Signs of Life (26 page)

Holden seems to have Picnic, Lightning days all the time. On top of it, he’s a teenage boy. I’ve never had the experience being a teenage boy, but a couple of Christmases ago my brother bought me this book called
Youth in Revolt
. The narrator is a fifteen-year-old boy, so you’re basically inside the mind of an adolescent male. It is as if a brain with two hands has been driving the vehicle of a boy’s body—at the right speed limit, obeying all traffic orders—and then one day a giant penis comes crashing through the passenger’s side window, whips open the driver’s side door, and kicks the brain out onto the pavement. After that the body is being driven at 120 miles per hour by a penis. The brain is long gone, never to be seen again. That’s my impression of the male mind, body, and soul after reading
Youth in Revolt
. So here’s Holden Caulfield in the midst of puberty and grief. No wonder he gets himself into an awkward situation with a prostitute in a sleezy hotel room. The collision of hormones and grief are catastrophic.

That’s everybody’s problem. All of us are trying to figure out how to operate normally at whatever phase of life we are in, and then grief turns everything inside out. Bernard and his retirement. Debbie and her empty nest. Me and motherhood.

Between my grief group, the April rain, and Holden Caulfield suddenly making a claim on my living room couch, the passing winter doesn’t seem to have taken the darkness with it. These wild mood swings are forming a pattern. I walk out of the shadows for a moment, look at the sunshine, and declare that life is grand, then I go back in, shut the door, and cry for a while longer. I think about calling Dr. G. again. Then I think, what kind of crazy woman am I if I call my therapist to debrief about my spousal grief group?

In the midst of my blues, I receive an e-mail from Maggie regarding Mathews. Mathews is in Denver for a two-week hiatus before he starts his new job. Maggie is here in Michigan, but she talked to Mathews on the phone last night and had to report on what transpired.

Last night was Mathews’s first night in Colorado. He went out with our friend Becky. In typical Mathews-partying fashion, he strayed away from his group and ended up roaming the streets of Denver at three o’clock in the morning by himself. Around five o’clock eastern standard time, Maggie got a phone call from Mathews. He was trying to call someone to figure out how to get back to Becky’s apartment and he ended up calling Maggie, who was in Michigan. He talked to Maggie for about a half hour, relaying every moment of his late-night Denver adventure. At this point in the evening he was very drunk. As all of our friends know, when Mathews hits a certain blood alcohol level his behavior becomes very predictable. Once intoxicated he will start high-fiving random people, he becomes
obsessed
with finding something to eat, and he begins to completely disobey all pedestrian traffic laws.

In her e-mail, Maggie recounts all of the ridiculous things he said to her over and over throughout their conversation:

1. “Sista!”
   
2. “Becks—and by Becks, I mean Mags.”
   
3. “I just turned the door handle to Neverland. That’s right, sista!”
   
4. “I am great with children; but if that baby cries, I will kick the shit out of you!” [referring to the people sitting next to/near him on the plane with a little baby]
   
5. “We’re in the
   DANGA ZONE
   !”
   
6. “I’m ponying to the side and urinating on the grass!”
   
7. “We don’t know if these bushes are going to leap out at me, now, do we?”
   
8. “Magrid, I love that you’re on this adventure with me!”
   

I read this e-mail and by the end there are tears in my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard. This is why I love Mathews. He seems to appear at just the right moments. Less than one year ago, Mathews lost his best friend in the entire world. Ever since they met in college, Mathews and Josh couldn’t move through any phase of life without the other. Josh was the first person Mathews told he was gay. Josh took Mathews ring shopping when he was planning our engagement. Mathews was the first person we told when we found out I was pregnant. I have vivid memories of going to bed early and listening to the murmurs and laughter of those two in the living room. When Josh died, Mathews and I both lost our own version of a soul mate. But over the past ten months, he seems to be the one person who has tried his hardest to live despite his loss. He is always calling me with entertaining work stories, he listens to my rants about my in-laws, and he stops by not because he pities me but because he really cares about Kai and me. He is a complete gentleman, and at the same time, as Maggie’s e-mail
confirms, he acts like a complete moron. A totally hilarious moron, who wastes no time in the pity pool.

