“It just makes the room feel warm,” she says.
“So warm,” I say, nodding.
“I think it really does it for the whole room.”
“Totally does it.”
“I just love it, don’t you?”
“Really really really love it.”
A lifetime of this, I think to myself. A lifetime of seven-layer Jell-O cake and drawn-out conversations with my mother-in-law and no husband.
After the ceiling, things slow down again. I suggest hiring a professional. Out of the question, she says. Not only does Deedee work at her own pace, but she has to be in charge of every single detail. The dogs come back next week. I tell Deedee that I want to move in before they get back. I want to be settled before the dogs come home. I think she is so excited by the prospect of me being in my house again that she finally gets her act together.
Oklahoma Wheat starts to transform the office. French Lilac slowly fills my bedroom. I stand in the vacant nursery staring at Skylark Song, amazed at the progress of this little room. Miraculously, all three rooms of my house are completed before the dogs get back from their summer training camp. I walk through my house. The paint sings from the walls. Deedee did an amazing job. As much as she drives me crazy, I am desperately dependent on her help. The only thing more frustrating than the presence of my in-laws is the fact that I really really need their help. I hate admitting this more than anything.
It’s my first night alone in my house. The dogs come back tomorrow morning. I know I have to do something. I can’t just sit around and stare at old pictures. I need to fall asleep with some sense of accomplishment. I decide to frame the pictures and hang them on the wall.
Last Christmas Deedee bought me a box of ten black frames. Three five-by-sevens, four four-by-sixes, one eight-by-ten, and two two-by-threes. Anyone who knows me can tell you that there is a reason why I let Josh make all of the redecorating decisions. I have a horrible concept of spatial relations. It is very difficult for me to envision and estimate how much space something will take up. A couch, a table, a frame, whatever it is, I have a difficult time figuring out how one thing will look, or if it will fit in a different place. Josh would often tease me about this. He would roll his eyes when I wanted to rearrange furniture, but still he would help me move chairs and tables around, only to laugh when everything had been reassigned to its new location and the couch stuck out two feet into the doorway. And then, laughing at my deficiency, he would help me move it back.
I consider all of this as I look at my stack of ten frames. I consider how if Josh were here he would hammer in all of the nails. He wouldn’t even need to think about how he would arrange them first. He would just stand there quietly, hang one frame, look at it, and then hang the next. By the end, it would look perfect. I consider how I am sad that he is not here, not just to hang the frames but that he can’t stand in this hallway anymore. He can’t look at these pictures with me and laugh about how mad I was that day we went fly-fishing. He can’t tell me that he doesn’t want to use the one from last Christmas because he was chubby or that he wants to hang the one of Ashley from last summer in her bathing suit because she was chubby and he knows she’ll hate it. He can’t do any of this. He will never do any of this again. How am I supposed to sleep here tonight? How am I supposed to do anything again, knowing he can never share it with me?
But I get out the toolbox and I take the plastic off the frames. I don’t know why this is so important. I don’t know why I make myself do this. It’s like everything else I do lately. Taking out the garbage, emptying the dishwasher, putting wet laundry in the dryer—every motion that I go through in the house reminds me that Josh used to be here, but I still make myself do it because I want to remember what it used to feel like and I need to know what it feels like now.
I arrange the frames on the floor of my bedroom. I come up with a few arrangements. Wait and see what Mathews thinks, I tell myself. But then my body takes over again and I hang the first frame. I measure everything on the wall. I make pencil marks all over the wall. I want to make sure it looks perfect. I want to make sure I know how to make it look perfect. I measure the distance from one frame to the next. I measure the center of the frame. I measure how far down the hook is from the top of the frame. And then finally, I hammer the nail.
As an amateur in the business of hammering nails, I am annoyed at how difficult it is to hammer a nail in straight. The first three nails do not go well at all. The whole wall shakes and it takes me about fifteen strikes with the hammer to get it into position. A couple of times I hit my fingers, bend the nail, or shift it off center. Again, I get sad and frustrated that Josh isn’t here to do this. I can picture myself in a parallel world somewhere yelling his name. And he walks up from the basement and silently takes the hammer from me and finishes the rest of the nails. And then when he’s done he does something funny like pull up his shirt sleeve and flex his bicep or flip the hammer in the air and catch it after one full turn. I can see all of this. And then I become angry that I can’t see any of this. I will never see any of this again. They’re just nails and a hammer, just frames on a wall. But he’s always there no matter what I’m doing. He’s always there reminding me that he can never be there again.
An hour and a half later all ten frames hang on the office wall. They look perfect. I stand back and look at my work. I am impressed with myself, a little surprised also. I toss the hammer back in the toolbox, a lofty, cocky toss, as if I am its new master.
