A Widow Redefined (7 page)

“That’s how we became friends,” she blurted out. “Justin was here so often… well, we talked a lot.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and raised an eyebrow.

“We talked about a lot of things,” she continued, then, after a long pause, added, “but most of the time I listened to him talk about you.”

My jaw almost dropped. “He talked about me?”

“Yes,” she replied, obviously happy with the effect her words had on me.

“Wow. That must’ve been really boring.”

“No. Not at all. I actually found it fascinating.”

There’s no way she could’ve found it fascinating to hear about the wife of someone she was so obviously interested in. I decided she must be insulting me in a polite way, like how British people tell each other off—no swear words, just a condescending tone.

“I can’t possibly imagine what would be fascinating to hear about me.”

Sabrina gave me a confused expression. She looked like she was gathering her thoughts. “I guess it wasn’t the details of what he said. It was more the way he lit up when he told the stories.”

My heart skipped.

“Like how you two first met in high school, or how you planned the best wedding for less than five thousand dollars.” Sabrina paused, then added, “Or how happy he was when he discovered you were pregnant.”

Oh my God. Justin
was
a talker. I’d imagine if the client kept hanging around all the time, he’d eventually hit every topic.

I was mortified.

“Did you ever talk about anything else? Like maybe your life, for example? I mean, I’m sure that came up.”

Sabrina gave it some thought, then said, “Yes. I told him what I did for a living and that I travelled for work.” She laughed then added, “He said it seemed like I was from another world.”

It was true. She was someone from another world. The kind of person you read about but don’t actually know in real life.

“I mentioned the trips to Paris, and he asked me all about it. That’s when he said he hoped to take you there.”

It made me feel so good when she said that, but I didn’t let it show on my face. I was still fishing for information.

“Did you ever mention your honeymoon? Or the divorce?”

I wondered for a moment if I was being rude, but then I remembered this woman was the person who left flowers on my husband’s grave. I had a right to be nosy.

“I did,” she replied. “In fact, his response was I just hadn’t met the right man yet. And not to worry, it would happen.”

I could see it in her eyes then–that she’d wished Justin were that man. And who could blame her? He was the best…

“Excuse me,” she said. “I need to use the restroom.”

While she was gone I looked around and noticed a book on the coffee table. It was an art book containing the works of John William Waterhouse. After picking it up and flipping through it, I realized these were the paintings on the walls. Then I checked my watch. I needed to get going soon. Just then, Sabrina returned.

“I see you found one of my favorite books,” she said.

“Yeah. I noticed it had the paintings from the walls.”

She let out a laugh. “I wish these were the paintings. They’re replicas.”

“Oh—they look like the real thing,” I said, embarrassed by my stupidity.

“Thanks,” she replied. “The real ones, well, the majority of them, at least, are in the hands of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

“The man who composed The Phantom of the Opera?”

“Exactly. And almost every other successful musical I can think of.”

“I guess that’s the career to have—if I’d only known,” I joked.

In that moment we giggled with each other like we were old friends, but we definitely were not.

I glanced at my watch again. “I have to get going soon and pick up my son,” I said. “It was nice to see you.”

I got up and set the book back on top the coffee table. Sabrina stepped forward, picked it back up, and handed it to me.

“Why don’t you take this with you,” she suggested. “You can return it next time.”

I accepted her book. And I knew that by doing so, that I would visit Sabrina again.

It was madness.

D
riving back home, I listened to classical music, something I never do, while I thought about our conversation. I had gotten information I was looking for, and a whole lot I hadn’t expected. It was as if I’d opened Pandora’s Box.

I wasn’t sure what to make of it all or how I felt. I was momentarily distracted from these thoughts the moment I walked in the front door and smelled pizza, the good kind—delivery. My mom must’ve had a very relaxing day.

“Hey Mom, how’s it going?”

“It’s good,” she said. “I didn’t feel like cooking so I picked up pizza for dinner.”

“Yeah, it smells delicious.” There was nothing like Chicago pizza. I set the table and poured each of us a glass of water.

