Signs of Life

by Natalie Taylor

  Once we get to the cottage, I let my parents take Kai in first so I can be by myself. I stop to look at every little detail of the cottage from the driveway. It’s like slowly pulling off a Band-Aid; for some reason I need to feel the pain. I can’t just storm through. I listen to the sound of the back screen door as I open it. Somehow that signals the first step. I start with the back bedroom. I look at the twin bed where Josh and I slept together when we first started dating. It’s so funny how as a married couple we eventually felt like our queen-sized bed wasn’t big enough for two adults, but when we were in our early lightning-bolt days, we slept together in a twin bed. I look at the chair where he’d set his gaiters after fly-fishing. I look at the place where he took off his shoes. I walk by the pictures in the back hallway. They haven’t changed since I was here last time. I walk down the hallway and look into Margaret’s old room. She was here last time I was here too. I’m feeling okay. I think I can hold it together.

  I turn the corner into the kitchen. I see the pictures on the fridge. Damn. I forgot about the pictures on the fridge. There is one of Josh riding his bike the summer he rode it across the country. It’s one of my favorite pictures in the world. I forgot all about it until this moment. On his trip, he and Toby went through the Upper Peninsula just so they could stop at Elk Lake. In the picture Josh is wearing his navy Airborne jersey and his hair is flying back in the wind. He didn’t cut his hair the whole ride, so he has this long, almost yellow-blond hair. The picture is a little blurry because he’s riding as it’s being taken. I stare at it for a long time. I just want to reach my hand into that picture and touch him.

  I walk back to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and blow my nose. I walk outside to say hi to everyone. Deedee squeezes me so hard I think she’s going to pull me to the ground. I know it means the world to her that I came back. Chris already has Kai in the water.

  • • •

  For my twenty-fourth birthday, Josh gave me a digital camera. That was the last birthday of mine that we spent together. I’m not one to see certain pre-losing-Josh situations as prophetic or ominous, but I feel like that gift said something. Of course, he had no idea that he would tragically lose his life between my twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth birthdays, but I will always see that camera as an indication of what he wanted me to do more of in life: stop and appreciate the amazing people around me. Sure, take a picture of the blue water of Elk Lake or the big sand beaches of Lake Michigan. But really, my job with that camera is to somehow, if I can at all, hold on to the wonderful moments I encounter with the people I love. It has been one year and almost two months since Josh died. I still hate and love looking at pictures of him. I get so frustrated that looking at a photograph is the only way I can see him anymore. But those photos mean more to me than any other inanimate object in my life. And ironically, he bought me a new camera before he died.

  Over the last several weeks, I lost the charger to that camera. This is expected of me. I lose things. I’ve been losing things my whole life. I lost a winter coat when I was in fifth grade. One time I lost my bike. And no matter how many Real Simple magazines I read or how many bins I buy from the home storage section of Target, I just can’t seem to hold on to things sometimes. But I recovered the twenty-fourth-birthday camera and charger just in time to go to Elk Lake again for a whole week with my in-laws. This week, instead of having my parents just outside of town, I am at the Elk Lake cottage without refuge. Twenty-four hours a day with Ashley and Deedee for an entire week.

  It is awesome. You might think living in close quarters with Deedee and Ashley for five full days might spark a complaint or two. But I have absolutely nothing negative to say about the visit. We have a great time. During the week, I develop a newfound respect for Ashley. It is amazing to see her operate when she thinks no one is watching her. She doesn’t do things for praise or for credit; she does things because they need to get done. I never thought she and Josh had a lot in common, but this week is the first time I realize that when it comes to working ceaselessly for their family, they are identical twins. All weekend she is cleaning out the garage, washing windows, perfecting the landscaping, taking care of the boat she bought, and carrying Kai around on her hip while doing all of it. They let me relax all weekend. I sleep in, lie around by the water, read my book. It is amazing. I keep calling it “Spa Elk Lake,” and I mean it too. I take pictures all week long. I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t stop capturing the moment. There are so many moments to capture.

  Tonight Ashley takes her boat out, and it stalls out on the water. The next-door neighbors, who are year-round residents and not from “downstate,” go out to help her. We are on the shore when she gets back, and although she is thankful for the help, I can tell she is frustrated about the boat and about how she needed to be rescued by the neighbors. Once she anchors the boat, the same neighbors offer to help Ashley put in the shore station she bought for the boat. She agrees, but it turns out to be a huge ordeal. It takes a lot of time and people standing in the water pushing a massive metal contraption at a very slow pace. I keep taking pictures of Ashley, who is getting more frustrated by the minute. I get one picture where she is trying to finally lower the hoist to get the boat on and she is looking at the camera pointing her finger at me with this look like she’s going to put my lights out if I don’t get out of her face. But I love it. It’s really a picture of her. No makeup, no cleavage, no blow-dried hair, no three-inch heels. She looks at the picture later and calls me a bitch, in the joking way that Ashley calls people a bitch. But I think she looks beautiful.

