Twenty-five

Dear Daddy, I wrote that night when I woke at 2:30 A.M. and couldn’t go back to sleep.

I miss you so much. I’ve never believed in an afterlife but I can’t bear the thought that you are just gone. I need to feel that you’re still with me. Sometimes I feel you watching me. But I want something tangible. I want a sign.

Tonight I had a dream that I was transporting your body somewhere, I don’t know where. I knew you were dead but you were sitting in a chair, a wheelchair-type thing with a high back. You reached up and rubbed your nose. I stared at you for a minute and then I said, “Daddy, are you okay?” and you said, “My nose itches,” and I said, “But you’re dead,” and you said, “I know.”

We talked for a while, I don’t know what about, and then I said, “I wish you weren’t dead,” and you said, “I know you do, honey, but it’s really better this way. I’m okay.” I said, “I love you so much, Dad,” and you said, “I love you, too, honey.” And then I woke up. I cried a little but really, I feel sort of peaceful cuz you said you were okay.

Was that my sign?

I love you,

Libby

I sat at my desk waiting for my answer. The house was still. Rufus was still asleep on my bed. The furnace purred, the refrigerator hummed, I heard a siren far off in the distance. If any of that was a sign, it was too subtle for me.

I didn’t feel sleepy enough to go back to bed so I went to my computer, where I was pleased to see an e-mail from Patrick. It was like sunlight seeping inside, embracing me.

Libby,

How’d the session go? I hope it was worthwhile. And not too tough. I remember the first one I went to, I didn’t think I’d go back—all those people sitting around emoting was a little much for me—but the next day I felt calmer. So I did go back. And I’m glad I did. It was a good thing for me.

I have to tell you this, Lib, and that is that I’m worried about you. One thing I remember from the group I went to—the woman who led it said we shouldn’t make any big decisions in our lives for at least a year. That keeps going through my mind. I’ve hesitated saying anything because I don’t want to piss you off by butting in where I don’t belong. I’ve been going back and forth, having conversations with you in my mind, and I decided that since I’m your friend I’m just going to tell you what I’m thinking and you can ignore it if you want.

Getting married is a big change. I know you and Michael have been together for a while, but still … you live separately, and even though you’re a couple you’re still single. So I’m just bringing it up as something for you to think about. I’m not recommending anything one way or the other, I just want you to think about the decisions you’re making now and be sure you’re not rushing into something out of your grief and a need to put things in some kind of order. I think the kicker for me was the house thing. Wow. That sort of freaked me out.

So there it is. I hope you’re not upset by my words. I promise I won’t mention it again.

Love,

Patrick

What the hell was with everybody? Why did my decision seem so right to me while people all around me saw it so differently? I wasn’t angry with Patrick for saying what he did. But I didn’t answer him either. I did add a P.S. to the letter to my father, though.

Here’s what I need to know, Dad: You’re happy I’m marrying Michael, right?

I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of Pinot Grigio. I looked into it and studied it for several moments. For what? My dad’s face reflecting back at me? Maybe a big “Yes” or “No” written in clouds on the surface? But it was just wine. So I took it to the living room, curled up on the couch with the afghan and contemplated the fact that I was past middle age, practically a senior citizen, and still felt like a lost child.