God, I’m sad. For so many reasons, on so many levels.
“It’s normal.”
I turn to look at Cam. She takes the phone away and tosses it aside. It lands face down. “What you’re doing is normal. This grief.”
Grief. I pick up the word, try it on. It fits.
I poke at a button on my pajama top. “When I learned about grief in school, it was taught in stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But everything I’ve seen in my practice, and everything experienced in life, says otherwise. Grief isn’t linear. Grief doesn’t have a shape. For some, it’s a continuum.” I sniff. “Do I have a right to grieve? My husband didn’t die. He became an alcoholic who made a bad choice and now he’s living with the consequences of it.”
“So are you.”
“Am I even allowed to be upset? These feelings, shouldn’t they be reserved for people who’ve really lost something? A son to war, or a spouse to a tragic accident. I don’t deserve to be this upset.”
“Everybody’s personal tragedy is their own, and they have the right to be upset by it. Nobody gets to tell you what you grieve.”
I stare at my sister’s silhouette in the semi-dark. “What about you? What do you grieve?”
“Honestly?” She blows out a breath. “I grieve the most inconsequential stuff. The grocery store doesn’t have my cereal? Grief. I can’t find the hair on my shirt that’s terrorizing my underarm? Grief. Waiting in a long line at the bakery only to find they are out of my cinnamon bagel? Serious grief.”
She makes me laugh, because I know she’s only somewhat kidding.
“Listen, Baxter.” She takes my hand. “You need to go easier on yourself. Allow space to wade through all the feelings. And stop judging yourself.”
“When did you become a therapist?”
Camryn scoffs jokingly. “I’d never be a quack.”
I look at my fingernails. They are in need of care. “I don’t know where to go from here.”
“You take a step. And then another one. Eventually, you look back and see the distance you’ve traveled. And then you be damn proud of yourself, because you made it.”
I bend and flex my fingers, thinking about the concept of moving forward while Gabriel is suspended in time. Camryn gets up and disappears into my room. She returns carrying my box of nail polishes. She selects a color, doesn’t ask me if I like it, then grabs my hand.
I watch her paint a clear base coat. When she’s finished, I say, “I’m going to see him tomorrow.”
“I assumed so, considering tomorrow is Saturday and that’s when you go.” She swipes bright coral over my thumbnail. “Are the visits getting any better?”
I look into her eyes. “It’s once a week for two hours. There isn’t much opportunity for improvement.”
She paints my nails in silence after that.
I think back to my first visit. Gabriel walked into the visiting area, wearing a shade of orange that did not look good on him. It does not look good on anyone.
That visit took my mangled heart and broke it further, but a bystander would never guess. I worked double-time to remain upbeat. I plastered a hopeful smile on my face, and it never budged. It was as if I could, by virtue of sheer will, make the whole situation more palatable. Gabriel tried, but he nevermanaged to get there. He could not force himself over that wall of pain.
I decided he didn’t need to, because I would do it. I would build the muscle we’d need to be strong. And I did. I have. I have fortified and stretched, and I can do it all. I can hold his suffering, and mine, too.
It hasn’t been easy. My other visits have grown progressively worse and worse. My husband looks sadder than ever before. Desolate. I want to hold him, shield him, soothe him. Sometimes I want to shake him, to scream at him for drinking again, for driving. When those feelings come up, I tuck them away.
He refuses to tell me any detail about what his life is like now, and I try not to put too much thought into why. In my head, I’ve placed him on an extended vacation.Gone. It breaks my heart to think otherwise.
“All done,” Cam announces, blowing on my fingers. “Hopefully they don’t chip between now and when you see Gabriel in the morning.”
I pick at a fleck of nail polish on my cuticle. “They’ll have to last longer than that. I’m going later in the day tomorrow. I told Dad I’d help him with taxes first.”
“Good. Dad’s been worried about you.”
“Little late in life for that.”