Later on that night I am lying in my bed. I stare up at the ceiling. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I get out of bed and try to find a book to read. I can’t read The Godfather at night. It scares me. The other day when I read the scene in which Michael has dinner with Sollozzo and McCluskey the cop, I had to stand up and walk around in the middle of it because I was so nervous for Michael. Tonight I just want to read something light and funny. I walk into my living room and look at the bookshelves. I see a small spine in the corner of the shelf. It says Jelly Belly in green writing. Jelly Belly is a book written for middle-school-aged kids. It’s about a boy who goes to fat camp and how he hides food in his swim trunks and stuff like that. Jelly Belly is one of my dad’s all-time favorite books. We have it in our bookshelf because he gave it to Josh to read. That’s the mark of a real gentleman. No matter what stupid thing my dad asked Josh to do—try on his new Keens, go shopping for orchids, or read a sixth-grade book about some chubby kid at fat camp—Josh did it. I open the book and right there in the front cover is a picture of Josh and me dancing at our wedding. We are looking at each other, smiling. A pain pangs in my stomach. I can feel my throat dry up. I know exactly why this picture is here. Josh always used photographs as his bookmarks. So first, it tells me he picked this picture as a bookmark. I think of him looking at it, holding it and thinking, Yeah, I like this one, smiling to himself and sliding it into the book. That’s part of the crying. The second part is he picked out a bookmark for Jelly Belly, which means he had every intention of reading it. He didn’t just take it from my dad and say, “Oh yeah, sure,” and then throw it aside. He was actually going to read it because my dad wanted him to.
Earlier this month Dr. G. asked me what I thought of “spiritual connections.” I said I didn’t really know, but on the inside I was rolling my eyes. “Smoke and mirrors,” is what I wanted to say. She could sense my rigidity to the subject so all she said was, “Just don’t close yourself off.” I can’t remember the rest of what she said about it, but I remember that part exactly. I’m not saying I had a spiritual connection with Josh via Jelly Belly, I’m just saying I found the book and thought of Dr. G.’s words.
I don’t read Jelly Belly. Eventually I just get back in bed. I lie in bed, in the middle of the bed with one pillow. This is my life. The toolbox belongs to me. The bed only has one pillow and one body. I can only see Josh in pictures. I know I will make it, I know I will survive, but I hate my life. Somewhere, hours later, as I finally drift off to slee
p I can feel Josh telling me, Don’t hate your life. It is his desperate message: Don’t hate your life.
The next morning Louise and Bug arrive, with wagging tails and boisterous barks. I know they are so happy to see me and I them, but they are also completely unsympathetic to me and my grief. They need attention and care and energy that I just can’t seem to summon. Jason, the dog trainer, comes over once every two weeks to help train me in handling them. He tells me how to hold the leash, what to say to command them and how to say it. He emphasizes the point that the person giving the command (me) has to do so in a way that is calm and controlled. He says the dogs will respond to a calm, controlled command. Jason is a very nice man, but when he says this, part of me wants to look at him and retort, “Easier than it sounds, ace.” I am a lot of things right now and calm and controlled are certainly not on the list. But I lie. “Got it,” I tell Jason. I nod my head and say, “Sure, I can do that.”
When Jason walks with us the dogs are awesome. For the first couple of hours after he leaves they are great. Even the first walk or two with me at the helm is okay. I feel like I really am in control. But after he’s been gone for a few days, they start to come undone. Or maybe it’s me coming undone.
When Josh was here, he was the pack leader. Louise and Bug listened to him because they could sense his confidence. Anyone who knew Josh, dog or human, could sense his confidence. I tell myself I am going to be the pack leader, but I know I’m not made of pack leader stock. The dogs know this too. But we walk every day. We practice our new family every day.
Even with two animals in the house, it still feels very lonely. It is strange walking in the door and not having anyone to yell hello to, to fold laundry with no conversation, to go to bed by myself. Sometimes all I want to do is fill this house with people, but I know once everyone got here all I would do is scream for them to get out. Sometimes I resent how involved my in-laws are in my life right now. They are family—no, they are the Family—but it still feels like my in-laws are making an impossible situation more difficult. Ashley comes over and gives me coupons she’s collected from Carter’s and Target and tells me about how she went shopping for the baby on her lunch hour. I have to tell myself, She is only helping, but really she makes me crazy. I feel like she’s constantly reminding me that I am not excited enough for this baby. Her loud voice—it’s like she talks that way just to try to get my attention. When she sits on my couch, I just think about how I want her to leave. Then when I sit alone I think about how it’s almost easier to put up with their uninvited visits than a silent house.
I tell Moo about how my days and nights are so quiet except for Louise and Bug. Moo suggests I start listening to podcasts at night. She listens to a show called This American Life hosted by this guy named Ira Glass.
I go for a walk by myself and listen to an episode. The first show I download is called “Unconditional Love.” The episode is about a woman, Heidi, and a seven-year-old boy she adopted from Romania. Halfway through my walk I am crying all over myself. But the weird part is I don’t know exactly why I’m so upset. I’m upset because this kid spent seven years standing in a crib in an orphanage with no parents or grandparents or friends and that makes me really sad. Also, this Heidi woman wanted a child so badly that she adopted a son who was on the cusp of the most difficult age for a boy. And here I am pregnant with a perfectly healthy baby and wishing for a different life. All I want to do is call Heidi and invite her over. I just want to talk to her. I am obsessed with finding people who have seen the universe bare its ferocious teeth and I am entirely sick of people who seem to live free and easy.
