29

I stood on the brakes, screeching to a stop in front of my house. I grabbed the camera and went to the front door, opened it.

“Kevin!” My voice bounced back in the hollowness of the house. It mocked me. I turned my face to the ceiling and screamed. “Come out, Kevin! No hiding now. Now it’s my turn to shout.” I ran into the kitchen and tossed the camera onto the table. “It’s my turn to attack you. Come out, liar.”

My body shook with rage as the images on the camera flashed in my mind. The images I had carefully committed to memory.

“What have you got to say to me now, Kevin?” I swore into the silence.

Every step since Kevin’s death had to be retraced. I had grieved the wrong things, weighted the wrong losses, held the wrong regrets. Nursed the wrong memories.

I spun on my heels and made a fast dash for the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, I called out, “I’m coming for you, Kevin.”

At the top of the stairs I flung myself against the bedroom door. The frame cracked as the hinges pulled away from the wood. The door flew open so hard the doorknob punctured a hole in the wall.

I advanced to the closet and wrenched the doors open, exposing the soft cotton clothes inside. Kevin had claimed the largest portion of the closet, his silk shirts and ties, his expensive suit jackets needed “room to breathe” so they wouldn’t wrinkle. I grabbed at one of Kevin’s suits. The jacket pulled off easily, but the pants hung from the wooden rod. I snatched them up and threw them onto the floor behind me. I seized four silk shirts and the silk fabric ripped. I threw them on top of the jacket on the floor, grinned at the shirtless sleeve I held in my hand. I tossed it aside.

Once again I reached into the closet and grabbed a chunk of dress shirts and pulled. Bits of broken hangers flew out at my face, but I brushed them aside and threw the clothes over my head and onto the floor behind me.

I yanked on his tie rack and the nail of my index finger bent backward. I screamed in pain, but attacked the closet yet again. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as I reached in, feeling for anything that was his. I used the palms of my hands to push them off my face. “No more tears,” I said, then louder, “No more crying over you, Kevin! I won’t get it wrong this time.” I pulled down hard on the tie rack and the hanging end snapped off. I turned and hurled the rack across the room. It landed on the dresser, smashing into a framed photo of Kevin taken on our honeymoon, before sliding to the floor.

Panting, I turned and attacked the closet again. I reached deep inside; I took hold of another handful of clothes and pulled them down. A piece of plastic hanger broke loose and caught me on the cheek. I shrieked in outrage and pain. I gazed at the blood on my hand and howled like a mad dog.

I moved to the window and pushed it open. I used the heel of my hand to try to shove the screen out of its frame. It wouldn’t budge. I stepped back and in one swift motion flung my leg up and kicked the screen out of its frame. It flapped to the ground below, landing with a soft metal sound.

I stalked over to the middle of the room and grabbed up an armful of clothes. Back at the window I leaned out and shouted, “Talk to me now, Kevin!”

I threw the clothes out the window until they littered the front yard with fabric and broken hangers. Sweating, I snatched up another pile, then another, until nothing remained on the floor.

I swung around, scanning the room, and spied the broken picture frame and neckties near Kevin’s chest of drawers. Something under the bed caught my toe. I dropped to my knees and pulled out the leather-bound book on aviation I had given Kevin for our third wedding anniversary. It was thick with dust. Inside I had inscribed Just you and me, babe, forever. I pitched it out the window like a Frisbee.

Back at the bed I gathered up bedspread, sheets, and pillows. The faint scent of Kevin stuck to his pillow. I hurled it out the window and sent the rest of the bedding out behind it. I went back for the broken picture frame and scooped it up, cutting my hand on the broken glass. I flung it out the window, listening to the tinkle of glass far below.

I moved to his dresser and pulled open a drawer. His neatly folded clothes mocked me. I wrenched the drawer out from the dresser and dumped his tidy socks out the window. Then I heaved the drawer out the window after them. It hit the driveway with a satisfying crash. I grabbed the next drawer and heaved it out the window too. Two more drawers followed, each crashing on top of the one before it.

I stood, panting hard, and looking at the hollowed-out dresser. I dragged it to the window as if it weighed nothing. I tipped it, then lifted the bottom, then hurled it out the window. The crack it made when it hit the ground made me smile.

I stood at the open window and listened for his voice. Nothing.

I crawled to the closet and loaded my arms with Kevin’s shoes. They too were pitched onto the front lawn. At the back of the closet, lying like a puddle, was Kevin’s high school basketball jersey. Number three. He’d worn this jersey through four years and three championship games. He had called it his lucky shirt. I held it to my face, breathing in Kevin’s faint scent.

The worn material was soft and cool against my cheek. The deep forest green had long faded to a soft jade. He was wearing this jersey the first time I saw him. He had been shooting baskets in the gym when a friend and I peeked in to watch. We giggled and nudged each other every time he went for a jump shot. He was glorious. It was more than a jersey, more than a high school team uniform. He cherished this faded green tank. For him it represented all he was in his youth, and all he hoped to accomplish as an adult.

