Chapter Thirty-Four

Inga had left immediately after the interment and was waiting when Deidre walked into her kitchen. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Deidre was exhausted. Inga took her hand and looked into her eyes.

“I won’t ask how you are doing. I know the answer. You’re exhausted, numb, and wanting to change into some comfortable clothes. Go change, and I’ll have a cup of tea ready for you.”

Slowly, Deidre pulled herself up the stairs and slipped out of her black dress. She put on a sweatsuit and pulled her hair back with a headband. The last thing she did was to slide the ring off her finger, the ring John had given her only weeks ago. She placed it in the small jewelry box she had brought with her and closed the lid. Deidre looked at her bare finger and clenched her fist until her knuckles turned white. No tears formed.

Inga had made tea, and they sat on her couch, sipping the hot brew. “Did I ever tell you about my husband, Eric?” she asked.

A pang of guilt flooded Deidre for a second. She had lived next to Inga for over ten years, and not once had she asked about her personal life. It hadn’t dawned on her that Inga would have had someone before the two of them had met.

“I’m so sorry. I just never thought to ask,” Deidre apologized. “I’ve been so wrapped up in myself all these years I haven’t been a very good neighbor.”

“Goodness, don’t say that. You’ve brought me a great deal of joy. Your flower gardens and the birds they attract, watching you and John fall in love, knowing the success you’ve made of your life, all of these things have brightened my days. I owe you so much.”

“Tell me about your husband,” Deidre invited.

“Your John reminded me so much of my Eric. He was tall—and handsome, and that isn’t just me talking. I think other women were envious. And he treated me with such love and kindness. We were as much in love as were you and John. He proposed to me on Valentine’s Day. I know that’s cliché, but that’s what happened. We were married in June of 1965. Eric was twenty-two, and I was only nineteen, but we were deliriously happy.

“We talked of having a family but decided to put that off until we could afford it. At that time the railroad was hiring again. The ore docks were going full swing, and Eric was fortunate to be hired. He worked in maintenance, doing welding and repair work on those huge chutes you see on the sides of the docks.

“It was late October of 1968. Eric was working the afternoon shift, the one from three to eleven. He kissed me goodbye and said to not wait up for him. He thought he might have to work overtime, because something had to be fixed by morning. Around midnight I received a call from the foreman of his crew. The poor man could hardly speak he was so upset. He told me Eric had been getting ready to lower his equipment over the side of the dock, when they heard a whistle frantically sound. The airbrakes on one of the ore cars had let go, and the full car was hurtling down the track. It rammed one of the empties sitting on the dock, and even though the empty weighed many tons, it was hurled into the air. Eric was crushed by its massive weight. I thought my life would end with his that day. So I know what you are going through, believe me, I know.”

Deidre sat silently, not quite knowing how to respond. Finally, she asked, “How did you survive?”

“First, don’t be fooled into thinking you’ll get over it. Oh, I know people will tell you that, but those words are spoken by people who haven’t been there. You’ll never get over it. The sharp pains will subside, but you are going to be forever changed, accept that. Second, don’t curl up in your own little world. Force yourself to get out every day and be with people. It’ll be difficult, and there’ll be times when you think you won’t make it, but you will, and you will be stronger for it. Third, follow your instinct as to what’s best for you. No one else has a magic formula. When people tell you that you’re not yourself, tell them, ‘No, I’m not, and I’ll never be again. I’m a new me. Get used to it.’” Inga chuckled a little at that thought, remembering the first time she had said that to a critic.

Deidre sat in silence, thinking. She finally said, “Thank you, Inga, for all that you’ve done. If it is okay, I’d like to go to my room. I want to think about what you just said.”

 

 

Deidre slept in the next morning, something she seldom did. It was nearly nine when she jerked awake, and a moment of panic swept over her. She broke out in a sweat, until she was able to clear her head. She buried her face in her pillow, cursed into it, sobbed into it. Eventually, she could cry no more, and she went into the bathroom to clean up.

Each new day felt unbelievably strange to her. How should she be acting? What should she be feeling? She decided she would travel to Duluth and take a walk at Canal Park, maybe have lunch at the little Vietnamese restaurant close to the canal.

Inga had been up for hours and had eaten breakfast earlier. She was already contemplating what she would fix for lunch.

“Good morning, Inga,” Deidre said, trying to sound less burdened. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drive into Duluth. I haven’t been down to Canal Park for ages, and I’d like to spend some time by the lake. I’ll catch lunch down there, so don’t fix anything for me. I’ll try to be home by early evening, unless you need me for anything.”

Inga looked at her and smiled. “Do what you have to do for yourself. If you try to please others right now, even me, it’ll only prolong your recovery, so go, have a peaceful day.”

On the way to Duluth, Deidre thought of the advice Inga had given her the night before. She mulled over the thoughts she had been having the last two or three days, and she was almost certain she knew what she had to do.

Traffic in Duluth was light, and she reached the park sooner than she had expected. Parking was no problem. It was the middle of the week. Students were in school, and few tourists visited the area in October.

