AT THE end of January, the K-9 officer comes by for a visit. “I remember you mentioning that you wanted to meet the dog that was working with me and Sam that night.”

I follow him out to his car and, after snapping and snarling at me through the glass, the police dog cheers up considerably once out of the vehicle. He gives me a quick sniff then proceeds to pee all over the front lawn.

“He’s just marking his territory,” the officer explains.

But inside the house, Sasha’s going nuts at the window. That’s her territory he’s marking. The K-9 officer puts the dog back into the car then comes inside for a coffee. I ask him about the night Sam died.

“When I arrived at the warehouse,” he begins, “Tom, Sam and his teammates were waiting outside for me. I looked straight at Sam and said, ‘You. Let’s go!’”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Why Sam?” I ask. Then I take a huge drink of water, my thirst returned.

“Because he was the best person for the job. We went in and Sam went up the ladder and a couple of minutes later, I saw him fall through the ceiling. I yelled into the radio what had happened and then ran looking for him.”

The K-9 officer pauses, running his hand through his hair. “I found him in the lunchroom and started CPR. It took a few minutes for Sam’s team to find us and when they did my dog went berserk with all the chaos, so two of the teammates had to take over CPR. Then Tom took control of the scene and I remember watching him, directing everyone what to do…it was amazing to see a leader like that in action, especially when you consider how close he was to Sam.”

Oh boy.

“Thank you for getting Sam’s breathing going again,” I finally say. “Not only did that mean his organs could be donated, which in turn saved other people’s lives, it also meant that I was able to spend his last day with him.”

The officer looks at the linoleum then back at me. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

“OK.”

“About a month before Sam fell, I was clearing a building with another K-9 officer and his dog, which meant I was the one searching the upstairs level. One minute I was walking along and the next, I was sitting on some guy’s desk one floor down.”

“Huh?”

“I fell through a false ceiling a month before Sam did.”

I give him the goldfish.

“But I wasn’t hurt,” he continues, “so I just got up, kept going and didn’t think anything more about it…until Sam fell.”

“Didn’t you have to file some sort of report?”

“Yeah but that was the end of it. There are thousands of unsafe buildings in this city. Until Sam died, I just accepted that was part of our job.”

“And now?”

“I don’t.”

I think of the map in Sam’s duty bag. Are unsafe workplaces the “bad guy” issue?

“I also wanted to tell you,” he continues, “that I really appreciated the letter you wrote me last fall. I showed it to my wife and we both thought it was the nicest letter we’ve ever read.”

He stands up. “In fact, I keep it with me whenever I’m working. If that’s what you can do with a letter, Adri, then the book you’re writing will move mountains.”

WHEN THE phone starts ringing at nine the next morning, I don’t answer it. I don’t putter around the house, rearranging knick-knacks and kissing photos of Sam. I don’t think about the calls I ought to be returning and the months’ worth of unopened mail. I don’t stare at the water fountain thinking about writing nor do I daydream about Tom. I sit down at the computer to do my job. Sam’s breathing wasn’t the only thing the K-9 officer kick-started—he just got me writing again.

IN THE first week of February, I go for lunch with Charlie and Mark.

“I think I’ve figured out a way we could give some of the money raised in Sam’s memory back to the police community,” I say.

Charlie nods. “Let’s hear it.”

“Well, they’ve renamed Sam’s district’s Leadership Award in his name. So how about we give the annual recipient some sort of cash award along with the plaque?”

“Hmmm…” is the collective response from across the table.

“Since our holiday in Disneyland turned out to be so significant to me,” I explain, “it might be kinda cool to give the recipient time away with his or her family. For as much as Sam loved his work, being a police officer hasn’t provided me with the greatest memories. In fact, I’ve actually got a fairly shitty reminder of his dedication. What has given me comfort is our last vacation together.”

Charlie leans back. “Like a weekend away or something like that?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“And the purpose,” Mark clarifies, “is to encourage spending time together, as a couple or a family or whatever, away from the stresses of work?”

“Uh huh.”

“Then we’d need to make it very clear what attributes are recognized,” he says.

