Page 94 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

“Good. We’ll get your bags and then Pen insisted that you needed Coney dogs.”

My eyes lit up. “American?” I asked, hope filling me for the first time since I’d been mandated to return to Michigan.Yes, for a Coney dog.IYKYK.

“Damn straight!” Pen replied. See, a war raged in the streets of Detroit. Not a war with guns, but of the fervent belief that one Michigan Coney dog outshone the other. Some mistakenly believed Lafayette Coney Island to be the superior Coney dog, when in reality, American Coney Island simplywasthe superior dog.

There weren’t enough numbers in the world to count all the good times we’d spent in those hallowed walls with the black-and-white checkered flooring, the reflective ceiling, and the copious red and chrome chairs and white-topped tables.

Pen stayed next to me as Ant collected my bags. Then I raced Ant to— “Where’s the Jag?” I asked.

He pointed to the chair. “And how did you expect us to fit three people, two large bags and a wheelchair into my Jag?”

“Whatever,” I grumbled. “Help me in.”

In no more than ten minutes we were on our way to American Coney Island. Not that it took ten minutes to get there butafterten minutes we were driving—just to clarify. I texted Blake in the back seat of the Escalade they’d rented on our way.

So, I loved Detroit. There, I said it. Come at me. I’d fight anyone who tried to put my city down. Did we have our problems? Of course. Income disparity? Yes. A football teamthat either stank the whole season or got our collective hopes up on these whirlwind winning streaks, only to blow it before the playoffs?Not anymore bitches! Go Lions!

I ate my weight in Coney dogs. Ate. My. Weight. Maybe because of my recent life upheaval, but those Coneys worked their magic like a balm to soothe my soul. Not stress eating, per se, but a comforting, food-induced hug—but in my belly.

Then after dinner, they surprised me with tickets to see a revival ofWickedat the Detroit Theater which meant I needed to amend my statement. Ireally,really,reallyliked my city. But Ilovedmy friends. Not because of the tickets—well, that was a lie, of course, because of the tickets—and the Coney dogs and picking me up at the airport, and doing all this to make me feel better after all the terrible I’d been dealing with. I missed my husband. I missed my bed. But I had the best friends ever invented.

After they dropped me off, well, they didn’t exactly drop me off because I had one chair, and my house in Michigan had stairs as well, so my friends set me up a bedroom in the small den at the back of the house where my dad used to watch his Tigers in the summer, his Lions in the fall, his Red Wings in the winter and his Pistons in the spring, for the most part. Some overlap occurred every season, especially with a team on a winning streak.

The sofa converted to a fairly comfortable bed, which Pen made up for me, while Ant moved one of my dressers down into the room with me so that I could unpack my clothing. The room had a coat closet, which we turned into a clothes closet, or a suitcase and shoe closet for the time being. I only brought shirts and pants because I felt like I looked ridiculous wearing a dress with my arm in a sling and my foot up on a stirrup.

And no Blake to help me dress.

No Blake.

While Pen helped me into my pajamas, not because I necessarily needed her to, but because she felt like I needed her to and I wanted to give her that, with all she’d done for me today, Ant ran to the grocery store so I had food in the house for tomorrow, until Pen and Sierra could come to check on me. I’d actually done a pretty credible job of dressing myself despite the sling, but my husband helped me out because he loved me. I felt loved now. By Pen. And Ant.

Once they left, and I found myself alone, it all caught up to me. For the first couple of months after my dad died, I’d spent more time in this room than I cared to remember, but then, once I ventured out of this room, I’d never gone back. The memories of him—his scent or the times we’d spent here together—what if I’d started to build new memories? Without my dad?

What I wouldn’t give to talk to my dad just one more time.

In an attempt to shake off that train of thought, I reached for my phone that Pen had set on the end table next to the bed while she’d helped me change. I saw a text I’d missed from Blake and stupidly, I started to tear up while I read it.

Blake:I miss my wife.

Yeah, I missed him too.

Me:I miss my husband.

A reply popped up right away.

Blake:What are you doing?

Me:I’m in bed.

Blake:Bed? I like where this conversation is going. Calling…

The phone rang and I answered it right away. “It’s good to hear your voice,” he said.

I laughed. “I didn’t talk yet.”

“But you’re talking now. How’s Michigan?”

“Pen and Ant rented an Escalade to pick me up, then took me to American Coney Island for dinner.”

---