A Widow's Awakening

by Maryanne Pope

  As I’m climbing into bed, it occurs to me that, except for my neighbour’s call, the phone didn’t ring today. My phone always rings.

  THE NEXT morning, I tackle Sam’s death scrapbook. I sort through the newspaper articles and letters to the editor then organize emails of condolence sent from police services all across Canada and the States, letters from politicians, the eulogies read at Sam’s funeral, the memorial pamphlet, and a few special cards and poems.

  I hate doing this. Will anyone else give a shit? Or is this little sojourn into the past solely for my benefit?

  And why is the stupid phone still not ringing?

  In the living room, I face the next excruciating task. Kneeling in front of the chair by the fireplace, I reread the poem that’s on the framed picture of Sam, given me by his recruit class: Down these mean streets the police must travel, and yet themselves not be mean, nor tarnished, nor afraid.

  “Were you becoming tarnished?” I ask the picture.

  I know the answer. The man who died on September 29th wasn’t the same person I fell in love with eleven and a half years earlier. At the end of his life, Sam was tougher, jaded and disillusioned about his ability to make a difference as a police officer. He had begun to tarnish. But so had I. Maybe that’s what happens with soul mates: when one side of the coin loses its shine, so too does the other.

  “As for you being mean to me at times,” I admit to the fireplace, “tough love was the best gift you ever gave me.”

  As for being afraid, clearly he hadn’t been. But would fear have saved his life?

  I gently touch the dried leaves of the olive branch resting in front of the picture. “You…were…my…hero,” I sob.

  Sasha snuggles up and licks my face. I hug her, and we sit quietly on the floor together. Then I look to the blue picture again. Fear might have saved Sam’s life—but what kind of existence is living in fear?

  I wrap the olive branch in tissue paper and carefully place it in a box. Then I take the box, pictures and plaques from the fireplace downstairs to my office, where I set up an achievement corner for Sam.

  Tonight, I dream of him again. I’m sitting at a table, selling magazines to cops when I glance up and see him standing in front of me. He’s in uniform, looking very sexy, and his head is tilted down as he talks into the radio to someone at the police association—the union to which the officers belong.

  “Hi!” I call out, excited to see him again.

  But he just winks at me, smiles and says, “Get back to work, ya slacker.”

  The dream’s potential meanings don’t hit me until I’m at the dog park later in the day: 1) I need to focus on my writing; enough time spent on his scrapbooks, and 2) Sam is still working. Perhaps he’d got his promotion to the Priority Crimes Unit after all…in a metaphysical kind of way? He’d wanted to work U/C—well, dead is about as undercover as a guy can get.

  So instead of running errands that can easily wait until tomorrow, I drive straight home, turn on my computer and get back to working on my manuscript.

  Two hours in, an unfamiliar female voice begins leaving a message on the answering machine: “This is the chief’s office calling and…”

  I pick up the phone. The woman tells me that the new police chief would like to talk to me.

  I hang up and sing to the wall, “I get to go out with the big cheese!”

  “Oh Sam,” I reassure the nearest photograph, “of course, I’ll behave myself.”

  WHEN I meet the chief for breakfast the following week, he asks how I’m doing.

  “Not bad,” I reply. “I’m getting there, thanks.”

  Good thing he doesn’t ask me to clarify where, exactly.

  “You seem strong,” he says, “but we’re here for you if you need us.”

  I nod, cutting into my sunny-side up egg. “I have a comment for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m concerned about the impact the job has on officers and their families.”

  He looks surprised. “Well, it’s not an easy career. It takes a pretty special person to be an officer.”

  “I realize that. But Sam had changed an awful lot in four years.”

  “That’s fairly normal, Adri. Police officers see a great deal of sadness very soon into their careers. They have to develop a ‘crust’ of sorts, so they can do their job.”

  “But isn’t there a danger in that crust becoming too hard?”

  He nods. “There is. But if an officer were to internalize all the pain, violence and hurt that he or she came across in a shift, they wouldn’t last very long.”

  “It’s finding a balance that’s the trick, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  The chief tilts his head. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you finding a balance?”

  I stir my coffee. “Between…”

  He leans in. “Remembering Sam and moving forward with your own life.”

  As I spread raspberry jam on my fourth piece of toast, I consider mentioning that, strange as it must sound, I dare say I observed said struggle for balance in the form of a drunk driver trying to park his red car during a snowstorm in Toronto. The indecision over whether or not to take his knapsack with him symbolizes my challenge of continuing Sam’s dream while honouring my own. I also suspect that Sam, dead for two and a half months by that point, still managed to pee in the toilet earlier in the evening just to make sure I was paying attention. Then he set off a car alarm to ensure I was at the window to observe the aforementioned struggle.

  “Adri?”

  I smile at the chief. “It’s pretty back and forth.”

  I ASK Tom for coffee the next afternoon.

  “It’s hard to know all the right decisions to make,” I say.

  “How so?”

  “Well, since Sam died, I have so many choices. I can do what I want, live where I want and be whoever I want.”

