I think about the cuckoo clock missing from my parents’ house – my mom’s house, I guess.I think about the bad, weird kiss I gave Hunter last night, about waking up at four in the morning and finding that rock just so he would havesomethingto take with him.
I stare at the coffee table, because I’m pretty sure if I look at Harold, I’ll lose it.
Fifty-three years, and now she’s gone.I can’t even imagine.
“I’m sorry,” I say, even though I know it’s dumb.I swallow.I swallow again.The lump won’t go.“How long...when did...?”
As hard as I’m trying to sound normal, my voice trails off into a desperate squeak as pressure builds behind my eyes.
Harold looks over at me, and his face changes.
“Three years ago,” he says.“And you know something funny?I still don’t sleep on her side of the bed.”
I just nod, staring stonily at the coffee table.I hold my breath, because I feel like a pile of poorly stacked bricks, like the slightest thing will send me tumbling into a pile.
“I guess it’s habit,” I say, and my voice comes out as a choked whisper.
I don’t know why I’m suddenly losing it like this.I’ve heard sad things before, for fuck’s sake, and I don’t usually dissolve into a pathetic puddle of forest ranger.
Harold’s still staring off into the distance, and if he’s noticed that I’m an inch from bursting into tears in his living room, he hasn’t let on.
“Sometimes when I wake up, before I open my eyes, there’s this moment where I still think she’s there,” he says.“Makes it hard to get out of bed.And strange as it probably sounds, I like being here, where everything reminds me of her.I feel a little like she’s still with me.”
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, just so I don’t cry, but it doesn’t work.My eyes are full to the brim, and when I finally blink, tears rush down my cheeks faster than I can rub them away.
“Oh, honey,” Harold says.
“I’m fine,” I say, but it comes out a squeak-whisper.“Sorry, sorry, I’m fine.”
There’s a long, slow creaking sound as he gets out of his chair, then walks carefully to the couch where I am.He leans on the arm and lowers himself slowly, then one gnarled hand pats me on the shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says, sounding embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean to cry,” I say miserably, then take a deep breath.
“Is everything all right?”he asks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, sniffle, and then laugh.
“No, Harold, everything is not okay,” I say.“There’s a huge fire bearing down on us right now, and I’m supposed to be talking you into leaving for your own sake, but instead I’m crying in your living room while you comfort me.”
“It’s not as bad as all that,” he says mildly.
“It’s exactly as bad as all that,” I say.
Harold just chuckles, and I take a couple of deep breaths, looking out the picture windows that look over the valley.It’s yellow-gray with smoke, ash swirling between us and the trees.I wipe under my eyes and reflect for a moment that, actually, it’s eerily pretty.
I look over at Harold.I’m certain I look like a wreck, but I’ve got one more idea.
“If I were a ghost, and my husband of fifty-three years tried to stay in a house in the path of a forest fire just to be closer to my stuff, I’d bepissed,” I say.“I never met Mildred, but I bet she doesn’t want you to die here just because she did.”
There’s a long, long pause.
That’s the best I’ve got, I think.
“You’re right, you didn’t know Mildred,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows.