  Time hasn’t exactly worked wonders on my own grief, but I certainly think it has helped me see that Ashley is not only critical to my success as a single mother, but she is a hugely important person in Kai’s life also. I don’t know how close they would have been if Josh were here, which is not to say I would trade one for the other or that I am in any way grateful for his absence. I’m just making an observation. It is amazing to me how she can drive me absolutely insane, while at the exact same time, I never want her to go away.

  When I’m old and sick, she’ll visit me in the hospital, just like Ethel and Birdie. She’ll storm into the hospital room and tell everyone how to do their job and pronounce herself the Fountain of All Knowledge with all things geriatric. “Nat, I know you said you wanted the full-length compression hose, but I talked to my friend Alice from work and she said that these short ones are way better. See? Here, feel them, feel them, aren’t they so much softer … Oh my God, what are they feeding you? That looks completely disgusting. Is there a fucking nurse around here who can get you something else? Ugh! That smells horrible.” We are together for a lifetime. And I am grateful.

  august

  Ere long, not only on these banks, but on every hill and plain and in every hollow, the frost comes out of the ground like a dormant quadruped from its burrow, and seeks the sea with music, or migrates to other climes in clouds. Thaw with his gentle persuasion is more powerful than Thor with his hammer.

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU, WALDEN

  terrah’s wedding is at the beginning of August. It’s lovely. I get to walk down the aisle with Terrah’s brother Dusty, who was once described by his own mother as “a social beast.” Mr. Battersby is at the reception. He comments on how nice it is to see me having such a good time. Gentry and I have a heart-to-heart about weddings and marriage and how we both think, for a variety of reasons, it’s a generally stupid idea. We are thrilled for our friends, wish them the best—we will fully celebrate with an open bar—but we’re not completely convinced it’s as magical as they make it out to be. Obviously, I would still like to be married, and sure it is easier to cope with being a widow if I convince myself that the institution of marriage is flawed. But now that marriage is really more of a spectator sport for me, it’s not that I totally resent it or think that it can never work, it’s just that I think it’s a lot harder to be happy over time than people my age think. Maybe
my grief goggles can help me see into the future, or maybe I can just tell that not everyone considers what a lifetime commitment actually means. My grandpa always says that marriage is like an exotic plant; you’ve really got to work hard and pay attention if you want to keep it alive. But how can anyone except a wise old man understand that? I think my grief goggles are making me pay more attention to wise old men than to glossy women’s magazines.

  The one highlight was watching Terrah’s parents dance. I don’t slam holy matrimony when I see people like Mr. and Mrs. Brewer. After Josh died, Terrah told me that her mom was engaged to be married when she was in her early twenties. Right before the wedding, Mrs. Brewer’s fiancé was killed in a car accident. She didn’t meet Mr. Brewer until ten years later, and then she decided to try it again. Lo and behold, here she is in her beige mother-of-the-bride dress.

  Weddings are funny events because they last one day. I am beginning to see that people my age and younger have no sense of time. We think four years is a long time. Women think a year is a long time from engagement to wedding. We expect things to happen overnight. We want to be rich and famous and accomplished in the first few years out of college. We get frustrated when things don’t move at an efficient pace. We curse the Internet when it takes more than ten seconds to load a website and we get annoyed that the voice mail lady takes so damn long to give us instructions. But now that I have Kai, I look at the parents of all of my friends in a new light. Mr. and Mrs. Brewer, Mr. Battersby, my mom and dad, Deedee—these people understand time because they have watched their children go from toddlers in jelly shoes to women in wedding dresses. They have watched something grow. My guess is if people in their midtwenties had any concept of time, not as many of us would be promising a lifetime to a person we met four months ago.

  Right now, I’m rereading Walden for a new unit we’re creating for our eleventh-grade English curriculum. Walden: A Life in the Woods is written by this guy named Henry David Thoreau who spent a year living alone on Walden Pond outside of Concord, Massachusetts. He wrote down every single observation about the pond and the natural world around him. While I wouldn’t exactly consider his detailed account of the woods riveting, it is interesting to read his description of the pond transitioning from winter to spring. Ever so slowly and carefully it goes from ice to water. He records the process of the thaw, and although Thoreau’s narrative of ice melting may not wow the average twenty-first-century audience, the process itself really is amazing when you think about it. Nature understands that things take time. You can’t rush certain things if you want them to work correctly. It took Mrs. Brewer ten years to find love again, and here she is at her daughter’s wedding, having the time of her life. I guess that kind of healing and growth needs a whole decade. Sometimes I really look forward to how I will feel in ten years.

  But nothing signals the passage of time more than watching my own son. He pulls himself up on his own. He stands without holding on to things. He raises his arms for me to pick him up. He smiles when I sing, he breathes deeply when he sleeps, and he laughs when he sees pictures of his aunts and grandmas around the house. He does a million other unbelievable things. I look at him and think about how happy I am to be here for him and how happy I am that despite the absence of his amazing father, he will have a great life. He used to be the size of a peanut. Literally a peanut. A little over a year later, he is learning how to walk on his own two legs. I’m sure that pond was impressive for Thoreau, but clearly the guy never had children. The concept, however, is still the same. Nature has a way of figuring it out. I hope my brain operates under a similar premise.

