The Achilles Heel (4 page)

“Please don’t let today happen,” I whispered and then turned my face into the pillow,
screaming as loud and as long as my breath would allow. This infantile display only
made my throat hurt and tears well up in my eyes, not helping me to feel any better.
I quickly came to the realization that nothing was going to make me feel better about
having a dead husband. For a moment, fury rose from my heart like fire imploding the
core of a hot air balloon, but the sensation passed as quickly as it came, and once
again, I only had enough energy for exhaustion and numbness. I turned back over and
closed my eyes, fully aware of my foulness but rejecting the thought of putting forth
any kind of effort to rectify it. This was a preview of what I had in store for myself
over the next few months: carelessness for myself, carelessness for others and quite
frankly, for life in general.

***

Shooting up in bed, I heard myself make a loud gasping sound like someone had just
punched me the throat, knocking the wind out of me. The moment you wake from an intense
dream and can’t seem to distinguish fact from fiction easily muddles the next few
minutes, leaving you in an almost alcohol induced haze.

Did I dream it? Is he gone?
I thought, as it took some effort to begin breathing normally again. Without fail,
truth came washing over me, along with a real-life movie trailer of the last twenty-four
hours. After composing myself, I pressed the button on the clock to light up the time:
7:35 p.m.

Jesus, I slept all day.

I attempted to roll out of bed, but couldn’t move my legs. The physical discomfort
of becoming a widow rushed over me; the pain of a broken heart is sharp as a surgeon’s
scalpel.

Why does my body hurt?

I had to physically pick up each leg to swing them over the side of the bed and onto
the floor. Holding on to the wall and slowly sliding my body down until lowered on
hands and knees, my only choice was crawling if I was going to make it to the bathroom.
I turned on the shower and took inventory of myself in a hand mirror stashed in the
vanity bottom drawer as the ice cold water filled around my lower half. My reflection
was grotesque‌—‌the loser end of a bar fight. Where my eyes should have been were
black, puffy circles that hindered my vision and reminded me of over-ripe plums. The
sides of my face were stiff, like small curtain rods had been stuffed inside my cheeks.
My bottom lip was swollen and covered in crusty, dried blood, which was also smeared
throughout the inside of my mouth causing my teeth to resemble the type of baked beans
commonly served at a backyard barbeque. I didn’t care, I wasn’t even shocked; I felt
nothing.

Liz must have heard the water running, and she came upstairs to check on me.

“Annie, I’m so glad you’re up,” she said with careful fraction. “Can I help you with
anything, honey? Ann?”

When she pulled back the shower curtain, even though I didn’t look her in the eye,
her pity screamed at me. I heard it in her silence and felt it in her stillness. Like
only a mom can, she fought back her tears and got to work. I sat in the fetal position
against the side of the tub with cold water from the shower running on me. She adjusted
the water temperature, filled up the tub, and gently washed me from head to toe; insert
humiliation. Then, she walked me into the bedroom where a fresh set of pajamas were
laid out. I submitted to her nurturing like a child, allowing her to comb my wet hair,
dabbing at the ends with a towel until the beads of water finally stopped dripping.

I turned my face towards her. “Thank you,” I whispered. She replied with a wink.

“Can I go back to sleep now?” I asked.

“Of course, and don’t worry about Janet and Tito. I picked them up yesterday morning.
They’re having a great time here,” she assured me.

“Okay,” was all I said, and laid my head down on the pillow.

What I was thinking was a lot more than just okay.

I’m a deadbeat mother. How could I not even think about needing to take care of our
dogs? Liz said, “Yesterday morning,” so that means I could have left the dachshunds
in a kennel for basically two days and not even noticed. I’m a horrifying person who
can’t seem to keep things I’m responsible for alive; a baby inside of me for more
than ten weeks‌—‌twice, a husband from dying, and next up apparently are my dogs.

“What the fuck am I here for?” I asked aloud to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” I started again, and this time I was speaking directly to someone. “What the
fuck? What the fuck is this? Do you hate me or something? Have I wronged you in some
way? Tell me! Give me a goddamn answer!” I growled. I waited through heart-pounding,
heavy breathing for a reply but heard only silence. “Well, fuck you, too,” I whispered,
and then rolled over and went back to sleep.

