Page 10 of Letting Go
My grief and anger seem to battle each other daily to control my heart. I carry copious amounts of both, but most days grief wins. Everything is hard and some days it’s a struggle to even get out of bed, and without Eloise I doubt I would be leaving my bed most days. My therapist told me before I left Chicago that it may help tofocus on the things I can control, like the menial task of laundry. I need to find a new therapist as my one in Chicago only offers in-person sessions, but with the size of Forrest Falls, I may need to look at therapists in Nashville. It’s not ideal but an hour’s drive would be worth it for the right fit.
Eloise is still having nightmares. We have two bedrooms upstairs in the guest house, but she ends up in my bed every night. What do I tell a little girl who wakes up crying for her daddy? He isn’t coming back—he also broke her mama’s heart when he left us.
Eloise doesn’t understand that someone shot her daddy, and I will shield her from the gruesome facts as long as I can. We told her that he was killed in an accident with a gun but didn’t go into any other details. The nightmares seem to have a common theme and in most of them, Trent is in some type of car accident while driving. Eloise saw our old cars before the dealership in Chicago picked them up, so she knows her daddy’s car wasn’t in an accident nor destroyed. Eloise has somehow interpreted that her daddy was in a car accident and has become very anxious about safety when we drive anywhere. I didn’t know a four-year-old could be concerned about speed limits and traffic signals, but my smart girl is too observant for her own good. I try to redirect her attention when she gets worked up about it but it’s hard.
All of it is so incredibly hard.
There is a wonderful online community I came across of young, widowed mothers that has been helpful. I also searched the internet for a lot of advice, especially when it comes to how best to address Trent’s death with Eloise. My browser’s search history would probably be concerning to an outsider but the reality of motherhood after loss is messy, complicated, and at times disturbing.
I finish folding the laundry and carry the baskets back upstairs to put away the clothes and towels. My bedroom is the larger ofthe two with an en suite bathroom and while most days I don’t miss much about Chicago, I do miss my walk-in closet. It was one of my favorite parts of our condo. It’s silly the stuff I think of because in the grand scheme of things, who cares about a closet? But I designed that closet, and it was a dream. Some days it feels like everything before Trent’s murder was a dream. I thought I had such a good life, and I definitely did when it came to Eloise, but so much of my reality was a fabricated fairytale that did not end in a happily ever after. Instead, it resulted with me living in my sister’s guesthouse feeling like a fool drowning in my grief. I won’t let this be the end of our story though, Eloise deserves a happily ever after—we both do. I will not let this tragic turn of events define the rest of our lives.
It’s a short walk around the pool area to my sister’s house. Eloise is upstairs playing with her cousins, and my sister is putting away groceries as I walk through the backdoor. “Hey, Vivian. How are you, honey?” She comes out of their walk-in pantry to grab more groceries from the kitchen island.
“I’m fine. Are the girls having fun?” I can hear them giggling upstairs, and Eloise’s giggle is like a balm to my soul.
“Of course, but don’t blame me for the … interesting manicure Eloise has, Livy insisted Eloise picked the colors during the makeover.” Savannah winks at me and I can remember the countless times she gave me makeovers when I was growing up. A small smile slides on my face at the memory, and I hope these moments become core memories for my own daughter with her cousins. “Did you see that stack of mail for you over there? Most of it looks like it’s forwarded from Chicago.” She points to a small pile on the dining room table.
“No, I missed that, thanks.” I walk over to grab the stack before taking a seat at the kitchen island to sort through the mail. There’s something from Trent’s financial advisor, a letter from my firm inChicago, some junk mail, but at the bottom of the pile is a plain envelope addressed to Vivian Callahan. “Did you see this one? It’s addressed to my maiden name. I haven’t received mail with Vivian Callahan on it in years.” There isn’t a return address and my name is typed on the envelope, not handwritten. I hold it up to show my sister.
Savannah walks over to stand next to me and looks at the plain envelope. “With my home address on it, it has to be from someone that knows you live here now.” I shrug and open the envelope. Inside is a single piece of paper with a poem typed out in the same font as the front of the envelope. I read the poem out loud to my sister:
“What in the actual hell?” Savannah startles me, I forgot she was standing right next to me. Goosebumps crawl across my body and my stomach churns.
“It’s not signed by anyone. Who would send me something like this? It’s odd.” I drop the poem onto the countertop. Plenty of people know I live here now, it’s part of living in a smaller community but this is creeping me out. “Marrying myhusband was a mistake that has been rectified? Are they implying his murder was some twisted gift?”
“I feel like we should call someone, Viv. Don’t you think? This is super weird, and they didn’t even sign it. That’s eerie, I don’t like it.” Savannah shakes her head as she picks up her phone.
“Who are you calling?” She’s right, we should call someone but I’m not sure who you call when you get an unnerving, anonymous poem about your dead husband.
“This feels like something authorities should know about; Liam will know what to do.” Our brother Liam is some kind of private consultant with the Department of Defense. We don’t know any details about his job beyond that, but we know he knows a lot of people in law enforcement with various agencies.
Savannah leaves a voicemail for Liam to call her back. It’s rare to reach him directly and we are all well-acquainted with his voicemail. He travels a lot to undisclosed locations, and we typically have to leave a voicemail or send a text in order to reach him. A few minutes later, Liam calls Savannah back.
“Hey, you’re on speaker with me and Viv,” Savannah tells him as she answers.
“Hey girls. Viv, tell me what happened.” Liam is straight to the point without any fluff, but that’s how he is when he’s in problem solver mode. I explain the poem, how it’s addressed to my maiden name, and read it to him. “I agree this feels off. Savannah, can you get a plastic bag for her? Vivian, I want you to try to only touch the piece of paper and envelope where you already have and place them both in a plastic bag then seal it shut. I can’t get back to town for a few more days, but we should let the local authorities know and the detectives in Chicago looking into Trent’s murder as well.” Liam’s confirmation about it being strange does not make me feel any better.
“I have the detectives’ phone numbers, I’ll call them. What do we do with the bagged poem?” I ask, trying not to freak out at this point.
“Just leave it for now. I bet the boys in Chicago will want to check for prints and if they don’t, then I will myself. I don’t know what’s going on, but I have to be honest—I don’t like this.”
“Okay, I’ll call them now. What about the local authorities? Should I just call the non-emergency line or who do I even call?” I really don’t want to deal with more police and interviews; I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.
“Don’t worry about it, I’m going to call the Sheriff after we hang up. Eddie will probably send someone over to pick it up as evidence to secure the chain of custody.” I nod, even though Liam can’t see me. “Vivian, are you okay?” Liam may be the no-fluff problem solver, but he also takes his big brother protector role seriously.
“I … I don’t actually know. Maybe this is just some sick joke or something, but I don’t appreciate being told to view my husband’s death as a gift.” Savannah rubs my back as tears start to sting my eyes.
Damn it. I almost made it through the day without crying.
I call the detectives in Chicago after we hang up with Liam, and of course they want to check the poem and envelope for prints just like Liam thought. I tell them about the local sheriff coming to pick it up and they said they’ll coordinate directly with him and will once again be in touch with more questions. I open my messages to send Liam an update.
Me
Chicago PD wants to check them for prints, still don’t have any leads in his case so maybe this is something?
Liam
Good, Eddie said he will personally be there in the next thirty minutes to pick it up. He was already planning on having it dusted for prints but can work with Chicago to share results. Whatever is going on, we aren’t taking any chances with your safety, Viv.
