Page 1 of Second Dance
1
ALEX
On the second anniversary of my wife's death, the sun rose in the east as it always did and the birds chirped as they were born to do. Our teenage children slept late. The world continued. Even though it had seemed impossible that sunny June morning we'd laid her to rest, it was true. We'd continued forward without her, making a new sort of life. That's perhaps the cruelest lesson about loss. Shattering grief does not allow one to give up or give in, even when sadness suffocates all sense of hope. One keeps on regardless.
This was a day I'd been dreading for weeks. It was silly in a way, since she was gone every day, not just today. But there was something about anniversaries that played with a man's mind, conjuring images and memories that were easier to suppress on dates that weren't tattooed onto a human heart.
I heard footsteps from upstairs. Bella, probably heading to the bathroom. Bella moved through the house the same way her mother had—quiet and efficient, never wanting to wake anyone. Sometimes I forgot which one of them I was hearing. Those were the worst moments. That split second before remembering.
For a moment, I closed my eyes, asking God to help me through the day.
When the children were small, chocolate chip pancakes almost always cured whatever ailed them. Now they were fourteen and sixteen, and not even a homemade breakfast could change the heaviness of today. But I made stacks of pancakes anyway and fried up a package of bacon and scrambled a dozen eggs as the sun climbed above the horizon, turning the ocean beyond our windows from pewter to brilliant blue. The exposed beams overhead caught the early light, casting familiar shadows across the white marble island.
The house felt too big this morning—all the soaring ceilings and endless views, that I'd imagined would help the kids and me move on, seemed to mock me. As if material things could mend your broken heart. Through the wall of windows, I could see the infinity pool reflecting the sky, the stone walls that reminded me of the old New England houses of my youth. The ones my mother had cleaned.
Movement had proven to be my friend in this ongoing lesson on grief, so I kept my hands busy—flipping pancakes, adjusting the pendant light that always hung slightly crooked, rearranging the bowl of lemons on the counter that caught the morning sun.
Peter arrived downstairs first, his dark, wavy hair disheveled, eyes puffy. Had he cried himself to sleep?
“Hey, bud,” I said.
“Dad, what is this?” Peter's brown eyes scanned the island lined with breakfast items. “Where's Sonya?”
“She'll be here later. Her grandson fell and broke open his chin, so they had to go to the emergency room.”
“Richie or Brian?” Peter asked.
“Richie.”
“That kid's totally accident prone,” Peter said. “He's six and has already broken his arm twice.”
My heart ached with love for my boy. A sixteen-year-old kid who knew this detail about our housekeeper's grandchildren wassurely rare? Then again, he spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Sonya. I could often hear them chatting in Spanish when I was getting dressed in the mornings. I'd been raised in a household that spoke mostly Spanish, so it had been important to me that the kids were bilingual. From the time I'd married their mom, I'd insisted on Spanish lessons. Being young, they'd both picked it up quickly. Their mother had not. I smiled, thinking of how irritated she would be with the three of us when we talked in Spanish, mostly about how we could sneak ice cream out of the freezer without her knowing.
“Why did you make all this food?” Peter asked.
“Since Sonya wasn't here, I thought I'd make us a hearty breakfast.” I shrugged, as if it were something I did often. Which I did not. Since we'd lost Mattie, we'd relied on Sonya to cook for us. We were well fed because of it. “I used to cook some when you were small. Do you remember? When your mom and I first got married? I always cooked us Sunday breakfast so your mom could sleep in.”
“Yeah, I remember.” He answered without any emotion reflected in his voice and sat at the island, grabbing a culled strawberry from the bowl I'd prepared earlier. “Is that why for real?”
The implication of that question was obvious. He wanted to know if it was a way to cope with the anniversary.
“I'm trying to keep busy, I guess,” I said.
“It's just another day. Same as all the others. No big deal.”
I could tell by the dullness in his eyes that he didn't believe that for one instant. But I kept my mouth shut. Raising teenagers felt a lot like one of those video games with minefields. No matter how carefully I tried to tread, sooner or later something I said or did would set off an explosion I never saw coming.
“Do you want me to fix you a plate?” I asked, almost cringing at the hopeful tone in my voice.
“Yeah, sure.”
“What're you up to today?” I asked.
“I'm meeting some of the guys down at the beach for our surf lesson.”
I'd been pleased when he'd asked if I'd pay for surf lessons down at Grady's Surf Shack. To me it was reassurance that he was meeting friends and fitting into the beach community we found ourselves in. Back when we lived in the city, our lives had been much more metropolitan. Living in Pacific Heights, the kids had grown up taking public transit and enjoying all that San Francisco had to offer. Now we were in a sleepy beach community that seemed to exist under the spell of the ebb and flow of the ocean. Instead of fighting against the tide, they existed within it. Frankly, I'd found it hard to get used to. Waking to hear waves crashing to shore was different from the sounds of traffic and city noise.
“Great. Sounds fun,” I said.