ANNIE

I
opened my eyes to the broken and scattered beams of sunlight shining in through the
windows, and it took a while to adjust to the brightness, since I’d been asleep for
two and a half days. Even though my mouth was beyond dry, a thick coating of saliva
reminiscent of rotting fish had taken up residence, so I dragged my repugnant self
into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teeth seven times.
It was time to face this new life.

“Here I go,” I said aloud and walked downstairs.

Jamie and Liz sat on barstools at the granite island drinking coffee. The roman shades
were open, everything was put away in its place, and the immaculate kitchen smelled
of a recent cleaning. This is one of the differences between Elizabeth and me. When
life gets tough, I curl up into a ball and cover my eyes; Liz gets busy making things
right in the world, and has probably been like this her entire life. I used to be
a strong woman, something Jack loved about me, but after the first miscarriage that
part of me died along with the baby.

I walked up to my brother-in-law and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me too,” he replied.

The Jackson’s, as Jack and I referred to them, came running up to me barking, jumping
and peeing all over theirselves in delight. Jack always loved Michael Jackson’s music
and thought it would be hilarious if we named our dogs after his siblings. I chalked
it up to another stupid idea, but truth be told, people always laugh when you call
a wiener dog, Tito. The eighties weren’t my favorite genera of music, I’m a classic
rock girl, but the names seem to fit their personalities, so I didn’t make a stink
about it.

“Hey, guys, I missed you!” I told them as they started running in circles around the
island, which turned into chasing, which then turned into Janet attacking Tito. This
is their usual progression with any excitement that might occur in their wiener dog
world.

“The kids are coming home today!” Liz said, with excitement in her voice.

“They’ll be a breath of fresh air for me,” I replied.

“Me too,” Jamie chimed in.

Putting my hand on his shoulder, I said, “I’m sorry I’ve been asleep for so long.
I didn’t mean for you to be alone in this, and I’m ready to help in any way possible.”

“It’s okay, Annie. Jack would have wanted me to take care of you, and that’s the least
I can do for him. Actually, Jack had every detail taken care of for
us
,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked feeling stupid, because I should’ve known what our plan
was if something like this were to happen. Isn’t this common knowledge to every wife?

“All you have to do is call Gail Adams, your insurance agent, and she will set the
plan of action into motion,” Jamie said.

“Is it normal for an insurance agent to be a part of planning a funeral?” I asked.

“I’m sure Jack just didn’t want to burden you in any way. Don’t think too much about
the details and just stick to his plan laid out for us. Everything will turn out all
right,” Jamie assured me.

“I would have liked to be involved in that big of a decision,” I admitted. “I’ll call
her today,” I said, feeling annoyed but also ashamed that the last two days had slipped
by me. “Does that mean he planned his own funeral? I guess I’m just a little confused,”
I confessed.

“Jack already picked out and paid for everything. We just need to set the funeral
date and notify anyone we think might want to attend,” he said. “I sent out a mass
email letter yesterday and already have several responses; a lot of people want to
be there for us,” he added.

Did Jack think I couldn’t handle any of this? Why didn’t he talk to me and let us
figure it out together?
I thought, but at this point it didn’t matter; it was done and quite frankly, it’s
obvious I could
not
handle it; I’ve missed the last two days of my life.

“Wait, what about his body? Is there a body?” I asked as I felt the vomit in my throat
and the weight in my legs; picturing his mangled and burnt out black Range Rover hugging
a tree on the side of the highway. I only allowed a flash of the image before forcing
my eyes to immediately focus on the first thing I saw. I slumped onto one of the barstools.

“I spoke with Officer Grady this morning, and he said it’s not good. There’s nothing
left, Annie,” Jamie said in a slow and monotone voice as he stared down at the floor
in a zombie like trance.

I already knew Jack’s body was turned to ash, but hearing it verbally confirmed was
a crushing blow and still something I couldn’t actually get my head around.

Now we were both staring at the same spot on the floor.