  He thinks about this. “I bet choosing your new life is kinda like being in a car lot. You just have to keep opening different vehicle doors until you find the right one.”

  I nod and take a sip of hot chocolate. “How long have you been a cop?”

  “Twenty-one years.”

  “You don’t seem jaded or bitter to me.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But why is that?”

  “Well, here we are sitting in this coffee shop, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But nothing bad is happening. The store across the way isn’t getting robbed, neither is the bar next door. You don’t see police cars going down the street with lights and sirens at the moment. Sure, bad stuff happens out there—but it’s not the norm.”

  “But you see way more crap than the rest of us.”

  “True. I just remind myself that although I deal with bad people on a daily basis, there are still far more good people in the world.”

  “Sam,” I say, “was beginning to lose that perspective.”

  “That is totally normal, Adri. He only had four years on the job…he would’ve come around again.”

  “I HAVE a favour to ask of you,” says a friend of mine, who volunteers at the off-leash park, when I see her at the park the next morning. She nods toward the dog beside her.

  I look down. Staring up at me is the fuzzy black face of a fatter, fluffier version of Sasha.

  “I’m just temporarily looking after her,” she explains, “but she needs a home with a lot of love.”

  Maybe Sasha would like a buddy to hang out with. God knows that’s what I want more than anything else…my dog may as well be happy. I tell her I’ll think about it while I’m out of town, as I’m heading to BC tomorrow for my post-farewell tour.

  IN VICTORIA, Cassie, her daughter and I hit the usual haunts; the teashop, chocolate store, Italian restaurant and favourite bookstore, where I pick up Jane Goodall’s A Reason for Hope and The Sacred Balance by David Suzuki. The latter catches my eye with
its earth, wind, fire and water theme; the former because if I can find hope for the future, so can the planet.

  “You’ve got a bit of an environmental theme going on there,” Cassie remarks when we’re on the street again.

  “Well, there are some very serious problems that need to be addressed.”

  “Oh, I agree,” she says. “It’s just that the big issues like climate change seem so overwhelming that I think a lot of people have given up trying to solve them.”

  I glance at her daughter in the stroller. “That’s a pretty scary attitude.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think it’s also a lack of awareness,” I ask, “or just plain apathy?”

  “A bit of both,” Cassie replies, zipping up her daughter’s jacket. “But I bet most people feel that changing their actions won’t make a difference, so why bother?”

  “That stinks!” says the small voice from the stroller.

  “What does?” I ask.

  “That car,” says the little girl, pointing to the vehicle beside us. “The farting one.”

  Though a warm day, the parked car she’s referring to has been left idling.

  “You’re right,” I say. “That does stink.”

  AFTER VICTORIA, the three of us head to Vancouver to spend an evening with Stan, Megan and their new baby son. The girls go into a hot tub but since I don’t have my swimsuit with me, I go in with just my bra and panties on. Stan ends up joining us, but I don’t want him seeing me in my wet underwear, so I figure I’ll stay in the tub until he leaves. But he doesn’t get out, so I stay in the hot water for over an hour, drinking a beer yet. When I do finally emerge, I’m downright woozy.

  “You better lie down,” suggests Cassie.

  “Or are you supposed to stay upright?” Megan asks.

  I can’t remember either so, like a homing pigeon, I wander toward the kitchen. Cassie follows close behind. Then, it’s as if someone changes the channel on me. One moment I’m standing in the kitchen and the next, I’m sitting on the verandah of a house in the country, looking out into a yard where there’s a big tree with an old-fashioned wooden swing and children are laughing and playing.

  “I think I’m gonna need some help in here!”

  I open my eyes to see who’s hollering, which is when I realize that I’m flat on my back on the ceramic tile floor. Cassie is behind me, her hands cupped under my head.

  “Why are you yelling?” I ask.

  “You passed out! I caught your head before it hit the ground. You scared the crap outta me.”

  Stan and Megan come running in.

  “Adri!” cries Stan, arms waving. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  “Just thought I’d have a little rest!” I snap, struggling to sit up.

  “You better stay still a minute,” says Megan.

  “Yeah well, I’d love to but unfortunately I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Three puzzled expressions watch me as I stumble toward the nearest toilet and slam the door behind me. Two minutes later, I hear a knock and Cassie asks how I’m doing.

  “Not very good.”

  “Do you want me to come in?”

  “Uh huh.”

  The door opens, and she finds me on the throne, underwear around my ankles.

  “Oh man,” I hear from the hallway. “Somethin’ musta died in there.”

  “Stanley!” Megan hisses.

  “I can’t help it!” I cry, lifting my head, which is when I catch sight of my whiteish-gray face in the mirror.

  “Oh my God!” I howl. “I’m gonna die on the toilet!”

  In rush Stan and Megan.

  “You’re not going to die,” Stan reassures me.

  “Yes, I am!” I cry then faint into Cassie’s arms.

  As I’m coming to, I hear mention of 911 being called.

