Chapter Twenty-Two

AUGUST 22, 2008

Dear Jay,

I had a dream last night that my wedding ring, that thick gold band that you slipped onto my left hand all thoSe yearS ago, had been grotesquely mangled, aS though someone had taken huge steel cutters to it. The gold all torn up and sharp.

I don’t have many dreams about you. At the beginning I used to dream about you, but could never See your face. Your face waS always hidden by a hat, or by the fact that I am riding behind you on the back of a motorcycle and can only feel your shoulders, but not See your eyes. Lately in my dreams about you, I’m angry at you because you keep telling me you are leaving me, that you want a divorce. After two and half years of mourning, I feel aS if I am mourning a new sort of loss. I wake up with that anguished, angry, heartsick feeling, Something I imagine people go through when their spouse leaveS them. But it also feels like good pain, that last scratch that removes the scab revealing the tender pink skin underneath. The scar is tender and fragile, but in no danger of bursting open. It tellS me I am ready to jump back into the fray and risk new scars.

I can’t help be struck by the thought that my mind iS helping me divorce you. Or are you the one doing this? Deep down, it feels like I need to ‘divorce’ you in order to truly get beyond my grief and open up to whatever might be next. Perhaps too, it’s what your ghost needs to do in order to untether yourself from my grip.

The only thing I changed about our bedroom after Jay died was our bed. The sprawling king size, I decided, even before his death, was too big. “A marriage wrecker,” I used to insist. We held hands across its expanse as we fell asleep, but we both depended on the gap for a good night’s sleep. Any closer to Jay and I would awaken to the wind tunnel of his heavy breathing in my face. The new Queen-sized pillow top that I purchased at Macy’s replaced a ten-year-old two-piece IKEA wonder we had bought as newlyweds.

The new bed had a plush, mushroom-colored velvet headboard and footboard. I bought a down-filled duvet, with a subtle blue striped cover in soft jersey. Down had made Jay sneeze, and so I had resigned myself to synthetic during our marriage. I replaced the pillows with down as well.

Today I decided it was time to clean out Jay’s side of the closet. His closet remained untouched and still smelled faintly of mothballs. His dress shirts hung at attention, stiff from all the starch he insisted the dry cleaners use. Thousands of dollars worth of gray and navy wool suits, tailored to fit his broad shoulders, their cuffs turned perfectly, looked forlorn and seemed embarrassed by their slip in stature. Jay’s shoes were still lined up neatly under the suits, a little dusty now. The black Brogues and the caramel-colored horsehides had me remembering the little pony jig he used to do when he put them on, making me laugh. And then there was the black body bag holding Jay’s tux. He had spent a fortune on it, for a black tie event put on by the New York office. He rationalized that it would be a good investment, that he would need it again someday. I shoved it to the side so I could get at the wire mesh drawers that held his undershirts, boxers, and socks. I began stuffing them into a garbage bag, trying not to see what I was putting in, so I could avoid emotion.

I pulled a sweater off the shelf and remembered him wearing it that day we worked in the garden, him raking, me weeding, each content to work silently near the other. I refolded it and added it to the top of the pile inside the garbage bag. With each sweater and shirt came another memory – a vacation in Mexico, skiing at Whistler, him asleep on the couch with a book abandoned on his flannel-covered chest. The tears came, but I worked despite them, folding more clothes, flicking open another garbage bag. Maybe I would have a yard sale, but then I imagined watching strangers walk away with one of his suits or pairs of shoes and shuddered. Perhaps I should save some of this stuff for Calder, but these things would likely be out of fashion long before they would fit him. I decided the only thing I would save for Calder was the tuxedo.

I tied the tops of the bags and dragged them down the stairs. When I got them to the back door, I bent down to pick one up, hugging it to my chest, puffing with effort as I lugged it to the car and pushed it into the trunk where it looked like a disposed body in a bad late-night crime movie.

Later I swept the closet and hung up a few of my long, rarely worn dresses, which looked lonely and out of place in the big empty space. I walked past the dresser on my way to putting the broom back and stood staring at our wedding photo. We looked so happy, frozen in a long-ago kiss. I touched Jay’s face behind the glass and then opened a drawer and lay the frame on the bottom under my socks.

I think I need to let you go now, Jay. And perhaps you too are hanging on a little too tightly to me. I’m not sure. I hope you can forgive me. I always loved you. I always will. I hope you know that.

All my love, M.