JANUARY 11th, 2001
THE DOORBELL wakes me in the morning. Wearing Sam’s boxer shorts and Hawaiian shirt, I stumble downstairs to answer the door. Standing on my front porch is the detective in charge of Sam’s investigation, final police report in hand.
He takes one look at me. “We don’t have to do this today.”
“I’m OK.”
“Honestly, Adri, I can come back another time.”
I give him the wave. “I can handle it.”
He frowns. “I’m going to stay here with you while you read the report.”
I go into the kitchen to start coffee then join him in the living room.
“Now, I’ve covered up all the photographs of…” He coughs and hands me the document. “Well, that I don’t think you need to see.”
“Thank you.”
As I begin reading the report, it occurs to me that typing up incident reports had been my job; understanding and questioning the investigative findings from Sam’s death seems to be my work. Plus, it’s the least I can do, considering the transgression of the heart committed last night. Only, what’s the first thing I notice reading through the list of officers who were at the scene? That the digits of Tom’s regimental number also add up to eleven. What are the odds of this?
After reading through the witness statements given by police officers, paramedics, firefighters and hospital staff, I look at the detective. “It was over very quickly for Sam, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Then I read through the scene exam and investigative details. “Do you think Sam thought he was stepping from one safe surface to another safe surface?” I ask.
“Sam is the only person who could answer that question.”
“I’m only asking for your opinion.”
He nods. “Sam stepped to the side of the ceiling, where there was a beam but unfortunately it wasn’t wide enough for his boot.”
I think about this. “Are you saying that maybe he knew it was a false ceiling—and was stepping to the side for better footing?”
“We’ll never know that either. It was dark, Sam had his flashlight out, he was looking for an intruder and had every reason to believe there was one in the building.”
“In other words,” I say, “he was just trying to do his goddamn job.”
“That’s right. And both you and I know that Sam was very good at what he did.”
“Would a safety railing have saved his life?” I ask.
“Again, I can’t answer that question with absolute certainty.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “How about with some certainty then?”
“Yes. It would have.”
“And the alarm—what happened with the follow-up on that?”
“The employee insisted he heard an unusual sounding alarm when he came into work that morning. But the alarm company has checked the system thoroughly and it was not malfunctioning. The employee may have been mistaken about what he’d heard.”
I throw up my hands.
“Adri, quite often during an investigation, there’s one piece of the puzzle that just doesn’t fit—so we have to focus on all the pieces that do.”
SINCE I can’t force the missing piece of the investigation to materialize, I instead direct my energies into putting back together the pieces of my own life. I spend my days crying, walking Sasha, reading, writing a little, crying, feeling guilty, kissing Sam’s photos, daydreaming about Tom, returning the occasional phone call, and crying some more. I also begin to put some of Sam’s things away. The last towel he’d touched still hangs in our bathroom. I hold it up against my face then gently place it in the laundry basket. I move his deodorant and cologne from the bathroom counter to under the sink. Each act is another little goodbye and I’m not even throwing or giving anything away; I’m just changing its location in our home. For some reason, however, I can’t bring myself to move his calculator and copy of the police contract with the City from where they sit on the back of the toilet.
As the end of January approaches so too does my three-month leave from the police service. “When are you going back to work?” I am asked over and over again.
I want to reply that I am working my ass off, thank you very much. Grieving, writing about it, and trying to figure out what to do about the circumstances surrounding Sam’s death is the toughest work I’ve ever done—especially since I’m trying to do it inside a goldfish bowl with people constantly tapping on the glass.
Gawker 1: Look at the little widow swimming around in circles!
Gawker 2: Gee…do you think she needs more food?
Gawker 1: Actually, she’s looking pretty chunky. Have you been feeding her?
Gawker 2: Yeah.
Gawker 1: Whoops! So, have I.
“I’m writing a book,” I tell the inquiring masses.
“Uh huh,” is the usual response. “But when are you going back to work?”
I phone the head of Records to request a year off, explaining I need more time to sort everything out.
“Take as long as you want,” she says.
“I appreciate that.”
“I hear you’re writing a book.”
“I’m trying to.”
“I think that’s wonderful!”
“Thank you.”
“Adri?”
“Yeah?”
“Go to your destiny.”
But since I don’t know where my destiny is, I go to Sam’s—every few days. While hanging out at his grave, I’ve taken to smoking the wine-tipped cigars he used to like. Since I’m a dreadfully naughty widow, dreaming of a new lover when the old one hasn’t been dead four months, smoking fits my new bad girl self-image.
In late January, I pay a visit to the psychologist to run the Tom-thought, occurring with increasing frequency, by him.
“I don’t know what your future holds,” he says, “but right now, I’d say you’re still very much grieving the loss of Sam.”
“So how do I control my thoughts?”
He suggests I think of a recurring thought as a tangible entity and when I find myself thinking about something I’m not ready to deal with, gently push it away.
“For good?” I ask.
“Not necessarily. Assign a timeframe if you want…say a few months.”
I’m sure this is a very useful tool—but I don’t want to use it. I enjoy the quasi-good feeling that accompanies romantic daydreaming. It sure as hell beats grieving. As I’m leaving the psychologist’s office, the I-am-Jesus-thought pops into my head again.
“Let’s say a thought comes back and I am ready to deal with it. Is it OK to use a baseball bat?”
He smiles. “If that’s what’s needed, sure.”