“After you talk to your agent, I assume we will have the information we need to finalize
funeral plans,” he whispered as I softly cried.

“I’ll call her now and get it over with,” I said, while letting out a long sigh to
stop the flow of tears.

I found my purse on the counter and began digging through it when Liz said, “It’s
over here. Your phone was out of juice, so I charged it up for you.”

I forced a grateful smile, gently patted her cheek and asked, “What would I do without
you?”

She took my hand, looked right into my eyes and very sternly said, “Anything you need,
anytime you need it, Andrea, I’ll be here to help you.”

I froze, crippled with emotion. My whole life I’ve gone by Annie, even my parents
used that nickname for me before I came home from the hospital. No one has ever called
me Andrea except Jack. It was something special between us no one else shared, only
us. I know she meant well, but to hear my formal name come from her lips was like
hearing a crack in the galaxy, and I couldn’t help feeling like she had just ruined
a special memory for me; realizing now that Jack wasn’t the last person to call me
Andrea.

I turned on my phone and
Jesus Christ,
thirty-seven messages and twenty-two texts. I didn’t even want to check my email;
that was for another day. I scrolled through my contact list and found Gail Adams’
phone number.

“This sucks!” I whispered in anger, opening the back door and walking out into the
yard to smoke.

“Adams Agency, this is Cindy speaking, how may I help you?” chirped an overly blissful
voice.

“Andrea Whitman calling for Gail Adams,” I mumbled.

“Thank you, transferring, please hold,” she replied, exuding friendliness.

How can my life be this fucked up and yet everyone else’s just keeps on going without
a scratch? Doesn’t she know that the future I expected to have with my husband ceases
to ever exist? Why is she so pleasant?

I’m not sure why I expected the first person I spoke with to be just as miserable
as me, but I did. Instead, I got Cindy, the next Miss America, who loves sunshine
and kittens.

“Mrs. Whitman, Gail Adams. How are you holding up, honey?” she asked.

“I’ve been better. My husband Jack Whitman has passed away, and I’d like to meet with
you to discuss the details of his estate,” I said, trying not to sound like a wife
with no fucking clue.

Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead. How many times am I going to have to say Jack’s
dead? Is there a point where it just becomes two words with less meaning, or is it
always going to hurt this bad?

“Yes, I was expecting your call, and I’m so very sorry for your loss. I spoke with
your brother-in-law, Jamie, and have all the paperwork ready for you to sign,” she
said. “Can you meet me at my office around three o’clock today?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” I replied.

“Do you know where my office is located?” she asked.

No, I don’t know where your fucking office is located! Actually, there’s a lot I don’t
know! For starters, I don’t know where my husband has chosen to spend eternity or
if he has a spot for me next to him. Maybe it was two for one day down at the funeral
home, and he couldn’t pass up a good deal. I also know nothing about the funeral he
has planned for himself and can’t wait to see how that unfolds. It’s like one of those
huge boxes you get as a kid on your birthday. You think it’s going to be this amazing
present, but really its several wrapped boxes, one inside the other. It takes you
a half hour to unwrap all these packages, only to realize at the end, some asshole
has a fucked up sense of humor, and all you got was some fake, gold studs. Well happy
birthday, Annie! Here’s your box!

Was what I really wanted to say.

“I can find it,” was what I actually said.

KESSLER

T
hat evening I woke up all stretched out with a smile on my face. I hadn’t slept in
my own bed for almost five months, and my God, there’s nothing like a king size, pillow-top
mattress. After trading sleep between hotels and a tour bus bunk bed (which just seems
wrong at forty-three years-old) today was the best sleep I’d had since the tour started.
I let out a ferocious yawn, cracked my toes and slowly made my way to the bathroom.
While in the shower, my appreciation for how freeing unlimited space and time felt
grew enormously. Sometimes on the bus, stress over-powered my mind and I couldn’t
pinpoint exactly why. Now, standing in my colossal shower which could accommodate
five people, I’d figured it out. My smile crept all the way to my ears when I thought
about the infinite space of driving my boat to the middle of the ocean and throwing
out the anchor for a few days; freedom was so close.