A Widow's Awakening

  I phone Jodie. “If one were biblically inclined, this might appear to be the beginning of the end.”

  “Adri?”

  “On a personal note,” I continue, “I certainly have some idea of the hell that lies ahead for a few thousand people.”

  “Are you…”

  “But the worst part is that everybody else will move on. Oh sure, people will be shocked for a little while but unless they’ve lost the person they love the most in the world, they’ll just roll over and go back to sleep, carrying on with their busy little lives while the broken-hearted get left behind, staring at the last towel her husband touched and then one day, she’ll go to take her birth control pill but soon realize how silly that is because someone else has made that decision rather fucking final for her. And then, she’ll start to hear how it’s best to accept her husband’s death as part of God’s plan but not to worry her pretty little head about actually trying to figure out said plan.”

  “Uh…”

  “And then,” I continue, “she’ll start to see her dead husband everywhere because he can’t really be gone, see, because he loved her more than she loved herself and that kind of love does not die.”

  “Oh boy,” says Jodie.

  “And I won’t be buying your SUV,” I finish, “because what’s probably behind these attacks is an absolute hatred of this very attitude.”

  “What attitude?”

  “The selfish, ignorant, irresponsible materialism of people such as myself. The World Trade Center of the world’s superpower is now a pile of burning rubble. I’d say that’s a rather direct attack on globalism and capitalism.”

  “They’re saying terrorists are responsible.”

  “Obviously. But terrorism is only a symptom of a far deeper problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “The inequitable distribution of wealth on the planet—speaking of which, thanks to you, I just managed to get thirty-two grand out of the market before it tanks.”

  Silence.

  “That’s the truth,” I say.

  “I just don’t understand what kind of monsters would do this…”

  “The same kind who probably hired the terrorists in the first place.”

  “Huh?”

  I ask her who would be the least likely to attack the World Trade Center.

  She thinks a moment. “The US government, I guess.”

  “Uh huh. And who’s behind Uncle Sam?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Who’s behind the scenes…pulling the strings in the political puppet show?”

  “I dunno.”

  “The wealthy!” I cry. “Big business. Multinationals.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “And yet we are.”

  “But why would the US government destroy their own symbol of power, never mind killing all the business people inside?”

  “Because it’s completely unbelievable, that’s why. I betcha if anyone ever has the balls to do a study on who didn’t go into work today, they’ll discover the really important people were conveniently otherwise engaged.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Nor will the American public, which is exactly why the plan is gonna work.”

  “But why kill all those innocent people?”

  “Because,” I say, “the best way to get the masses to support a government’s agenda is to give them an enemy—real or imagined—to fear. It works like a charm. Keep the bewildered herd bewildered and provide them with a bad guy to hate, so you can do whatever the fuck you want behind the scenes.”

  “Adri, where’s all this coming from?”

  “Read your history! What makes you think a government wouldn’t kill a couple thousand of their own if their underlying agenda justified doing so? Or maybe the tower wasn’t supposed to collapse. Maybe it’s a case of willful blindness where the powers that be knew of a likely attack but chose to ignore the warnings because it would give them a perfect reason to do what they were planning to do anyway. I don’t know! But this whole thing already reeks of conspiracy. It’ll be interesting to hear what Noam Chomsky has to say…”

  It is very quiet on the other end of the line.

  I continue my rant. “Just wait and see what the Republicans do in response to this—that’ll tell ya what they’re after…probably oil. Now if Al Gore was president, which he would be if it wasn’t for the Florida recount fiasco which was, gee, not at all suspicious, I betcha the future would unfold very differently.”

  “How so?”

  “Ya think issues like climate change, species loss, rainforest clear-cutting, water conservation, poverty, AIDS, hunger, overpopulation, healthcare and education are gonna get much attention now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well I do—and trust me, the Fundamentalist Christians running this popsicle stand don’t give a flying fuck about the average person, let alone the environment. The U.S. is being run by a buncha right-wing traditionalists who are just using religion to defend their backward-ass ultra-conservative beliefs that are so far removed from what God really is, it’s almost comical. But guess what?”

  “What?”

  I take a deep breath. “I think Jesus did come back but then turned around and left again because he was so goddamn disgusted by what he saw here.”

  Pause. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ya remember last fall when I thought I was the Second Coming of Christ?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “I thought we already determined that,” she says softly.

  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

  “Figured what out?”

  “It was Sam,” I say as the north tower collapses. “Sam was Jesus.”

  “DID YOU just say what I think you did?” asks Jodie.

  “Hang on,” I say, “my other line’s going. I gotta go.”

  “No! Don’t—”

  “I’ll call ya later.”

  I hang up and push call-waiting. It’s Tamara.

  “That’s what I saw,” she whispers.

  “Huh?”

