chapter fifteen

“David, good morning.” Dr. Jaspers reached out and shook Dave’s hand.

“Good morning to you,” Dave replied as he settled in. He hated the small talk. She seemed to enjoy it. Today he stepped around it. “So, what do we talk about?”

“Let’s start with the things that frustrate you.” The doctor’s question was a fair one.

“I go crazy when people say to my face that I’m still young, that I’ll get married again. Like age matters, like some other woman could replace Megan, like the act of being married was the thing that was most important—not the person.”

She nodded her agreement. “What else?”

“I hate it when people tell me that they know how I feel. No one knows how I feel. They don’t understand the moments that I shared with Megan and the children. They haven’t a clue what my family meant to me—they simply can’t. They shouldn’t say they know what I’m going through—they don’t.”

Although Dave often felt the doctor was controlling, and he still despised being forced into the sessions, he couldn’t deny that their conversations were helpful, even soothing. He continued, “I suppose you’re going to tell me to cut them some slack, that the people who say those things are only trying to help.”

“Aren’t they?”

“I guess so. It’s just confusing. How do you control yourself when you’re feeling two opposite emotions—disdain and gratitude—both at the same time?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, David, or on others. It’s a painful process, so try to be patient.”

Her answer was indirect, not really an answer at all. Perhaps there was no answer.

“David, during our last visit you said that you were going to clean out some of Megan’s personal things from the house. Have you done that yet?”

“No. I’ve been busy at work.”

“I want to prepare you for the experience. When you do find the time, it can be difficult.” She stood and adjusted the thermostat, then added, “You said that work has been busy—I’m glad to see you’re getting involved again. I am concerned, however, that you’re using it to hide your feelings, to smooth them over rather than face them.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m facing them . . . little by little.” His words were paced and steady.

“David, if you feel that working hard will assist in easing the pain, then I don’t see a problem with it. I’m just saying that you need to be careful that you don’t let it get in the way of healing.”

“That sounds just like something my mother would have said.” His tone mocked, but she accepted the comparison.

The alarm on his watch sounded. He used it to limit the length of their conversations—an excuse to get back to the office.

“The fact that you are able to reason through these feelings, David, that you are able to talk about them now—I think you’re making progress.”

He nodded his satisfaction, stood, and shook her hand. He thanked her again for her help and insight. On his way out, but before the door had closed, he confirmed what both already knew.

“See you on Friday?”

• • •

The game had been fabulous. With the Mets behind by one in the bottom of the ninth, and a runner on second base, their third baseman nailed a line drive to the shortstop. The ball bounced off his glove, and the runner on second rounded third to head for home. It was close, but the umpire yelled safe and the game was tied. At a two-and-two count, the next batter connected solidly, hammering the ball toward right field. It seemed to hang in the air, as if hesitating, but perhaps encouraged by the roaring crowd dropped just out of reach over the fence for one of the most memorable walk-off home runs Mets fans had ever witnessed.

It was nearly eleven before Brock’s car stopped in front of Dave’s house in Jamesburg. “What a game,” Brock announced for the umpteenth time.

Dave agreed, the mood celebratory. “I’m gonna run in and see if they show highlights on the news. I still can’t believe Westman’s play at the plate.”

The evening had been refreshing: no sentimentality, no discussions about pain or loss or anger—just an evening of hot dogs, beer, and baseball.

“What’s your plan for tomorrow?” Brock asked. “Do you wanna pick up some women?”

Dave laughed. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Believe it or not, I made a haircut appointment for tomorrow morning—and on my own, I might add. After that, I’ve got some yard work to do.”

“A haircut? Way to go! But don’t strain yourself mowing. Your big meeting’s on Monday.”

“Nine a.m. in the conference room.”

“See you then.”

The friends slapped hands, then Dave stepped out and closed the car door. The night was gorgeous. He stood in the street and watched Brock drive away, and as the purr of the engine faded into the darkness, Dave wondered if there could be a more exhilarating sound in all the world. He grabbed the mail out of the box and wandered toward the house. The neighborhood was quiet, and he considered sitting on the porch for a bit to drag out the moment, until he checked the time—just after eleven. News would run for another ten minutes; then he could catch the sports recap.

He pushed his key into the lock, opened the door, and switched on the inside entry light. A flash startled him as the fixture’s last bulb blew. He’d been meaning to replace the two that were already burned out. “Nothing like darkness to force a guy into action,” he mumbled.

He felt his way into the kitchen, clicked on the light, and opened the pantry door. Where were the extra bulbs? None there. He stepped to the island and pulled open the junk drawer. Every home had one, a place for odd tools and one-of-a-kind parts that fit nothing (until after they were thrown away). He rifled through the junk, but no bulbs.

He glanced at his watch. He still had time to check the hall closet where Megan kept the cleaning solutions. Nothing. Thinking maybe she kept the bulbs up high where the kids wouldn’t break them, he pulled aside a black plastic bag that took up most of the top shelf. If he didn’t hurry, he would miss the replay of Westman’s slide.

And then an unexpected smell caught his attention.

He pulled out the bag and tore it open. It had been such a good day, a needed day, that it took a minute for the demons he’d unleashed from inside to escape and then assault.

The leather jacket was thick and soft, the construction solid. The smell seemed to rise and circle before constricting around his neck and chest. When he turned the jacket over, he noticed the subtle Harley-Davidson logo embossed in black on the left sleeve. An envelope slid out that Dave managed to catch before it hit the floor. The flap was tucked inside; Megan hated the taste of the glue. He pulled out the card and stared—a funny card, she always bought a funny card.

There was a dog on the front and words that read, “Howl old are you again?”

Another day, another time, perhaps he’d have read the punch line and laughed. Not today. The only place his eyes focused was on Megan’s handwritten message.

Hey, Ponytail Man,

Don’t be sad, honey, about turning forty. You have your whole life ahead of you. I’m just grateful you chose me to share it with you.

Enjoy the jacket, but don’t get any ideas! Have a wonderful birthday! You are the love of my life, a life that would be incomplete without you!

Forever,

Meg

P.S. Remember, no matter what, I’ll always be younger!

It should have been a special gift—it could have been. Why did he think the pain wouldn’t return, cutting his heart like a razor? He dropped to the floor, the jacket clutched in his fingers. Heaving sobs rushed in to replace the space abandoned by the day’s happiness.

On hands and knees, Dave crawled to the cherrywood cabinet and grappled for the closest bottle—it didn’t matter what. Then, whiskey in hand, he cowered along the wall to the waiting darkness of the hall, where he began to drink . . . drink and forget.