Tyler came into the kitchen. “Hey Mom,” he said. “We’re eating vegetarian tonight. It’s healthy.”

Mom and I eyed each other. Neither of us wanted to be the one to tell him.

“Well, honey, it’s not technically considered a health food even though it’s vegetarian.”

For a moment Tyler looked upset. Then he asked, “What is eating healthy, then?”

“One way,” I suggested, laughing inwardly at my own genius, “is to eat a lot of vegetables and hardly any candy, cookies, or ice cream.”

I got him now.

Tyler kept quiet while chewing his food. When he’d finished, he took a large gulp of water, wiped his mouth with his napkin and announced, “I don’t think I’ll have dessert tonight.”

“Me neither,” I agreed. I wanted him to know I was on his side, that we were in this together.

Mom looked at both of us, clearly outnumbered. I could tell she was growing tired of this.

An hour after dinner Tyler appeared in the family room with his jump rope. He was right on time, like clockwork. That was our cue to get ours and begin working out.

“Mom, you already went to the gym today. Grandma and I could do our routine alone if you want?”

I wanted nothing more than to collapse on the sofa and watch mindless television, but I felt guilty, so I went and put my gym shoes back on and joined them. Afterward, I was exhausted. And my poor mom looked haggard. So much for her supposed relaxing day.

When Tyler left the room to get ready for bed, Mom spoke up. “Jesus! I thought I was going to have a heart attack!” she complained.

“You don’t have to do all the reps. Just take it slow.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll remember that for next time. I’m going to hit the sack, honey. I’m pooped.”

“Good night,” I said.

Before Tyler went to bed, I checked in on him.

“Brush your teeth?”

“Yep.”

“Get all your homework done?”

“Yep.”

I grinned at him, “I think we’re going to save some money not buying all those desserty items.”

He looked serious. “I’m glad,” he replied. “Because I don’t plan to eat them anymore.”

He meant it, too. Once he set his mind to something, it was done. I was thankful he’d only decided to focus on positive things so far. I’d hate to have to fight that passion in the opposite direction.

After leaving Tyler I went to my bedroom. I began rummaging through the closet to find something to wear to work the next day. Then I noticed the gym bag lying on the floor.

Sabrina’s book.

After getting ready for bed, I got the John Waterhouse book out and lay down. As I thumbed through the pages, I saw a brief description next to each photo.

The first one I recognized from the wall at Sabrina’s house. It was of a woman—a tortured-looking soul—sitting in a boat. It was called “The Lady of Shallot.” The side note said the painting was inspired by a poem written by Lord Tennyson. I stared for a long time into the woman’s eyes, then read the caption. It described a lady who lived in a castle surrounded by a river. She had been cursed and couldn’t look out at the outside world. She could only see people reflected in a mirror. When a man named Lancelot passed by, she chanced a look at him, leaving her tower. She climbed in a boat and floated down the river, hoping to find him, but died before she could.

Wow. How depressing.

I glanced at the picture again. The woman was beautiful, haunting. This particular painting wasn’t in the hands of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber; it was at the Tate Gallery in London.

London, I thought. Another place on our list.

I flipped through a few more pages and found the next painting that I recognized from Sabrina’s house. It was called “La Belle Dame sans Merci.” It was another pretty one, with a lady with long, flowing hair next to a knight. The description said the painting was inspired by a ballad written by the poet, John Keats.

John Waterhouse clearly had a thing for poetry.

I read it, trying to decipher its meaning. Poetry was definitely not my strong point. But from what I could gather, it seemed like this knight met an enchanting fairy woman, and he fell for her, hard. I don’t think things ended well, though. It appeared she’d tricked him somehow and really screwed him over—poor guy.

I was beginning to feel drowsy, but as I flipped to one of the last pages, I saw another familiar picture. I had just enough energy to read one more.

The final painting was called “The Danaïdes.” It was a scene of several women all pouring bowls of water into a much larger, center bowl, which had holes in it and constantly leaked. I checked the side note for an explanation. The piece was inspired by Greek mythology. It was about women who were forced to wed men they didn’t want to marry. Their father instructed them to kill their husbands on their wedding night, and for their crimes, they all end up in Hell, having to pour endless bowls of water into a larger one that will never stay full. They must do hard labor forever.