  “In that church in Seville! The twisted metal and smoke…it was the World Trade Center collapsing.”

  “But how could you have seen that before it happened?”

  “You tell me,” she says.

  “I’ll go talk to Sam.”

  I load Sasha and Sven into the car, roar up to the cemetery and stomp over to Sam’s grave. The hole is filled in.

  “What the hell is going on?” I demand, hands on my hips.

  But Sam just keeps on smiling, holding tight to the brass pole of his white horse.

  “Are you still working?” I ask, shakily lighting a Colt’s. “Because this strikes me as rather high on the priority fucking crimes list.”

  If you’re working, I’m working.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I snap, then turn and stride back to the car.

  I drive the dogs to the off-leash park, where I ask a woman walking her poodle what she thinks of the attacks.

  “This,” she replies proudly, “will sure change air travel.”

  I give birdbrain the goldfish. Air travel? That’s what you’re taking from the fact that thousands of people went to work this morning and simply vanished? What about asking a few questions? Like why the attacks took place? How can so much hatred exist in the world? What state of mind must one be in to fly a plane into a building? Will tightened airport security be yet another Band-Aid solution placed on top of a gushing stab wound?

  Home again, I call Jodie back. “I guess we better finish our conversation.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “I know you think I’m crazy but here’s the scoop: I do suspect Sam was the Second Coming—but he wasn’t sent back to save humanity; he came to save me.”

  “Why you?”

  “Maybe I’m the poor sap who’s supposed to…I dunno, coordinate the cle
an-up of the goddamn mess we’ve made? I mean, I am getting paid his salary.”

  “That’s because he died on the job, Adri.”

  “I don’t blame you for not believing me,” I say. “But how many other thirty-three-year-olds do you know who receive their dead husband’s pay cheque?”

  “That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to save humanity. I think you’re putting an awful lot of unnecessary responsibility on your shoulders.”

  “Good. Because that’d be impossible anyway. I’m not Tinkerbell. I can’t wave my magic wand and make everything OK again. I’m just a writer…and not a particularly good one, either.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  I shrug. “It’s true. But let’s say I do improve, maybe I can help wake up the bewildered herd and get the stampede started? Then the masses can save their own damn asses, should they so choose. I mean, that’s what I had to do. Sam gave me everything he could in life and what he couldn’t, he gave to me in death. Then Tom stepped in and gave me hope for falling in love again, which came in rather handy when the suicide scene rolled around. But again, in the end, I had to save myself. That’s how saviours are supposed to work. Same with soul mates.”

  There is a pause. “Are you saying that both Sam and Tom are your soul mates?”

  “Yup.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m pretty sure the number of my soul mate is eleven—both their regimentals add up to that.”

  “Today’s the eleventh.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I realize that—which is probably why we’re having this conversation.”

  There is no response.

  I sigh. “Look…I think what I’m trying to get at here is that just as Sam, and then Tom, could only do so much to ‘save’ me from my own damn self, it’s the same thing with the planet: no one can save us but us…and we’re dangerously close to the suicide scene. And yet we insist on holding on to archaic belief systems that only serve to ensure we continue acting like children of a very shitty father simply because we don’t want to grow up and take responsibility for our own actions.”

  “Geez,” she says. “When you say it like that, it kinda makes sense.”

  “You’re a mother. Would you raise your kids to remain dependent on you?”

  “Of course not,” she says.

  “And would you tell them to kill each other when they don’t get along?”

  “No!”

  “How about telling them they can do whatever they want to the joint while you’re away and as long as they promise to love you, you’ll fix whatever mess they make when you come back?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well,” I say, “that’s Christianity in a nutshell for ya—and whether you’re a believer or not, the underlying assumption that Jesus is coming back to save us is so deeply ingrained in our Western psyche, we don’t even see it anymore. It’s the Saviour syndrome…believe me, I know all about it.”

  Jodie doesn’t say anything.

  “But it’s our war on the environment that’s the real apocalypse,” I continue. “We’re destroying the planet and yet we refuse to accept this, let alone address it. We have to stop exploiting the natural world and learn again how to work with it, which is exactly what people like Al Gore, David Suzuki, Jane Goodall and many others are doing. But I bet you today’s events will send us in the complete opposite direction.”

  “Maybe not.”

  I let out a snort. “I wish I had your faith. Remember how I mentioned last fall that a more female-oriented perspective was needed in the world?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I came up with my own little worldview this summer.”

  I tell Jodie the details, ending with the hose nozzle incident that confirmed the soul/water connection. When I finish, there isn’t a peep on the other end of the line.

  “And in light of what’s happened today,” I finish, “I guess all that must sound childish and silly. But I just thought it might be a useful tool for us to help understand that much of what is going on around us is also going on in us.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she says, finally. “Are you saying that when there’s a…hurricane, for example, that could be an indication that our thoughts are out of control?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or when a tsunami hits,” she suggests, “that’s an indication that our souls are in trouble?”

