with his buddies. They had been snowmobiling this way together since they were fifteen or so.

  A storm coming, maybe? I parted the curtains and peered out into the winter night to find a gorgeous ivory moon staring back. The world looked peaceful, if frozen in crystals, not a breath of wind to stir the bare branches. I sighed and quietly put on the kettle for a cup of tea. Since Chris’s dad’s death, Elaine slept poorly and I didn’t want to cause her unnecessary alarm. But if I wasn’t drowsy within fifteen minutes, I would call Jo, late or not.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed when I realized the phone was ringing. Again pulled from slumber, tipped over my arms on the table, I lifted my head and knew with certainty that I should not answer that sound. I had been in the midst of a nightmare, this time one in which birds were trying to pull out my hair, screeching, and the noise they’d been making in the dream suddenly became the phone in the dark kitchen. I stumbled to my feet and picked up it up to hear the dial tone. And then I realized that it wasn’t the phone at all but the doorbell, and that someone was now knocking with a forceful thump. My knees were rattling and if we’d had a dog it would have been going apeshit. I felt as though I was about to vomit, but forced my feet to the front door, my fingertips numb as I turne
d the knob.

  “Dodge?” I said in confusion. He was bundled in his down jacket and a green hunting hat, and his cheeks were red from the cold.

  Before I said anything else he made a noise I’d never heard him make, as though he was choking, and he stepped into my entryway and pulled me against him, hard and tight. I heard another sound then, a high-pitched keening. I didn’t realize at first that it was coming from my throat.

  “Jillian, sweetheart, oh God,” he said against my hair, his deep voice gruff and terrible.

  At that second, I knew.

  I started crying then, fighting to get away from him. He didn’t let me, holding me so close, finally saying, “They tried everything, oh God, they tried to…”

  Chris. Oh God, Christopher.

  Sobs overwhelmed me, ripping through me as I gave up struggling to get away, clinging now to the only father I’d ever known, who’d come to tell me something he’d certainly rather have died than have to do.

  “What…” I sobbed. “What…”

  “He went through the ice on Rose Lake,” Dodge said, still holding me against him. I clung to his jacket, smelling winter and tobacco in its puffy folds. “They tried to get him, Jillian, they tried. But he…but he…”

  I screamed then, hitting him with both fists, ineffectual as that was. He was lying, this was a joke. Any moment he’d laugh and tell me who put him up to this.

  From upstairs the hall light preceded Elaine’s voice calling, “Jillian? What is it?”

  “Mama?” came another voice at the same moment, full of terror.

  I froze, would have doubled over if not for Dodge’s presence. He gently led me to the couch, calling to Clinty, “It’s all right, little one. Your mama is just fine.”

  But your daddy isn’t, I wanted to shriek. Your daddy isn’t.

  Oh God, oh God.

  My fault.

  How could I have not seen this? Minnie would have seen it, would have warned me.

  You’ll be all right, she’d said long ago. Inside my head an unending scream was rippling. I will never fucking be all right again. How could you let this happen? I didn’t know if I meant Minnie or myself.

  I rolled forward, curling around my waist, scarcely able to breathe past the sobs that were shredding my insides. I saw Dodge move swiftly to Clint, at the top of the steps leading back down to the basement. Dodge scooped my boy into his embrace. He was talking to Clinty in a soft voice, carrying him into the kitchen. A distant, detached part of myself, who seemed to be hovering near the ceiling to silently watch events unfold, was ashamed that I didn’t move to comfort my son.

  Mom and Gran and Ellen were in my living room next. Time had passed as I huddled on my couch, covering my head in both arms, unable to move. Gran managed to unfold me, her eyes dark with concern as she wrapped me in her arms, holding me tight to her bosom. She rocked me and smoothed my hair, murmuring words I wouldn’t later recall. Mom and Ellen clutched Elaine, whose weeping was destroying me, while Dodge did everything Gran ordered, including talking with Charlie Evans and Dave Jensen, the cops who came to the house.

  “Joelle will be here in the morning,” Mom said at one point.

  Dawn broke, morning came, sunlight sparkling over the snow, despite the fact that my husband was gone forever. It would be months before I could manage to say the word ‘dead.’ I felt hollow, and would, for a long, long time after. But that first morning was the most horrible, surreal and sickening.

  “I want to see him,” I insisted later that day, despite Mom’s gentle suggestion that I remember him how he was. Elaine had already been to the funeral home with Gran, had picked out a coffin at my request and taken along the suit in which her only child would be buried. I had spent most of the day wrapped in a blanket on the couch. Neil, Chris’s best friend and the one who’d pulled him from the frozen lake, came to the house to see me, but I couldn’t manage it and left Jo to explain.

  “I’ll bring you, Jilly,” Jo said as the afternoon drifted away.

  I was numb, heavy, as though made of concrete, as Jo drove me across town to the Price’s funeral home. I rode with my forehead pressed to my knuckles and had to be helped from the car. Oddly, I’d just been up these same steps twice in the last few months, for both Minnie’s and Tom’s funerals. Never in all my imaginings would I have suspected that next I’d be climbing them to view my husband’s body.

