Page 51 of Someone to Remember
I reach over to put my hand on top of his. “Let me help you.”
He stares at our joined hands for a long moment. “I’ll think about it.”
“It would make me happy to help you. This terrible tragedy has led to new friends, and we’re going to survive this together.”
Brad blinks back tears that seem to take him by surprise. “That makes it bearable… Knowing we’re going to survive together.”
“Of course we are. We’re friends forever after this.”
“Friends forever,” he says gruffly.
Taylor
I’min bed with my kids asleep on either side of me and the baby playing an aggressive game of soccer in my belly as I stare up at the ceiling. I need to pee, but I can’t move without disturbing the kids. It took hours to get them to sleep after another devastating day. They have a million questions about what happened to their daddy, where he is now, what happens next, can he still see us, will he get to meet the baby before he’s born.
Each one is like a knife to my broken heart.
I don’t know what to tell them because none of it makes sense to me either.
The outpouring of love and support from everyone we know has been overwhelming. Food has come pouring in, along with flowers and offers of help with the kids and anything else we might need. As much as I appreciate everyone, it’s bringing back memories of the early days after Greg died, a time I’d prefer to never revisit.
But here I am, wallowing in the horror of losing two husbands. How is this our fate?
What am I going to do with two devastated kids and a new baby to care for on my own? The path before me feels dark and hopeless, but in all the madness, the one spark of light has been hearing from Will’s insurance company that they’re working on paying out his life insurance expeditiously. That’ll make a huge difference for me as I stare down life without him.
All I want is for Will to come breezing in, flashing that sexy, irresistible grin and telling me everything is going to be fine the way he always did when my anxiety got the better of me. But he’s never coming back, and I’m not at all certain that everything will be all right. Not this time.
I long for him, for his touch, his kind heart and his immense love for me and the kids. He infused my life with hope, optimism and faith that my best days were still ahead of me rather than behind me, as I’d believed after Greg died.
Now what?
My bladder is about to burst when I finally inch my way down between the kids, trying to get out of bed without waking them or peeing my pants, either or both of which is possible. I’m almost out when Miles raises his head.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, honey,” I say in a whisper, praying Eliza won’t wake up, too. “I have to go to the bathroom. Go back to sleep.”
“Are you coming right back?”
“I will. I promise.”
He drops his head to the pillow and sighs. I imagine he’s remembering—again—that Will died, and that’s why he’s sleeping in our bed.
My bed. It’s my bed now.
I make it into the bathroom just in the nick of time, relieving my bladder as tears slide down my face in a steady stream that feels like it might never stop this time. My head feels too heavy to hold up, so I drop it into my hands and bite my lip to keep from wailing. I wish I could, but that would scare my traumatized children, and I’d never want to add to their grief by making them worry about me, too.
Since I’ve been here, done this before, I’m well aware that I have no choice but to survive the loss of Will. I have no choice but to rally for my soon-to-be three children and to continue to put one foot in front of the other the way I did after we lost Greg. But I really, really, really don’t want to do any of it.
If it was just me, I’d crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there as long as I could, until the searing ache in my chest let up enough for me to breathe comfortably.
That’s not going to happen.
What will happen is the sun rising in the morning, the kids waking and looking to me for guidance on how to get through this devastating loss. I’ll be there for them every step of the way.
Because I have no choice in the matter.
Twelve