I carried it downstairs and into the kitchen. Holding the jersey tightly, I rummaged in a drawer until I found what I was looking for. I went back upstairs and sat in the middle of the bed I hadn’t touched in months. A sweet breeze blew into the room. I could hear birds—robins, I thought—singing. A great calm filled my mind. The fury had seeped from my body. I calmly held up Kevin’s prized jersey and used the kitchen scissors to cut it into dozens of small pieces.

When I was done, I scattered them around the stripped mattress and floor, cotton petals strewn over the funeral pyre of our bed. I stretched out on the bed. I listened to the silence for a few moments, and fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke to the sound of pounding. I blinked at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop. It did. I heard, instead, the sound of the front door opening. “Kate?” Blair’s voice. “Are you here? Are you all right?”

I sat up and raked my hand through my hair. Bits of green cloth fluttered down. Why wouldn’t I be all right? “I’m up here.”

Blair’s footsteps echoed up the stairs and then he appeared at the bedroom door. His face went from concern to horror as he looked around the room. Finally his wide-eyed gaze rested on me. “What happened? Are you hurt?” He walked to the bed and bent down to look at me. His hand brushed my cheek and I flinched as it made contact with a cut on my face. “Who did this to you?”

I gave a short snort. “Kevin.”

Blair gripped my shoulders. “Seriously, Kate. Tell me what happened.”

I pushed his hands away and got off the bed. Bits of green fabric littered the mattress and carpet. The scissors were lying on the floor. I looked at Blair. “I’m not joking. And why are you here?” Without waiting for his response, I walked out of the room and headed downstairs.

Blair followed. “I was driving by and saw your front yard. What happened out there?”

I opened the front door and walked out across the lawn, wading through ripped clothing and broken hangers. A large shard of wood had been ripped away from one of the dresser drawers and was plunged into the ground like a toy Excalibur.

I moved to the sidewalk. Debris covered the lawn as if the house had sneezed it out.

Blair stood beside me, gazing at the aftermath of my rage. “Please talk to me, Kate.”

I turned and took his face in my hands, bringing it close to mine. His eyes questioned me, but I pressed my lips against his in a long, slow kiss. I took my time, feeling the warmth of his lips on mine. I slid my arms around his neck and he curved his arms around my waist. For a moment nothing else existed. Then I felt his hands firm on my arms as he pushed me away.

“Stop. This is crazy. Tell me what’s going on.”

I stood very still, listening. Nothing. No yelling, no voice, no Kevin. I shrugged. “I got some bad news today. Let’s go back inside.”

I could feel his frustration as he followed me into the kitchen. “Thirsty?” I said.

Blair’s face flushed crimson. He swore under his breath. “No. What’s going on?”

I opened the fridge door and peered in. “So you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

He pawed at his face with both hands. “I drive by your house every day. I have been for weeks. To check on you, I guess.”

I took a long gulp from an orange juice carton, then studied Blair. He was breathing hard, like he’d just finished jogging around the block. His eyes were wide with concern or annoyance. I swallowed the juice and it burned down my throat. “I didn’t know you did that.”

Blair exploded. “Tell me why your front lawn is covered with broken furniture.”

I shrugged. “I did that.”

“You? Why?”

I was tired, despite my nap. Maybe even delirious. “I went to the bank this morning to empty Kevin’s safe-deposit box. I found that.” I pointed to the camera sitting on the table.

His gaze followed my finger. I expected him to shrug or say “So what?” Instead he stared at the camera with a look of utter collapse. He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply, like he’d just been stabbed.

“Oh, no,” he whispered.

I stared at him in disbelief, nearly dropping the carton. Did he know about the camera? How could he? He stood pale-faced, staring at it. He knew. He’d always known.

With tear-filled eyes he said, “I’m so sorry.”

I put the orange juice back in the fridge, then picked up the camera and clicked it on. Blair made no move to stop me. I ignored the video, clicking past it to the next shot. One after another I viewed the shots, mostly of Donna in various poses, smiling, and thankfully, fully clothed.

The date appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of each picture, and the order of the pictures took me back in time. I scrolled and scrolled, mentally blocking the many pictures of Kevin and Donna together, until I came to the picture I was afraid I’d find. In it Blair’s arm was stretched out in front, obviously holding the camera. He was sitting on a couch, Donna on one side of him, Kevin on the other. They were squeezed tight, cheeks pressed together. It was a photo booth sort of picture, one you’d expect to see drop from the slot along with three other equally goofy shots. No one was serious. They were just having fun.

I didn’t look up from the camera. “Where was it taken?”

Blair sighed. “My apartment.”

“I hate you.” I opened the back door. “Get out.”

He stood still for a moment, then walked out the door. I watched him cross the yard and pull the back gate closed with a soft click. When he was gone, I stepped outside and walked toward the garage. I noticed the lawn had recently been mowed and the flower beds watered. The bleeding hearts were in full bloom, the hollyhock nearly as high at the roof. Someone had been taking care of my yard.

I stopped about ten feet from the garage, then hefted the camera like a baseball. I pulled my arm back and then hurled it at the garage. Pieces flew in all directions. I went back inside, and closed the door firmly behind me.