  Oh God, oh God.

  I wasn’t warned. A Notion hadn’t alerted me, hadn’t flashed into my mind to save my husband.

  Why?

  “Why, Jo?” I asked her, as she helped me up the steps. My voice was weak as a kitten’s, and I hated that.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” Jo said, holding me tightly. I knew she didn’t understand the question I was actually asking.

  Later, I was glad that I had insisted upon seeing him. But nothing, not one thing, could have prepared me for the rending in my soul. He had drowned. It was too unbelievable to be true; my Christopher, who’d spent a third of his life swimming, who had just been dancing around the bedroom with me, night before last, teasing me that it was time to have another baby—or at least keep trying. I would remember him like that, not like this. But I had to see to believe that he had actually left me forever.

  I touched him, my fingers tentative and my heart like ice, ran my fingers over his still, waxen face, his hair. His same face that I had kissed a million times, the same hands that had held me with more love than probably anyone deserved in this life. Terror was too thick in my throat to allow for sobs, disbelief too rampant in my veins. The coldness beneath my fingertips was shocking. I wanted to see his eyes, was suddenly overwhelmed with a terrible and perverse need to see them open, because the last time I had seen them open he’d been alive and was kissing me good-bye wearing his snowmobile face mask, the silver one that covered every part of his face but his mouth and eyes. He’d said, “See you later, honey.” And now his eyes were closed.

  A panic attack hit me so hard I went to my knees.

  The door of the viewing room banged against the wall as Jo came racing through.

  Later I didn’t remember anything about her getting me into the car and out of there.

  More cars were at my house, more people offering sympathy. I wanted to tell them to fuck off.

  Jo parked the car. I climbed out and tried to walk up to the house, but instead I sank to the snow drifted on the side of the driveway. All of the sobs that hadn’t come when I’d been touching my husband’s embalmed body came ripping out with a vengeance. Jo was at my side again in an instant and she was sobbing too, trying to help me up, but like a petulant, inconsolable child I curled in the snow, wrapping my arms around my head. I wasn’t sure if the horrible, choking sounds were coming from my throat or from my sister’s. The snow froze my body, but I welcomed it, wanted it. I wanted to freeze. The early evening cast long, blue-gray shadows all across the driveway.

  “Help me,” my sister was pleading.

  Strong arms came around me, lifting me up. Dodge, I thought. I tried to fight away, but there was no strength left in me. I buried my face behind my forearms and felt as though something had broken inside of me, cracked or split, releasing a hellacious floodgate of sobs.

  My heart, I realized.

  “Bring her to her room,” Gran was saying, holding open the front door.

  He carried me down the basement steps, where the roar of voices in the living room was blessedly muted. I was deposited with great care onto my bed, the room dim in the encroaching evening. Blindly I reached for my husband’s pillow and pulled it against my face. Seconds later Jo was lying down behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, fitting her body to mine. I didn’t know how much time passed before I calmed. Jo stroked my hair and murmured to me until drowsiness began to weight my eyelids. I whispered, “Where’s Clint?” through a throat that felt lacerated.

  “He’s at the café with Mom,” Jo reassured me. “She took him over there earlier today. He’s just f
ine, Jilly. He’s all right.”

  I put my forearms over hers, clinging to her. Jo pressed her face against my back and held tightly. I had the irrational sensation that if she let go, I would die. I whispered, “Thank you for bringing me down here. I’m sorry…I’m sorry I freaked out.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she whispered. “Jilly, don’t. And Justin carried you down here, not me. I couldn’t get you out of the snowdrift. Thank goodness he was here.”

  But I’d exhausted all of my words. With Jo holding me, I slept.

  ***

  Chris’s service was the next day, a Sunday, two days after he’d drowned. Early that morning I’d stood before the mirror in our tiny basement bathroom and spread my hair long over my shoulders. Joelle, who’d been staying with me, was still asleep in my bed; I couldn’t sleep unless her arms were locked around me. I ran my fingers through my hair, imagining Chris doing the same. I brushed it slowly, carefully to a gloss before neatly braiding it, drawing it over my left shoulder. It was so long these days; I hadn’t cut it since our wedding.

  The scissors on the counter were the sharpest in the house, wickedly long-bladed. I clutched my braid in one fist and lifted the shears in the other. For a moment, looking into my own eyes, which looked like burn holes in a white sheet, I considered jamming the blades into my wrist and then tearing a long wound. I’d watch the blood rise up and then cover the bathroom floor in a crimson rush. I fantasized about it for awhile. Maybe I could jam them into my neck, my soft pale neck. Then this misery would end, and I wouldn’t have to think about facing the rest of my life alone.

  But I wasn’t alone. I was a mother. It was selfish and cowardly to even imagine killing myself. But I did imagine it, in vivid detail. When the scissors snipped I shuddered a little, but they cut through my thick blond braid easily. My remaining hair was shaggy and the back of my neck too bare, too raw without the hair that had always been there. I tied off the sheared end of the braid as though it was an umbilical cord, making it neat and then laying it carefully on the counter. Almost a foot and a half of golden hair, which would now spend eternity in Chris’s hands.