Page 11 of If This is Love

“Get…your behind,” Abraham Washburn, Michael’s father, rumbled, pausing weightily between words, “out of…that bed.”

I stared at him, wide-eyed, panting, and speechless. Abraham was an imposing force of a man, rigidly authoritarian, but he’d never gone so far as to do something like this. “Abraham, what—”

“Do not talk back to me, girl,” he said, cold and emotionless. “Get out of bed.” He pointed his large index finger at me. “You already had a day to wallow in sorrow. Today is a new day. Fix that mess on your head, dress yourself properly, and get out here so you can take care of your business.”

He was only reacting like this because he was reeling from grief. Michael was his only son. His wife had skipped town when Michael was only four, and the only way he’d ever known how to deal with that was to become hard and cold.

And now that his only child had been taken from him, too, Abraham was already colder than ever.

I wiped my hands over my face and hair and responded compliantly, “Yessir.”

He turned and stepped out of the room, his large shoes thudding loudly on the hardwood floor before the door slammed shut.

All the air whooshed out of my lungs, and I clasped Michael’s sopping-wet t-shirt to my mouth to muffle a sob…and another one…and another one.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I quietly blubbered into the wet fabric. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. How can I possibly do this?”

But somehow, I was able to at least stand up out of bed. That was a start. I went to the closet and pulled out aproper dress. The church’s version of mourning clothes. A pretty day dress with cap sleeves in a pale pink floral pattern and sensible, neutral flats because I was going to be on my feet all day today and the next few days—the church’s version of mourning.

This was my new reality. Michael was gone now, and Abraham still owned this home. He’d given it to us as a gift for our wedding. He’d given us everything we’d ever “owned”—except we didn’t own any of it. Michael and I had been working for the past few years to start our own outreach, which was going well until three days ago.

When the phone rang. When the sheriff of a small east Texas town asked to speak to with “the wife of Michael Washburn.” When my whole world shattered.

Standing in front of the mirror, I gently towel dried my hair and tried not to think about the fact that Abraham had done such a thing at all. It would probably be best to try to forget he did that. This wasn’t exactly the time to harp on trivial things like him being a big bully. He was grieving just like I was. I gathered my thick mass of tight, black coils into a high puff that sat on top of my head like the invisible crown Michael always said I had.

Grief clamped around my heart, and I watched my brown eyes go red in the reflection as I fluffed my hair perfectly in place. I washed my face and patted it dry, and then put on just enough makeup to brighten my face; a little mascara, and a little pale pink lipstick blotted to a subtle matte finish. I smoothed some lightly perfumed lotion on my arms and legs and then pulled on the tights I hated and were too damnhotfor Louisiana this time of year—not thatthatseemed to matter to anyone at all. The only thing that mattered to anyone in my world was making sure my legs were completely covered because my skirt was “scandalously short,” hitting just at my knees.

With my legs and shoulders appropriately covered by my tights and dress, I slipped on my flats and stepped out of the room.

Abraham’s deep voice was rumbling in the living room, and another man was speaking with him. Peeking around the corner, I saw Pastor John, the senior pastor of our large church, sitting in Michael’s chair, perched forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The two men were deep in conversation inmyliving room, the pastor sitting in a chair that I had secretly saved up for half a year to buy for Michael for our first Christmas in this house, and seething anger was suddenly clawing at my sternum.

But I certainly couldn’t let on to that. There were roles in this world, and I knew mine.

At least, I knew what mine was now that my husband was gone. Michael was a true egalitarian in his principles, and he’d always treated me as his true equal. His partner. His best friend. He was all of that to me, and he was the only person in the whole world that I trusted with my whole heart and future andlife.

And he was justgone.

Gone to heaven, sure, but all that meant was I wouldn’t get to see him again until I was dead, too, and I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of dying like everyone else in my world seemed to be.

All the oxygen sucked out of my lungs again, and my fingertips anchored against the wall as I swayed on my feet.

No. No. No. He can’t possibly be dead. I don’t want this. I don’t want this.

But no matter how much I didn’t wantthis, it’s what I was left with.

This, and all the casserole.

To be expected, the ladies of the church had started dropping off casseroles as the harrowing news made its way through the grapevine. It was a kind and helpful gesture to be sure, but with so many casseroles arriving every day, it required a bit of prep work to properly store them in the fridge and freezer.

I managed to slip past the living room and into the kitchen unnoticed, and sure enough, the counters were covered with casserole dishes. Of course Abraham didn’t put any of them away. That wasn’t his job. Anything that involved preparing food wasn’t a man’s job. There were roles in this world, and I knew mine.

I put on a fresh pot of coffee and started dividing the casseroles into smaller containers to freeze portions of them when there was a lighttap-tap-tapon the window of the back door. There was only one person who would come through the yard rather than the front door, and I bit my lip to keep from crying because he was the only person in the world I wanted to see in the middle of this.

I tiptoed to the door and gave a shaky smile to Astrid, Michael’s and my closest friend, who was standing on the other side of the window. He was wearing a similar fragile smile, and his light brown eyes were red on the rims.

I silently unlocked and opened the door, and Astrid immediately grabbed my hands and held them against his chest.

“Ruth,” he choked out, tears falling over his pretty, dark lashes. “Sis…”

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