BY MID-NOVEMBER, the weather has shifted again and the snow from Remembrance Day melted away. It’s now been six weeks since Sam’s death and I’ve been deemed sane enough to stay at home alone. With the constantly ringing phone, drop-in visitors, requests for coffee, appointments, writing and relentless thinking, I figure when bedtime rolls around, I’ll be too tired to notice no one’s in the spare room. That Sam isn’t in bed beside me, however, is still a significant source of concern.

I meet up with Mark and Charlie for lunch to discuss the funds being raised in Sam’s memory.

“I appreciate all you’ve done,” I tell them. “But I’m really concerned we do the right thing with the money.”

“Then let’s take our time,” Charlie says.

“Pin sales are going well,” adds Mark. “Ten thousand bucks so far.”

“That’s a lot of cash,” I say, taking a mammoth bite of my chicken sandwich.

Charlie nods. “And a lot of court time.”

Sam had cashed in most of his court time to pay for our California vacation. So, since officers were donating their court time to Sam’s fund that meant their hard-earned money wasn’t going to family holidays or buying braces for their kid’s teeth. Maybe that’s why the earlier meeting had upset me so much. The money donated by police officers should go back to the police community—not college students.

I devour a fork full of fries, followed by a swig of beer. “This is weird, isn’t it? Me having lunch with you guys, instead of Sam?”

“You eat as much as he did,” Charlie teases.

Mark smiles. “Or more.”

“Hah hah. By the way,” I say to Mark, “I did tell Sam you wanted to meet him for lunch.”

He nods. Charlie looks at him.

“Adri took a report from me right before they went on vacation,” says Mark.

I nod. “It ended up being my very last one.”

“There are more than a thousand cops in this city,” Charlie says, flipping his thumb toward Mark. “What are the chances your last report would be from this clown?”

Pretty slim, I’d say…signpost-slim.

BACK HOME, I’m flipping through the mail for sympathy cards when I see a large envelope from the wolf conservation organization Sam and I belong to. Thinking that reading about Nakoda, the radio-collared wolf we’ve sponsored for the past three years, might cheer me up, I open the envelope.

Nope. A hunter had shot her on September 22nd—the day Sam and I had been at Disneyland. Through my tears, I read how the nine-year-old alpha female had been sighted outside the small, protected area allotted to wolves. Since the hunter hadn’t noticed the collar around her neck, identifying her off limits for hunting, he’d shot her. For several weeks, her pups and pack-mates had repeatedly returned to the den site, either searching for her or grieving her death. Oh, how I can relate.

I phone the Hope chaplain. “This,” I sob, “hurts.”

“I bet. I noticed you have a lot of pictures of wolves in your home.”

“Yeah…we both liked them.”

Then he says, “Maybe Nakoda is now Sam’s companion, just as Sasha is yours.”

It’s OK for me to say weird shit like this but when other people do, it really does sound ridiculous. “Maybe,” I say. “But let me guess: this, too, is part of God’s plan and therefore none of my business to figure out?”

“Not necessarily,” is his reply.

I DECIDE it might not be a bad idea to have Sasha blessed after all. Sam is dead; Nakoda is dead; I’ll be dead in six months. The least I can do is save our dog.

The following Tuesday, I march my mother and Sasha downtown to church. My Anglican reverend—the man who married me and Sam—has agreed to bless her, even though we’re now two months past the “blessing of the animals”  ceremony. But when he leans over to touch Sasha’s head, she snaps and snarls at him. I struggle to hold her back, apologizing profusely. Then I take my seat in the pew and Sasha climbs up beside me. I can almost hear Sam laughing.

After the service, I ask the reverend to explain the difference between the soul and the spirit.

He thinks about this. “I would say that the spirit is the life force of the soul.”

“Ah, yes…” I reply, nodding as another long-lost truth clicks into place.

Then he asks me how I’m doing.

I flash him a big smile. “Not bad.”

“Honestly?”

I blush. “Well, it’s up and down.”

As we’re leaving the church, my mom tells me she’s glad we came today. “And I put in a prayer for the polar bears, too,” she adds.

I stop walking. “Why?”

“Because they’re not in very good shape, Adri.”

My stomach tightens. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to upset you.”

“Too late.”

“Well, some are starving,” she says, “because the ice isn’t frozen long enough for them to hunt seals.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Because of global warming.”

“Like I need to hear this,” I snap, as yet another issue gets added to my to-do list.

We walk in silence until we come to a small gift store where, in the window, I spot drink coasters made of slate—each with a different Chinese character and corresponding element written in English.

“Hey!” I cry, “It’s the earth, wind, fire, water thing again.”

“Oh?”

“From the retreat I went to last month,” I explain. “I’m water, and Sam is earth.”

She goes inside the store and buys me the coasters.

At home, I put the water coaster beside my big chair and the earth coaster where Sam used to place his cup, on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“There,” I say to my mom, “that’s better.”

“Um…are you sure you’re OK staying here on your own?”

“Uh huh.”

“I think you’re doing marvelous, Adri. It’s just that—”

“Mom, do you believe in Jesus?”

“That’s a very personal question.”

I shrug. “Then don’t answer it.”

She thinks a moment then says, “I think of Jesus as my friend.”

“So, you do believe in Him then?”

“Of course.”

MY NEXT visitors are two co-workers, lugging a cooler full of frozen food and a large gift-wrapped box, which I immediately unwrap. It’s a table-top water fountain. They help me set it up on the fireplace hearth.

After they leave, I settle into my chair and revel in the wide selection of coping mechanisms from which I can now choose. I can chant God is Love; drink sherry; pop sleeping pills; eat cookies; kiss Sam’s earth coaster and photos; fantasize about seeing him again in heaven, Nakoda by his side; or watch water trickling over my new fountain.