Enough of this craziness. If I continued reading anymore I was bound to have nightmares. And I didn’t need any help in that department. I’d had it with fairies, Greek mythology, tragedy. I had to get up for work in the morning.

•••••

I was surprised to have slept well, dream-free, in fact. I was glad because Mondays were usually busy. I’d need the energy to make it through the day.

Fatima caught me first thing in the morning. “Hey girl. I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you wanna hear first?”

“Start with the good,” I said.

“Okay,” she replied, barely able to contain her excitement. “You’re not going to believe this, but I auditioned to be an extra in a Johnny Depp movie and I got picked!”

“Oh my God—That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just for a few crowd scenes, but he’s in them,” she said. Now she was jumping up and down, and clapping, too.

“So are you going to call in sick? How’s that gonna work?”

“Oh, I almost forgot about that,” she frowned. But within seconds her smile returned and she said, “I’ll just make something up.”

I didn’t think that was a good idea, but I didn’t want to preach. I was guilty of making up a whole bunch of things myself lately, so I didn’t have room to speak.

“So what’s the bad news?” I asked.

Fatima frowned. “Oh, it’s Barb.” She paused as if she felt bad telling me. “You know that man she met, the one she was seeing?”

I nodded.

“Well, I guess he broke up with her. She doesn’t want to talk about it, though.”

I glanced over at Barb, who was returning from the restroom. I felt sorry for her, still playing the game and getting hurt in her sixties. I was lucky, I guessed, that I never even had to play. Justin and I met in high school and we’d always been together. It was easy. I decided not to ask Barb about it. Instead I delved into my work and minded my own business.

The next few days I did more of the same. Barb didn’t mention her situation to me. She kept to herself, but occasionally one of her famous, warm smiles managed to escape.

I wondered who could ever hurt a person as sweet as her?

•••••

Wednesday night, I just made it back on time after running an errand to pick up Tyler from his art lesson.

“Mrs. White,” Josephine said. “Tyler says you’re doing well, enjoying the cookbooks I lent you guys.”

“Yeah, we’re trying.”

She could tell I was just being polite. She’d found a loyal subject in Tyler, though, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him.

“If you keep at it, you’re gonna feel wonderful,” she claimed.

I smiled, then reached into my pocket to pull out her check. “Here you go.”

She took it from me. “You know, if you like, I could come by and cook something vegan that isn’t in the book. Just let me know. I’d be happy to help.”

I nodded. “Thanks. We’ll keep that in mind.”

When we got in the car, Tyler wore a silly grin.

“How was class this time?” I asked him.

“Good.”

He was definitely hiding something.

“What’s the big smile for?”

Tyler just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. It wasn’t like him to be so silly. Whatever it was, he wasn’t sharing. Maybe it was an artist thing. I probably wouldn’t understand.

Later on, after homework and our workout routine, Tyler said something that surprised Mom and me.

“I drank some green juice at Josephine’s,” he said. “It’s made of grass.”

“Grass!” Mom shouted. “What kind of grass?”

Tyler got spooked by her reaction. “Wheat grass,” he answered.

I’d heard of it, and there was no way it was making an appearance in our home. At least, I had no intention of drinking it. Not a single drop.

“What did it taste like?” I asked him.

Tyler’s face contorted. “It was gross.”

“But did you tell Josephine you liked it?”

He shook his head no.

Good, I thought. At least my son was honest, not like me lately—queen of the white lie.

I really liked Josephine. She had a good heart and I knew she was just trying to help. I’m sure she knows all about Tyler’s quest for long life and his desire to not lose anyone else. In the end, I thought it was kind of sweet.

That night I had trouble falling asleep. I lay in bed, thinking about my visit with Sabrina. I thought about how she had honeymooned in Paris, and how she had gotten a divorce. I felt sad for her that the marriage hadn’t worked out. “It wasn’t true love,” she had said.