Today is my birthday and I hardly slept last night. My fingers drummed the same pattern over and over on my chest; my mind raced from topic to topic, from fear to fear. Fear of turning 35, fear of lying alone in my bed, fear of having a wound in my heart so grave that it will never heal, fear of spending my birthday without Jim. I miss waking up with Jim and having him say, “Happy Birthday, Susie,” and giving me a kiss and one of his romantic cards.
A friend meets me on the mountain and we ski the morning away under blue skies. It was supposed to be cloudy. From bump to bump, I jump and yahoo, pushing my skis as fast as I dare, so fast my eyes tear. I choke on the air rushing past and giggle with the excitement of flying. In the afternoon Habby and I cross-country ski around the lake for two hours. Friends and family phone to wish me well. I put one foot in front of the other. I shed layers like a snake, looking for that deeper core and the deep calm of an ocean beneath a pounding surf.
My chore today is to sort through all the e-mails people sent after Jim was killed. It’s difficult to delete them. Many I print out and put into the third scrapbook I have made of condolence letters. I don’t know what I would have done without the compassion of others to buoy me.
Valentine’s Day arrives. I ski with a bachelor friend, go out for dinner and invite him home to my place. We have sex. I lie very still afterward, shell-shocked. “These are experimental times,” I tell him. “Don’t take any of my reactions personally.” I feel awful about who I am and try to tell myself I am light and love. It doesn’t wash.
I call Terri and tell her I’ve had sex with someone I do not love. She says, “Shake it off.” I want to go away from everyone who might judge me, go away by myself to heal and come back. And I am desperate to make love with someone the way Jim and I made love.
The next day I ski for hours up the snowy hill to the summit of Whirlwind behind Whistler. Surrounded by mountains and blue sky, Jim flows through my body and I tingle with the intimacy. I power to the top and sit on the rock, inhale deeply and pull Jim right into my core. My ski buddies are specks below. For half an hour I enjoy being with Jim alone. Being in the mountains is the closest I feel to the Divine, that and being in love. My insides settle; the world makes sense. I don’t miss Jim, because I feel his sweet, gentle essence. With nothing but giant snow pillows in front of me, I ski short slalom turns until my quads ache. When I stop to catch my breath partway down, a bald eagle soars over me and glides effortlessly down the glacier. If I get any lighter, I will take off like that eagle.
Full of energy and confidence, I launch into organizing Jim’s books in the office. I agonize over every decision: what to keep, what to give away, what to throw out. Within an hour, I crave the feeling of being on top of the mountain with Jim, free. I want another high. I call my bachelor friend with no strings attached. But I get cold feet and when he arrives I will not fool around with him unless he can commit. I know I ask for the impossible. He asks, “Are you lonely?” I bite my lip and look away.
“I think it’s going to be really difficult for the first guy you have a relationship with.” He slaps his hands on his thighs.
“Why do you say that?”
“I mean, look at this place.” He swings his arm to encompass the living room and my gaze follows to the framed photos crowding every surface. “It’s a shrine in here.” His words try to flatten the photos as a gale bends a sapling. He pauses, “And you’re still wearing your wedding ring.”
I push my ring around my finger with my thumb. “Yes, hmm.” The photos and my ring link together and tug at my heart, creating a circle of desire to live in the past, when Jim and I laughed and hugged and kissed and planned for the future. What’s wrong with that? It’s natural to want to live in the past. Why wouldn’t I want to go back to where I was happy? I lower my head and cover my ring with my other hand.
I do not ask him to spend the night.
For two weeks I do not write in my journal. On Wednesday, March 21, almost two years after Jim was killed, I climb the stairs to my bedroom, wiggle my wedding ring off of my finger and lay it in a jewelry box. Like a robot, I appear back in the living room, my arms collect all of the framed pictures of Jim and me; I reappear in my bedroom where my hands place the photos on the bookshelf. I move back to the living room, almost brushing my hands together as if to say, “Well, that’s that.” I dare to look at the empty places left by the photos and my legs go numb and I lose peripheral vision. I grip the edge of the sideboard, sink to my knees and suck the truth into my heart in fitful sobs.
The subdivision I live in organizes a multi-house garage sale. For several hours I sort through buckets and buckets of Jim’s outdoor gear: eight tents, five pairs of skis, nine backpacks. Touching his clothing makes me feel the worst.
“It would be better if someone could just do it for you. Then it would be done,” my stepmom says.
But my counsellor disagrees. “I think it’s an important step for you to sort through Jim’s stuff yourself.” I want help but I don’t want it done for me. Mom Haberl comes up to sort through papers and photos with me.
Surrounded by boxes and accounts, she says, “You can't keep all of this stuff. You just can’t.” I am so relieved.
One day I turn on Jim’s computer to try to deal with all of his files. The screen goes blank as the hard drive crashes. At first I panic that I’ve lost something incredibly important, and then I laugh and look to the sky and say, “Thanks, Jim.”
I read Jim’s journal account of his trip to ski the Haute Route in France and Switzerland and I feel restless. On the second anniversary of his death, I fly to Europe and follow the same route with other guides for six days. Mom Haberl and several friends telephone the little mountain hut where I’m staying on April 29 to send love. After the ski trip, two of us drive south in France and rock climb. Back home in May, I ice climb for the first time using Jim’s tools. Then Habby and I jump in the car, drive for four days to meet Terri at a tennis camp in Utah and rock climb at Red Rocks, Nevada. On each adventure, I push myself and dare the hand of fate to snatch me. I want my old life back.