I am so deeply thankful for Mathews’s rich spirit and love of life. He is the only person in this world who can make me laugh when I’m stuck in a Holden Caulfield moment. He lures me out of the shadows, not because he feels sorry for me but because he knows how much more fun it is out there in the sunlight (or moonlight, depending on the occasion), which is exactly what Josh used to do when he was here. I feel like I’ve lost a lot of my own enthusiasm and vibrance since Josh died, but it is a tremendous relief to know that Mathews hasn’t. Someday I’ll catch up to him. In the meantime, I say a little prayer to the Gods of Drunk and Disorderly for once again watching over my friend Chris Mathews. They must love that guy.

This Wednesday at the grief group we were all supposed to bring in a picture of our spouse or an item that reminded us of them. Bernard has a photo of his wife and his daughter. Fran brought in an old picture of Davis in his Tigers uniform. Debbie shows us a picture from her family’s last vacation to Hawaii. She starts crying a little and says that this was the last vacation she had with her husband. I forgot to bring a picture or an item. I had a picture all picked out and left it at the last minute. I found one we used for Josh’s funeral. He’s in his wet suit holding his surfboard and the sun is setting behind him. He has long hair. He had the most beautiful long blond hair.

Pat is wearing a bright pink hat and a camouflage army coat. Both belonged to Ed. She says it brings her joy to wear his stuff. She actually gets up and spins around to show us the whole 360 degrees. Pat passes around a picture of Ed. It was taken a while ago, or at least I think so from the brown plaid suit coat he is wearing. Ed is incredibly good looking. He reminds me of Jay
Gatsby with dark hair. In the picture, he is looking dapper holding a martini glass, and he’s not gazing at the camera but a little off to the side. He’s got this smirk on his face. I can tell Ed and Chris Mathews would have a great time together.

As the picture is being passed around, Mary asks Pat some questions about what she and Ed did together, what some of her best memories of him were. It’s still not entirely clear what the nature of their friendship was. Pat says, “Well, he had this plane and we used to fly all over the place together.” Right as she says this, this smile creeps across her face. It’s not just any smile. It’s not like an “Oh yeah, that was fun” smile. It is a distinct smile—every woman knows what it means—and suddenly li’l old Pat has transformed into Kim Cattrall from
Sex and the City
and I know
exactly
what kind of relationship she and Ed had. I love it. I want to take Pat out for a drink and introduce her to my college friends and get her to spill her guts.

After the pictures, Mary and Lynne guide the conversation. They ask us about memories and what it’s like going through pictures and clothes, how we treat these relics of our lost loved ones. They ask us about life now. Somehow we get on the topic of food and meals, and Debbie tells us that she doesn’t cook anymore. She’s found a few frozen meals that are okay. She says this with such a practical tone, like this is a part of the problem that she has actually solved. I feel so sad at the idea of her frozen dinners.

I imagine how Debbie probably used to walk through the grocery store when her husband was alive. She is on her cell phone with her husband talking about what to get. “How about tilapia? Oh, that’s right, you want to do Italian … okay, how about I make lasagna … Oh, Kroger has a sale on fresh peaches. Honey, can you check to see if we’re out of fruit?” Or maybe they went grocery shopping together. But now she stands with her cart in the frozen food aisle debating whether to try Stouffers
or Lean Cuisine. The people in the aisle get mad at her because she’s in their way or she’s taking too long in front of one of the glass doors. No one in the aisle knows what has happened or how this moment of picking between cold boxes for dinner is really her whole life. I don’t know why this makes me sad. I want to invite her over for dinner, but I only have smashed carrots and turkey that you could drink through a straw.

In our third grief meeting we get on the topic of daily routines. We talk about what our daily routines used to be like and what they are like now. Bernard says that for the thirty-two years he and his wife were together, she always made the bed in the morning. He never made the bed once throughout their entire marriage. The morning after Marie died, the first morning he woke up without her, he made the bed. He has made the bed every day since she died.