  I am made stronger when I think of Mrs. Brewer and Mr. Battersby. I think about how sometimes life gets better even when you think it can’t. Sometimes the thaw can work in your favor if you just let it take its course.

  • • •

  On Wednesday night, Maggie and I do a minitriathlon over at Kent Lake. Training has been going well. I should say that training has been going well when I decide to train. When Kai is in a good mood, I’ll put him in the jogging stroller and go as fast as I can until he cries and then we run home. I have only biked three times and I try to swim once a week. Hales is still helping me coordinate the whole lift arms, lift head, kick legs all at once thing. It’s like coordinating a golf swing, except for the fact that you don’t get to stand there for five minutes and think about it.

  I am nervous for the minitriathlon. But when I get there, I decide I just wanted to survive the swim and not have the course close before I finish.

  Once I get through the swim and bike and start finally running, I feel better. Running is the only thing I know how to do in a triathlon. And by running I mean jogging, but let me tell you, I am one hell of a jogger. During my run I think about how I want to speed up. Lately, when I get into a point of physical pain in my training or in a race, I talk myself into slowing down or stopping altogether. It’s like I have two opposing forces in my head. One says, “Just stop. What’s the big deal? You’re not going to the Olympics. Just stop and walk.” And the other side of my brain asks one question. It asks the same question over and over: “What are you so afraid of?”

  I’ve spent a lot of my life being scared of things. Scared of an injury during soccer, scared of failure and criticism, scared of being rejected. Then the one thing I was so afraid of happening, so afraid I could hardly acknowledge it, actually happened. So why not go faster? Why not lose? Why not try things that I know I’m not good at? What am I so afraid of now?

  On Wednesday during the run, my mind is going in all different places. I start thinking about August 14 of this year and how it compares to August 14 of last year and, reluctantly, how it compares to August 14 of the year before that, the last August I spent with Josh. As I run, I think about how I am doing better, right here at this moment, than I had been one year before. Who knows if I could say the same for two years before, but there’s no point in answering that question.

  Time passes and things change. I feel better today than I did one year ago. If I were sitting in Dr. G.’s office, I would try to keep going with this thought. I’d say, “Yeah, but inevitably something bad will happen again. Time passes, but sometimes things change for the worse!” And she would just nod quietly and say, “Natalie, think about what you said a few moments ago. ‘I feel better today than I did one year ago.’ Just stop there. That is a beautiful statement.”

  • • •

  My grandparents on my dad’s side have lived in East Lansing, Michigan, my entire life. A few years ago, my grandfather suffered from a stroke. Even two years later, he still has minimal movement in his left hand and arm and he has to use a cane to walk. Ever since his stroke, life has been more challenging for my grandma and him. My grandma has her own physical ailments to deal with, and now she has to help my grandpa on top of it.

  This past March, a house went up for sale across the street from my parents’ house. It was a small, quaint house that probably hadn’t been redecorated in twenty years. My dad talked to my grandparents about it for a few weeks. He urged them to buy it and sell their house in Lansing, even though the Lansing house is twice as big as this one. Finally, they gave in. Without even seeing the house, they bought it and put their own house on the market. When my grandparents came to see the house for the first time, my grandma walked in and started to cry. My dad had to remind her why she had given up her beautiful house in Lansing. “Mom, you’re going to love it. We are right across the street, remember? You’re going to see your great-grandson every day.”

  After a few months of remodeling, the house is finally ready. Three Corrigan moving trucks arrived this morning. My parents go over to help out in the morning. Kai and I stay away until after his afternoon nap. When we get there, everyone looks tired.

  “Leen,” Grammy says in her thick Polish accent, which is hard for some people, like the guys from the moving company, to understand. When she talks to my mom, she calls her “Leen” instead of Lynn. It’s h
ard to know what she is saying at times. One time when we were all vacationing together, Grammy was walking around the cottage asking for “leetle seesars.” My mom kept asking her why she wanted Little Caesars when we had just eaten dinner. But she kept insisting, “I just need some leetle seesars!” My mom went over to the phone book, not wanting to disappoint her mother-in-law. “Okay, Mom, but if you’re hungry, why do you want pizza of all things? I can make you a sandwich right here.” My grandma looked at my mom like my mom was crazy. “Pizza? Sandwich? What? No! I need LEETLE SEESARS!” Finally, we realized she was saying “little scissors.” She needed to cut some thread. It was hilarious.

  “Leen, where are da box-says wid da bedding.” My mom tells my grandma that she already put them in the bedroom next to the master bed. “Tank God!” she says, clutching her heart. “I tought I lost dem and I need to make da bed for Grampy.” My mom tells her to sit down and relax and she’ll make the bed. Grammy walks over with her walker and sits next to Kai and me at the white dining room table. She grabs her Diet Coke and takes a long sip. Grammy only drinks Diet Coke out of one specific cup and she only drinks it through a straw with a lemon. After the Diet Coke, she puts her hand on her forehead.

  “How is the move going?” I ask her.

  She looks at me confused. “Movie? What movie?” This is the other thing about my grandma. She can’t hear anything. She refuses to get a hearing aid. My dad thinks she secretly likes not hearing everything.