No wonder I identify more with Italian mobsters than with the average pregnant woman. The Corleones and I are both entrenched in an ugly world of death. We both see the gruesome part of life that most people spend their lives trying to avoid.
• • •
This year Labor Day weekend begins at the end of August. I’m afraid to be alone for the weekend so I decide to go up north with my parents. My single friends will be going to bars and staying out late. My married friends will be going to barbeques with their in-laws. So I just leave to avoid the out-of-placeness and potential rejection.
On the way up north I sit in the back of my dad’s car. My dad drives and my mom sits in the passenger’s seat. Ads calls my dad’s cell phone, but I pick it up. I am in the middle of a conversation with Ads when we hit a dead zone. I hand my dad his phone back and announce that the call broke up. I know my dad is doing everything he can not to ask me, “Well, is everything okay?,” paranoid that perhaps Ads had to hang up because he got into a car accident or he was suddenly being held at gunpoint. He doesn’t ask this because he knows it will really piss me off. I’ve been a little touchy lately—not surprisingly—and I know my dad is consciously trying to give me space. A few minutes later, my mom’s cell phone rings. At first, she picks up my dad’s cell phone, whose ring is nothing like hers.
“That’s your phone,” he says.
“What?” She looks at him, as if he’s the idiot. Clearly the phone she is holding is his phone.
“No, the phone that’s ringing. That’s your phone.”
“Oh.” My mom sets my dad’s phone down and picks up her iPod, and for just a split second she almost brings it to her ear. Finally, she sets the iPod aside and finds her phone. I grab the phone to relay to Ads the entire ridiculous scenario of Mom almost answering her iPod.
“Stop it!” she yells from the front seat. “Stop watching me!” Ads and I rap for a few more minutes and then he remembers that he has something to tell Mom. So I hold the phone out to Mom and say, “Here, Mom, Ads has a funny story.” My mom, who I instantly realize is engrossed in Dr. Joy Browne on her iPod, takes the phone and shuts it, leaving Ads waiting on the other line a bit confused.
“Mom!” I yell. She pulls her headphones out.
“What?” she says, again irritated that I am getting on her case for no good reason.
“Ads wanted to tell you a funny story.”
“Oh!” She laughs to herself and calls him back. “Ads, sorry hun.” I can’t hear him, but I know he is reminding her of the time she fell asleep when he was talking to her.
We stop at a Wesco gas station in Evert. I am relieved not only because I have to pee, but because I need a break from being eight months pregnant and sitting in the backseat. Moments later my mom and I are standing outside the car waiting for my dad. He walks to the car slowly, carrying his gas station purchases.
“Are you guys sure you don’t want anything?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say shortly. “Let’s go.”
“What did you get?” my mom asks.
“I got two Chunkies and a piña colada SoBe.” My dad pronounces it “Sue-be.” I roll my eyes at this, because it is obviously pronounced “So-be.” It is completely phonetic.
“Oh.” My mom sounds interested.
For the next several minutes of the drive, my dad offers my mom one of his Chunkies, which she initially rejects but then, after his pestering her, accepts. The same thing happens with the SoBe. He takes a sip and then hands it to her. Eventually, she drinks most of it, not realizing it, until the last sip remains.
“You can finish it,” my dad says.
“No, it’s too sweet for me,” she says, honestly not realizing she has consumed most of his beverage. So to make her feel like she didn’t just take half of his gas station snack, he drinks the rest.
This is how it always works with my parents. At restaurants, gas stations, and wedding buffets. My mom always says she doesn’t want any and then steals his to make herself feel like she didn’t really eat it. As I sit in the car, I am initially frustrated by this. Why can’t my mom just buy her own Chunkies, her own piña colada SoBe? And then, with both grief and happiness coursing through me, I realize that this is how they are. Their actions, however minute, always involve each other. He knows she will take his food, which is why he buys two Chunkies. She knows he will have enough
for her. This is what they have developed after thirty-two years of marriage. I am happy for them that they have little things like this, little ways to remind each other that they are there. I am sad that I may never have this again. Or perhaps that I did. I knew such a feeling. And now I don’t.
It’s not just the sight of my parents’ marriage that evokes this sense of emptiness. I feel like everyone in my life is normal and I’m different. I see women and men pushing strollers and all I feel is anger toward them. I just want to find another Heidi or another me. Maybe I don’t want to go shopping because all of the pregnant women at Baby Gap are wearing wedding rings, looking really happy. Maybe I don’t want to chat it up with everyone about my pregnancy because all I can think about is how Josh isn’t here. Maybe I channel all of my frustration toward my in-laws because the one person who is supposed to be dealing with them is gone, and that’s all I can think about when they call. I just want to be around people who aren’t normal anymore.
I look at my parents in the front seat. In so many ways they drive me crazy and they are a constant reminder that I never get to have what they have. At the same time I know I am incredibly grateful for them. They have helped me in a way that I will never be able to repay. But that is the credo that holds the Family together. That is the strand that ties us to the Corleones. We both know that without the Family, we don’t stand a chance.
Signs of Life Page 5