Charlie nods. “Since the award is in memory of Sam, then the recipient ought to reflect what he stood for.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Integrity,” Mark replies. “And honour.”

“And courage and dedication,” adds Charlie.

Mark nods. “Sam always went beyond what was expected of him…he was committed to excellence.”

I jot down integrity, courage, honour, dedication and a commitment to excellence in my notebook.

Mark then suggests that we come up with some sort of symbol for the memorial fund that represents Sam. Charlie and I nod in agreement. But I have no idea what this symbol could be.

When I get home, I look up integrity in the dictionary for a reminder on the meaning: having the quality of honesty and the state of being whole. Mark was right. Sam had been an honest man—but not in the sense of always telling the truth. Rather, he’d been true to himself and because of that, he’d been real…authentic. Whole.

Sometimes, however, his determination to be true to himself had been a pain in the ass, especially when it came to being my husband. Case in point was Valentine’s Day.

“I love giving you gifts,” he’d say, “but not when you’re expecting them.”

He’d still usually end up giving in to the commercialism and spend a portion of Valentine’s Day lined up behind all the other procrastinators, waiting to buy chocolates. On occasion, though, he surprised me. When he was still a student and we were living in British Columbia, I came home on Valentine’s Day to find dozens of Hershey’s kisses in the shape of a heart on the kitchen table with a bouquet of pink tulips in the middle.

This year, so that I won’t be sitting at home alone on Valentine’s Day, staring at the fire and reflecting on all that is not, I join Cassie and Cam in celebrating their daughter’s first birthday. Once the festivities are underway, however, self-pity rears her ugly head yet again. How come I don’t get a husband or a child?

Around 9:00 p.m. I leave their house and go to the cemetery to have a cigar with Sam. Sobbing, I stumble in my stupid high-heeled boots to his grave.

“I fucking hate this!” I scream at his shiny, new headstone all the way from India.

I fall on my knees. “I miss you so much.”

Shaking from the cold, I mimic, in a horrible high-pitched voice, another oft-repeated comment made to me over the past five months: “Adri, I just can’t imagine what it would be like to be in your shoes.”

“Well,” I howl into the night, “come spend Valentine’s Day with the old widow—that’ll give you a pretty goddamn good idea.”

My teeth are chattering, my hands freezing, and I no longer feel my toes.

“And here’s another suggestion,” I continue, surprised at the bitterness in my voice, “stand here at his grave and pretend that instead of Sam’s name, it’s the name of the person you love the most in the world.”

My words disappear into the wind.

“Then let your imagination do the rest.”

As I watch the snow swirl around his headstone, it occurs to me that loving an unseen and possibly nonexistent entity called God is rather like me trying to love a cold slab of granite as if it were a living, breathing husband.

I stomp back to my car, turn on the ignition and hear Bette Midler on the radio, singing, “Wind Beneath My Wings.” My head slumps onto the steering wheel and I let the tears come.

On the slow, slippery drive home, I wonder if perhaps I ought to be less concerned with how Sam’s death has or hasn’t affected other people and more aware of how it’s affecting me—for I am downright wallowing in self-pity.

Home, I take two sleeping pills and escape for ten hours.

At the computer the next morning, I don’t write about Sam. For the first time, I find myself writing to him.

At 11:00 a.m., Tom calls. “I just wanted to see how you made out yesterday.”

My stomach flutters. “It was tough.”

“I bet.”

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

“Today is better, though,” I add.

“Adri?”

“Yeah.”

“It takes a great deal of energy to miss someone you know you’re never going to see again.”

I don’t know what to say to this.

Then I call Jodie to debrief, but her husband answers the phone.

“I’ve got a question for ya,” I say to him.

“Shoot.”

“What do you think Sam would say about me…you know, hooking up with another guy?”

Pause. “I know he wouldn’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life.”

“But let’s say that wherever Sam is, he can still see me. How would that work? I mean, he wouldn’t want to…you know, watch.”

“He won’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because when the time comes, Sam will just…I dunno, pull the shower curtain across.”

I laugh. “What?”

“Geez,” he says, “I have no idea why I just said that.”