Today isGretchen’s late husband’s birthday. Donovan would have been thirty-four today. He was about four years older than her. She’s a mess, understandably. Abigail has made her a cup of ginger tea in an effort to soothe her. I stare down at Abigail’s oriental carpet, not quite able to look at Gretchen. Her husband died in a tragic car wreck — I think it’s going to take more than a cup of tea to sort her out.
I’m not quite sure what to say, but as someone who’s been through a lot, I think I’m in a position to help. “Have you been talking to anyone?” I ask her. “Someone who could help?”
She looks up at me. “I have you guys… and my mom.”
“True… but have you considered speaking to someone professional?”
She shakes her head. “I’m not one for shrinks,” she says and is quick to add, “I mean… it’s fine for others. Just not for me.”
“You should really consider it,” I say. “It’s changed my life… I could give you my therapist’s card.”
She smiles, but I can tell she’s just being polite.
“You should also consider looking into a grief support group,” I add, suddenly brought back to my conversation with Joel.
“Well, I don’t know about that…”
She’s such a sweet person, with so much love to give. Gretchen never speaks ill of anyone, is always there to help out, and is always the first one to offer a compliment and ask you how you are, and genuinely care about the answer. She doesn’t deserve to be in pain like this. “I’m going to do all the research for you. I’ll find you a group, and all you’ll have to do is show up.”
“Thank you,” she says, and I can tell she’s open to it, open to moving on, to finding joy in life again.
Ava comes to mind, so suddenly, my breath hitches. That photo. Those cuts. There’s another tortured soul who should be loving life. She’s so beautiful and young — it’s such a shame. I absolutely need to speak to Joel. As soon as possible.
* * *
The both ofus are a sweaty mess. We both have a lot going on today and have skipped the post-yoga shower. He still looks quite handsome though. We’re chatting over smoothies as usual, and he’s all smiles, like always. Apparently, he just cut this young girl’s long hair into a short bob, and all the while, her mother sat in the corner crying. I laugh at the tragic vision I’ve formed in my head: a middle-aged women sprawled over the loveseat, bawling her eyes out. “How long was her hair?”
“Down to her rear. Beautiful dark hair.”
“What a shame.”
“Well, she donated it to Locks of Love.”
I nod, thinking about Ava. I’ve been thinking about her all day. “Your daughter… she has beautiful dark hair too…” Not the smoothest segway, but we really need to have this conversation. I must tread carefully. I don’t want to appear like the meddling stalker I am. I don’t want him to realize that I’ve been creeping his daughter for weeks, that I know all there is to know about the girl. If he knew, he’d probably call the authorities and request a restraining order.
A dash of concern traces his eyes, and he studies me for a beat. “Yes? Ava?”
“I have a confession to make,” I start. My heart is beating a mile a minute. “I…”
He sits up straighter. “You what?” he asks, eager to know.
“I’ve been kind of stalking your Facebook,” I admit. “Since we’re friends, I was just curious,” I say, trying to appear nonchalant, when in fact, I couldn’t be more chalant.
He smiles. “I checked out yours too. You don’t post much.”
No, I don’t. I’m more of a creeper.
“Yeah, just busy… you know.”
“Me too,” he says. “I don’t post much either.”
True. But your wife does.
“So, anyway…” I go on, not wanting to have this conversation. “I saw this post your daughter tagged you in. You know, the one where she’s wearing the red sweater?”
He laughs. “Well, she’s always wearing the red sweater, so you’re going have to be more specific.”
I bite my lip. “The one with the both of you and Trixie.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to take them back — I shouldn’t know the cat’s name. My pulse quickens.
