“HOW GOES the battle?” the police psychologist asks me, as he’s my next appointment.

“I don’t think I’m winning.”

“How so?”

“I’m having some pretty bizarre thoughts.”

“Such as…”

“I think Sam knew he was gonna die that night.”

He nods. “OK. Why do you think that?”

I take a deep breath then let loose. “Well, I just had lunch with Amanda and she told me that Sam asked her to drive that night, which was totally uncharacteristic of him because he always drove—but that meant that he was the one reading the map that I found, open to the location of his fall, in his duty bag and now I’m wondering if that’s some sort of clue as to what we’re supposed to be doing with his memorial fund, and then Amanda also said that during their shift, Sam told her a story about the time he was nearly rear-ended by a semi and how he had some idea of what it must feel like right before you’re gonna die—and then he did die a coupla hours later! So not only was Sam possibly aware of his pending death, he’d specifically chosen to work with someone who would for sure pass on all the relevant information to me, so I’d know what to do.”

“That’s the most you’ve ever said to me, Adri.”

I nod and take a slug of water from my water bottle. Though this is our third visit, I guess I haven’t shared much—and certainly not the I-am-the-Second-Coming-of-Christ possibility.

I feel my cheeks flush. “That’s not my only wacky idea.”

“It’s perfectly normal to have strange thoughts,” he says, “especially after the shock you’ve experienced.”

I haven’t come across that one in the grief pamphlets.

“Although,” he continues, “it is important to remember that any thought you continue thinking can become a belief.”

I scrunch up my face, struggling to wrap my muddled mind around this concept.

The psychologist clears his throat. “I just need to ensure that what we’re referring to here doesn’t have anything to do with you harming yourself?”

Again with the suicide stuff. I’ll be dead by spring, but it won’t be by my own hand. “I told you before,” I say, “that’d be cheating. There are no shortcuts.”

“Good. Now do you have a close friend to talk to?”

“There doesn’t seem to be a shortage of people in my life.”

“But is there one person you share everything with, Adri?”

“That would be Sam.”

He tries a different approach. “Would you consider attending a grief group?”

I picture myself sitting in a circle of widows, revealing that I am the female incarnation of Christ. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to sit around listening to other people’s sad stories.”

“Grief groups are about sharing,” he says. “Some people find that valuable.”

But hearing about other people’s losses might lessen the significance of my own. This is about Sam and me. At this point, I don’t give a shit about what others are going through and I certainly don’t have the time or energy to listen to their crap.

The psychologist then asks me how I’m feeling about next month.

I shrug. “What about it?”

“Christmas…”

“Oh. I hadn’t gotten that far.”

“Well, you might find the season really tough without Sam,” he says. “After the death of a spouse, most people have a difficult time receiving Christmas cards addressed to both husband and wife.”

I stare at him.

“That’s just an example…”

Oh, how I wish I were worrying about Sam’s name on a goddamn envelope. I stand up. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Adri…”

I pick up my purse. “What?”

“Promise me,” he says, “you’ll talk to someone.”

WHEN I get home, I call Jodie to test the religious waters. “Have you read Revelations?”

Pause. “Uh…no.”

“Well,” I say, “It’s loaded with crazy symbolism and is totally dark and gloomy. I think it was written to scare us into smartening up.”

“Maybe. But who reads that stuff these days?”

“Actually, I’m reading a book about a group of people who are trying to interpret Revelations, so they can figure out when Armageddon will be and who’ll be involved. They’re using numerology to interpret historical events.”

“Why are you reading that?” she asks.

“I dunno. But for the record, I think the end of the world is a self-fulfilling prophecy. If we believe it’s all gonna end in a fiery mess anyway, then wouldn’t our actions lead us to that very ending?”

“I guess…”

“I also read in Revelations about a war breaking out in heaven, where Michael and his angels fight the bad guys. And there’s a white horse and its rider, called Faithful and True, who apparently save the day.”

Silence.

“What if Sam really is working in heaven?” I ask.

“Huh?”

“St. Michael is the archangel! Sam died on the Catholic celebration of St. Michael’s Day and his forty-day ceremony fell on the Greek Orthodox celebration of St. Michael. What if Michael needed Sam to help fight the bad guys?”

“Uh…”

I laugh nervously. “I’m losing it, aren’t I?”

“Not necessarily. I mean, I suppose anything is possible.”

I give the water fountain a wave. “Nah…I’m just making all this up because I can’t accept Sam’s death.”

“But you have accepted his death,” she says. “And now you’re just trying to figure out why.”

“I got my pictures back from our vacation.”

“Oh man, that must’ve been tough…”

“Yeah. But there’s a great shot of Sam on the merry-go-round at Disneyland—and he’s on a white horse.”

No reply.

“What if Sam is the rider on the white horse who’s gonna save the day?” I ask.

Pause. “What day?”

“Judgement Day!”

“I honestly don’t know,” Jodie replies carefully, “what I’m supposed to say.”

IN BED, numerology on my mind, I do an Adri-style calculation by adding up the digits in Sam’s regimental number. With his badge clutched against my chest, I turn out the light and whisper “eleven” into the darkness.