It was one of those rare perfect days in Duluth. Lake Superior was as flat as glass, and the temperature was nearly sixty-five degrees. When Deidre stepped out of her car, she inhaled deeply and let the fresh lake air fill her lungs. Then she walked out on the breakwater and stood by the waist-high concrete sidewall.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud blast of an air horn and a bell clanging its warning. The steel-girder frame of the lift bridge spanning the canal began to rise. Deidre wondered what it must be like to be the operator sitting in his tiny control booth on the bridge itself. Every time the bridge traveled to its apogee, he went with it. The view must be spectacular from up there, she thought.

A half-mile out in the lake an ore boat was approaching, and Deidre leaned on the concrete abutment, waiting for it to come through the narrow entry to the Duluth-Superior harbor. The boat captain and the bridge operator communicated with each other with a series of horn blasts. Deidre thought they made a lonely duet.

The boat came directly at her, and then slipped past, its blunt prow peeling back the water and creating a white, frothy wake. It was the Edgar Speere, one of the Great Lakes’ thousand-footers. Deidre had watched it dock in Two Harbors many times.

The massive hull took more than a minute to slide past, and as she watched the stern disappear, the captain made his turn into the far reaches of the harbor. She watched the bridge return to ground level and saw traffic begin to move steadily across its deck.

For the next hour, Deidre sat on a bench, watching herring gulls swoop over the water, and she wondered what it would be like to be so oblivious to the cares of the world, to be free. They were carefree, wheeling into steep dives and the next minute catching the wind off the lake and effortlessly soaring into the sky. She watched as one skimmed the surface of the lake and came up with a small fish crosswise in its beak.

What would it be like to be oblivious to mortality? she wondered.

Deidre thought of her plan. She thought about John’s killer or killers.

By three-thirty, when she started to feel hungry, it dawned on her that she hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening. It took her ten minutes to walk to the restaurant she planned on visiting, and by the time she was seated, it was too late for most people to be having lunch, too early for supper. She was the only customer.

An elderly Vietnamese lady came to her table. “Can I get you tea?” she asked, her voice sing-song with an Asian accent.

Deidre smiled. “Yes, please.” The owner of the restaurant disappeared and returned with a small teapot.

“It is jasmine. Good.” Her face broke into an infectious, broad grin. She handed Deidre a menu.

“That’s all right. I know what I want. I’d like an order of your shrimp egg foo young and two Vietnamese egg rolls.”

The lady explained that their egg foo young was different than most, that it was steamed rather than fried.

“I know, John and I . . .” She caught herself. “I’ve eaten here often. You serve the best Asian food.” The waitress beamed.

When the woman left with the order, Deidre put her face in her hands, feeling the pain of what she had almost said. As she sat waiting for her food, she couldn’t stop the emotion of knowing how differently it felt to be sitting there, alone. She saw people walking by the window, talking, laughing, and she wanted to rush out and scream, “What are you doing? Don’t you know John’s dead?”

In minutes, her food arrived. Deidre was surprised at how hungry she was, and she had almost finished her serving before she realized how rapidly she was stuffing the food into her mouth. She was finishing her last egg roll when the waitress brought her the bill along with a fortune cookie. She opened it and read. “Answers belong to those who act.” Deidre nodded in agreement and took the bill to the cash register. “Thank you, and come again,” the Asian lady said.

Deidre stopped at John’s mother’s apartment, but no one answered the door when she knocked. She hoped Jeanette was with friends, visiting, being comforted as Inga had done and would continue to do for her.

She drove home slowly, taking Old Highway 61 that followed closely by the lake. She passed the small cafe where she and John had enjoyed so many gourmet meals together, and a wave of despair swept over her. She knew she would never be able to dine there again. The rest of the ride was filled with memories triggered by each bend in the road.

It was after suppertime when she arrived home at Inga’s. The two women sat up late into the night, talking. Eventually, Deidre told Inga what she intended to do, what she thought she must do.

“I’ve decided I can’t just sit around. What will I do? If I try to be active, all I can do is walk around town or in the country. I have no desire to work in my flower garden. Otherwise, I suppose I could stay inside and read, but that won’t be healthy for me either. And anyway, I can’t concentrate enough these days to absorb what I read.

“I’ve decided the best thing I can do is go back to work. I’ll be with friends there, and my duties will take my mind off my troubles.” She saw Inga begin to say something and cut her off. “I know it sounds foolish, but I’ve made up my mind.”

“My dear,” Inga said, “It isn’t foolish at all. Everyone grieves in their own way and at their own pace. Listen to your inner voice and obey what it tells you. The time for grief will come, perhaps when you least expect it, but it will come. Whenever that is, you will become sharply aware of your loss, but until then, you must keep living. Just be aware that grief will rear its vicious head sooner or later, and when it does, let it out.”

Deidre was silent for a while and then excused herself. That night she cried herself to sleep, wondering if she was making a mistake, but the next morning she put on her uniform and headed for her office.