When Bernard says this, I can tell he thinks it’s a minor detail. It’s not a big deal. To him it’s a logical solution—she’s not there, so he has to make it. But for some reason this small detail of Bernard’s life sticks to me like glue. We talk about a million other things, but all I can think about is Bernard in his bathrobe or flannel pajamas pulling up the comforter. I want to put this in my pocket so that any time I hit a bad patch, I can think of Bernard stacking those pillows trying to make his bed look nice.

•  •  •

Moo called me a few weeks ago and said she signed up to do her first triathlon. She wants me to do it with her. Moo has always been into endurance sports. She has completed two marathons since college. I played soccer in high school and college and I only ran because I had to. When I think about running competitively it makes me want to vomit.

“Absolutely not,” I tell her.

“Nat, it’s for a really good cause.” She tells me about this organization called Team in Training. Sure, I’ve heard of it. I get their promotional flyers in the mail sometimes with those people jogging with big smiles on their faces like that marathon they’re running is no big deal. I don’t buy it.

“Moo, you know what those people have that I don’t? Free time. When would I train for this?”

She tells me that the grandmas would love it if they had one or two nights a week when I left to go train and they stayed with Kai. Not to mention Auntie Ashley is always around. I am still cynical.

“I don’t own a bike.”

“You can borrow someone’s.”

“I have never swum more than ten feet in my life.” This is actually a lie. I swam one year in the seventh grade for my middle school swim team. I had to swim the 200-meter because I wasn’t fast enough to be in any of the sprints and I wasn’t strong enough to do any distance farther than 200 meters. The night before the first meet I sat in my room and contemplated ways to break my foot. I ended up swimming the next day. (I didn’t have the guts to actually break my foot). It was a horrible experience. I remember overhearing one of the seventh-grade boys making fun of how slowly I went. I never swam competitively again.

“You would practice.” She tells me to go to a Team in Training meeting and to think about it. I roll my eyes. We hang up.

After Moo calls me, I don’t talk to anyone else about the triathlon. I think about it. I think of a list of reasons why I shouldn’t do it: (1) Child care. (2) I do not enjoy running, swimming, or biking. (That seems like a really good reason.) (3) I look absolutely ridiculous in a swim cap. Yes, it is for a wonderful
cause, but is clearly not the best time in my life to take on an Olympic distance triathlon. I’ll let my childless, significantly more athletic sister do it instead.

It’s the last Wednesday in April and the last meeting of my grief group. I think about how this group has helped. Maybe
help
isn’t the right word. But I have to admit, there is something so oddly comforting in knowing that I am not the only human who wants desperately to talk to thin air, wear clothes that don’t fit, and feels like the world is moving on without me. I am happy I decided to join the group. Maybe
happy
isn’t the right word either. Maybe it is.

At the conclusion of the meeting Lynne says, “I have one final question for all of you.” I sit there, expecting some female-ministerish question like “How did this group make you feel?” or “What did you learn about yourself?” I start to concoct my answer before she asks the question.

She looks over her clipboard and says, “What are you going to do next?” I can tell from the rest of the group that we all think this is a wildly unfair question. I exhale through my mouth and contemplate. Next? What does she mean, next? I’m going to continue to do what I’ve been doing: go from feeling horribly sad and frustrated to joyous about my son and keep my fingers crossed that one day the former will no longer outweigh the latter. But what am I going to
do next
? I haven’t got a clue.

Fran starts by saying that she is going to continue to go to other grief support groups. Beaumont Hospital offers several support groups. There is usually a speaker and then you move into break-out groups to discuss the topic. Fran pulls out a few pink sheets of paper and says she brought the information with her for anyone else who may be interested. She hands one to me. This is really nice of her, but it sort of feels like when someone gets you a gift certificate to get your eyebrows waxed. It is a
kind gesture, but really they are saying, “You really need some help.”

Bernard says he’s been really good about going to church and he feels like his next step is to reconnect with people around him, his neighbors and old friends. Pat says she is going to start taking walks with a friend of hers. She needs to get out and enjoy the spring and she knows she wants to do something with someone else.