  “No, no, no. I’m OK,” I mumble then lose consciousness again.

  “Hang in there,” Megan says, “the ambulance is on the way.”

  Minutes later, two paramedics appear in the bathroom doorway. I give them the wave, not a shred of ego left. The male medic asks me if I’ve been drinking.

  “I had a beer in the hot tub.”

  “How long were you in there?”

  “An hour.”

  He shakes his head and takes hold of my wrist as I faint again.

  “That’s strange,” I hear him say. “I can’t find her pulse.”

  I open my eyes and look at him. I am dying.

  He smiles. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Some people just can’t handle hot tubs.”

  Sure enough, he finds my pulse and then I’m relocated to another room, where the female medic places an oxygen mask on me for good measure.

  “I’m a bit of a mess,” I explain, “because my husband died.”

  “When?”

  “September 29th.”

  “That’s not even…” She glances at her watch. “Seven months ago.”

  “IT’S RATHER ironic,” I say to Cassie in the car the next day, “because for so long, I couldn’t wait to die. But then yesterday I realized I don’t want to go yet.”

  “Good!”

  “And sure as heck not on the toilet of all places.”

  She smiles. “Your performance reminded me of the pub-crawl sprawl.”

  “Hah hah.”

  “What’s the pub-crawl sprawl?” pipes the little voice from the backseat.

  Cassie glances in the rear-view mirror. “Auntie Adri once showed some boys her bare bum by mistake.”

  All three of us laugh.

  “This is totally embarrassing,” I say, “but you know when I was in the bathroom yesterday and Stan said that something musta died in there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think something did die.”

  She glances over at me. “As in…?”

  “My ego.”

  In response to this, one eyebrow goes up.

  “Mommy?”

  Cassie looks in the rearview mirror. “Yes?”

  “When’s the Easter Bunny coming?”

  “Well,” replies Cassie, “tomorrow is Good Friday, so three more sleeps.”

  “What’s Good Friday?” the girl asks.

  Cassie looks to me. “Care to field that one?”

  I turn to face the back seat. “That’s the day Jesus died so that we could live. I mean, really live…you know, freely.”

  The little girl nods her head. “Like a butterfly.”

  ON GOOD Friday, I’m home again, curled up in my big blue chair reading the Jane Goodall book. I come to the part where, six months after her husband’s death, Goodall realized that she knew it was time for him to move on and did not try to call him back.

  Clunk goes the coin. I drop the book into my lap.

  “I have to let you go too, don’t I?” I ask the living room.

  I know the answer even though I don’t like it.

  “Sam,” I whisper, “I let your spirit go.”

  Then I go upstairs, take two pills and crawl into bed. Sasha climbs up beside me but snaps angrily at Sven when she tries to jump up. With a sigh of resignation, Sven flops on the floor and we all fall asleep.

  NOT LIKING one bit the prospect of having released Sam’s spirit without a replacement lined up, I phone Tom Saturday morning and ask him to come by.

  Slight hesitation, then: “I’m working. But I can swing by, sure.”

  An hour later he’s at my door. Now two dogs bark ferociously.

  “Where did you find Sasha’s clone?” he asks.

  “The dog park.”

  Tom sits on the couch; I take the blue chair.

  “I have something to tell you,” I say.

  “OK.”

  “I like you… I mean, as more than a friend.”

  His eyes widen but he smiles slightly. “Uh well, um, gee, Adri, I had no idea.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “You do know I have a girlfriend?”

  “I know. But I don’t th
ink it’s serious.”

  “Well I think it is.”

  “Oh, I realize that,” I say, reaching for my coffee cup. “I’m just telling you how I feel because I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks…I think.”

  “Is there any chance we might end up together in the future?”

  He puts his coffee cup on the earth coaster. “I don’t know what the future holds.”

  “I think it holds what you want it to hold, Tom.”

  “Perhaps,” he says. “But timing is everything. Do you know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “That you loved Sam so much that now you’re looking for someone to give all that love to.”

  “Is that wrong?”

  He smiles gently. “No. But I just wonder if…well, I don’t want to hurt you but maybe you need to learn how to love yourself again first.”

  I recognize the two-by-four of truth as it meets my forehead.

  ON APRIL 29th, the seven-month anniversary of Sam’s death arrives and along with it, Matt—Sam’s former partner—on my front door step. He holds out to me a beautiful bouquet of pink tulips.

  When the barking subsides, he points to Sasha’s cohort. “Who’s this?”

  “Sven. She needed a home. Cute, huh?”

  “Well yeah…but it’s kinda weird how perfectly she matches Sasha.”

  Over coffee, he asks me how my writing is going.

  “Slow. I’m finding it really difficult to stay focused because there’s always so much going on around here.”

  “Then go someplace else.”

  The phone rings and I let the answering machine pick up. I ask Matt if he knows the significance of today.

  He shakes his head. “No. I just thought you’d like flowers.”

  I tell him today is the seven-month anniversary. “I promised Sam I’d make it this far without him.”

  “What happens tomorrow?” he asks.