  “It’s possible,” I say.

  Jodie lets out a snort. “Well, that also might explain why you drink so much damn water all the time. Maybe your intense thirst is your soul trying to tell you something?”

  Clunk goes the coin.

  “So then when forest fires are burning out of control,” she continues, “that could be a reflection of our hearts being out of whack?”

  “Yeah. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying the natural, physical reasons for environmental changes don’t exist. Of course, they do. I’m just saying that since the natural world is in such rough shape, that’s probably partly because we—as the supposedly dominant species—are, too.”

  Jodie sighs. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I kinda like it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Except that it’s a pretty fragmented way to look at things.”

  “I agree,” I say. “But maybe that’s a necessary step before we can become whole again…kinda like the way the medical staff perceived Sam’s body after his brain-death. Because of his organ donation, he was viewed as a collection of body parts instead of a human whole—which is understandable since he was on his way out anyway. But my point is that we’re treating the earth the same way: as a collection of natural resources to be exploited versus an interconnected whole.”

  “You’re right.”

  “You know what else?” I say.

  “What?”

  I take a deep breath. “It actually makes sense to me now why Sam was taken out of the game. I think he accomplished what he was here to do and now it’s my turn.”

  There is a pause. “Adri, are you saying that Sam really was Jesus but now that he’s gone, you’re taking on that role?”

  “No. I’m saying that Sam did his job in getting me on track to become a writer. And his on-duty death gave me the financial means to write. The role I am taking on is that of storyteller, not Saviour. But if I do my job well—and tell the stories I am here to tell—then who knows what could come of that?”

  “OK,” she says. “But for what it’s worth, I still don’t think the US government could be behind today’s attacks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they wouldn’t treat their own people like that.”

  “May I ask why that possibility is so hard for you to accept?”

  “Because if I did,” she replies, “then I’d have to lose faith in democracy itself.”

  “Sometimes losing one’s faith is the best thing that can happen. I mean, nothing real is ever lost, right?”

  No response.

  “Look,” I say, “Let’s just see what the next few years bring—that’ll show us what the Republicans really think of the average American.”

  I hear a beep on my phone, indicating another call. “I better go,” I tell Jodie.

  I hang up and push call-waiting. It’s Katrina.

  THREE DAYS before the one-year anniversary of Sam’s death, I print off a fatter version of my ugly baby and take the meandering mess of a manuscript with me to the ceremony at Sam’s church where I meet up with Jodie.

  “I know it’s wretched,” I say, handing it to her, “but I also know you’re the one person on the planet who will still encourage me.”

  “Ya gotta start somewhere,” she says and gives me a big hug. “I’m really sorry I can’t go to New York with you now. We just don’t feel it would be wise.”

  I nod. “I totally understand.”

  “Adri?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve bee
n thinking a lot about the conversation we had on September 11th.”

  “And?”

  She clears her throat. “And, umm…well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I wonder if watching that tragedy unfold on TV was a sort of post-traumatic…trigger for you? Maybe seeing all those horrific images brought your own hurt to the surface again?”

  I nod my head slowly. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

  She looks at the ground a moment, upset, then back at me. “Especially since there were so many police officers, firefighters and other first responders killed.”

  ON SEPTEMBER 30th, Sam’s family, Ed and I have front row seats at the national memorial service for fallen officers at the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa. I’ve tried to mentally prepare myself for today. Tom will be carrying a police hat, representing Sam, on a pillow. There will be thousands of officers from across North America. The media will be filming family members of officers who have passed away in the line of duty during the past year. There will be speeches. There always are.

  What I’ve forgotten to factor in, however, is that although I’ve survived a year of widowhood, I am nowhere near healed. It isn’t pride, respect and honour I feel as the pipe band marches by; it’s anger. Boom, boom, boom goes the drum and I’m back at Sam’s funeral watching the pallbearers climb the church steps, struggling beneath the weight of his casket. Who did take more than a fucking date square from his funeral? Has any positive change come from his death? Are workplaces any safer?

  Or is it me who is now carrying Sam’s casket?

  Boom. I open my eyes and see Tom, holding the pillow and hat, fighting back tears. I feel so guilty for wanting a relationship with him, but God knows I’ve tried to love a soul or a spirit or a memory or a light or whatever it is that Sam has become, instead of a husband.

  Boom. I am in the future. Who will be sitting in my seat next year?

  The speeches reflect the usual rhetoric: God’s plan, greener pastures, fallen heroes and societal gratitude. Cause and effect, anyone?

  Then the bagpipes play “Amazing Grace.” I hang my head and cry; can a wretch like me be saved?

  AFTER THE ceremony, Ed and I go to the cemetery where our grandma—our mom’s mom—is buried.