In February 2001, the first month of my health leave, the sun shines 25 of the 28 days. Habby and I cross-country ski from our front door, around frozen Alta Lake and the Rainbow Trail and back to the house. It is 90 minutes of crisp air, calming mountains, the freedom of gliding, the smell of snow and Habby romping like there will be no tomorrow. Sometimes the wind blows, and I come back with red cheeks, huffing and close to tears. I thank the universe for sending sun.
My heart feels peaceful for the first time since Jim was killed, because I have made a conscious choice to care for it. I try to make myself a meal every day, exercise, stay connected with loved ones, write, meditate and stretch. Some days I don’t get up until noon. Other days I eat only chocolate. Every day I go outside, if only for a few minutes with Habby.
When I feel darkest, I let the phone ring.
I listen to the voices of my friends and family on the answering machine. Three or four calls a day. If I feel able to keep myself from crying, I answer.
“I feel that I reached my summit with Jim, I reached my highest mountain, and that the only way to go from here is down. I mean, you don’t tell Romeo and Juliet to buck up because they’ll find another love. I feel like that. The only way to go is down.”
There is a pause on the other end of the line and then Terri sighs and says, “Let me think about that one. I’ll get back to you.”
I sob to my sister on the phone, “I feel completely in love with Jim. How will I ever love someone else?”
“It’s safe for you to love Jim.”
“What do you mean?”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” she replies softly.
Oh, God, I think to myself, she’s right.
I’ve feared what would happen if Jim fell out of love with me but it never occurred to me the repercussions of not being able to fall out of love with him.
One evening, I sit alone on the couch. A force presses against the inside of my skin and tears are not enough relief. I rock back and forth, grip my hands together and moan. My ribs ache, my lungs burn and my gut spasms. The energy presses hard to get out. My eyes and mouth open wide because I cannot hold back forever. I fall to my knees and suck in air and vomit it out. I gasp, moan and push animal sounds from deep within my belly. A hot energy rushes around my body and pushes out of every pore. I bang my fists on the table, shout. I fall back onto the couch, cradle my head and sob so hard my shoulders ache.
I lift my head and corral my breath into a strong regular rhythm. I grit my teeth, stare at nothing and clench my fists. A voice surges. You left me. How could you leave me? How could you be so selfish? I am so angry with you for dying.
The books say it is normal to feel anger. That it will pass. Is it normal to feel such strong rage that I pummel myself from the inside out?
The skin on my face relaxes and I stare at the floor. I sleep for six hours straight and in the morning get dressed at first light, have breakfast and take Habby for a walk up the trail. I spend the rest of the day writing, drawing and ticking things off of my to-do list.
I have cried every day for almost two years. But, that night in bed I wait for sleep and it strikes me that I have not cried all day. I feel guilty and relieved. It is comforting to see progress.
Friends invite me for dinner and when I arrive, Scott, one of Jim’s colleagues, is there. He is a full mountain guide and lives in Whistler. He hunches his tall frame to wrap me in a hug and watches me quietly with his dark brown eyes. After dinner, I drive him to his car, which is parked at a nearby trailhead because he has just completed a solo two-day traverse from Wedge Mountain to Blackcomb Mountain. As he reaches for the door handle, he asks, “How are you doing?”
I give him my standard answer. But the reality is that I feel alone. He says goodnight, shuts the car door and I heave a sigh of relief.
That night I dream of the devil. He is tall, dark and alluring, but his features are blurred. If I give my soul to the devil, he will bring Jim back to me.
Scott invites me to ski into a backcountry hut. My jacket clings to me while I pack the car in the pouring rain. The sun rises behind bruised clouds, and I switch on the headlights to make my way to Scott’s house. When he answers the door, he smiles with his eyes and says, “If it were anyone else but you, I would cancel.” I chuckle, avoid his steady gaze and busy myself with transferring my gear to his car. I chew on his words. Does he mean he wouldn’t cancel because I am a grieving widow and he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings? Or is he really looking forward to our spending time together?
As we drive, the air between us feels light, as if my body would float through it to brush against him. I squeeze my arms against my sides.
As we ski away from the car, my skin prickles. I stop.
“I’m feeling weird,” I stutter.
“What is it?” Scott stops behind me.
“This is the sort of thing that Jim and I would have done…” My voice trails off.
Scott lowers his head and then raises his deep brown gaze to mine.
“You could ski ahead a bit and just pretend that you are on your own, and I’ll be here for backup,” Scott offers.
“Okay.” I look to the sky so that emotion won’t pour out of my face.
That night at the hut, the moon is full and Scott, Habby and I go for a ski before bed. We plod uphill toward the ridge. The wind starts to howl and snow swirls around my face. I pull the drawstring on my hood and burrow into the collar. Scott’s hunched frame twists to peer back at me. My lungs suck harder, my heart beats faster and my body balloons with oxygen and blood. But it isn’t enough. I need more air. More. I need warmth to fill the emptiness inside of me. But the pain does not ease. I let out a cry and then crumple to one knee and sob into my gloved hands. Habby nudges his wet nose between my fingers and draws his tongue over my cheeks and nostrils.
Scott’s black mass turns and gets closer. He lowers his face to where I can feel the heat of his breath.
“Are you all right?” he shouts over the wind.
I raise my wet face to his and choke, “I can’t do it.”
He looks at me, says nothing and leads the way back to the cabin. I wonder if he thinks I am weak. I slow my pace so that the storm veils my grief and watch Scott’s figure get smaller in front of me. With each stride I throw out a fresh wail of anguish. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do this? Jim, I need your help. I feel you. Are you here? Have you sent Scott to guide me, to look after me like you did? I stoop lower with this thought. Before I enter the hut, I swipe my glove across my eyes and take a deep breath.
That night, I curl up with Habby on the main floor because dogs are not permitted in the loft sleeping area.
I call my friend Andrea and tell her about Scott.
She asks, “How do you think it will be for you getting into another relationship? Do you think you will be able to love more strongly now?”
“Yes, because my worst fear has been realized. Now I will be able to love more strongly because the fear of the unknown, what it would be like to have your mate die, is no longer unknown.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
My psychiatrist’s voice echoes, “You seem to be confused about what you think you should feel and what you actually do feel.”
A month later, Scott invites me to a party at a trendy club. I buy a short dress. Scott holds the door of the taxi for me.
“I’m a bit nervous.” I pull my dress down to cover more of my thighs. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date.”
“Oh, is this a date?” Scott smirks and shifts in his seat. His expression becomes serious, “I think you’re being very brave.” Scott refills my wine glass promptly all night. When another fellow asks me to dance, Scott leans against the wall and watches.
After the party, I invite Scott back to my place for tea. He slumps low in the couch while I stumble around the room preparing and serving. Several times he opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is “Um.”
“What is it?” I slump down beside him and let my dress slide up my legs.
“Nothing.” But he avoids my gaze. For once I do not feel responsible for the discomfort of others. The wine has thickened my skin and I am light and giggly. We talk until late and he takes a cab home.
I check my e-mail first thing the next morning and there is a message from him. He had a great time. He did want to tell me something. He is going to Brunei to visit a woman he met while working on Eco-Challenge. He worries that he gave me the wrong idea. I e-mail him back, wish him luck and reassure him. I ask him if he is bringing home a wife. He responds, “Good question.”
I go back to being Jim’s widow.