But your husband's alive, you see, Stella thought. Your life isn't over. Your world's the same as it was five minutes ago. So you can't know. You can't.
When she felt herself begin to shake, she pulled back. 'Not now, please. I can't now. I have to take the boys home.'
'I can come with you.' There were tears on Diane's cheeks as she reached out, touched Stella's hair. 'Would you like me to come, to stay with you?'
'No. Not now. I need ... the boys.'
'I'll get them. Come inside, Stella.'
But she only shook her head.
'All right. They're in the family room. I'll bring them. Stella, if there's anything, anything at all. You've only to call. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'
She stood in the dark, looking in at the light, and waited.
She heard the protests, the complaints, then the scrambling of feet. And there were her boys—Gavin
with his father's sunny hair, Luke with his father's mouth.
'We don't want to go yet,' Gavin told her. 'We're playing a game. Can't we finish?'
'Not now. We have to go home now.'
'But I'm winning. It's not fair, and—'
'Gavin. We have to go.'
'Is Daddy home?'
She looked down at Luke, his happy, innocent face, and nearly broke. 'No.' Reaching down, she picked him up, touched her lips to the mouth that was so like Kevin's. 'Let's go home.'
She took Gavin's hand and began the walk back to her empty house.
'If Daddy was home, he'd let me finish.' Cranky tears smeared Gavin's voice. 'I want Daddy.'
'I know. I do too.'
'Can we have a dog?' Luke wanted to know, and turned her face to his with his hands. 'Can we ask Daddy? Can we have a dog like Jessie and Wyatt?'
'We'll talk about it later.'
'I want Daddy,' Gavin said again, with a rising pitch in his voice.
He knows, Stella thought. He knows something is wrong, something's terribly wrong. I have to do this.
I have to do it now.
'We need to sit down.' Carefully, very carefully, she closed the door behind her, carried Luke to the couch. She sat with him in her lap and laid her arm over Gavin's shoulder.
'If I had a dog,' Luke told her soberly, 'I'd take care of him. When's Daddy coming?'
'He can't come.'
' 'Cause of the busy trip?'
'He ...' Help me. God, help me do this. 'There was an accident. Daddy was in an accident.'
'Like when the cars smash?' Luke asked, and Gavin said nothing, nothing at all as his eyes burned into her face.
'It was a very bad accident. Daddy had to go to heaven.'
'But he has to come home after.'
'He can't. He can't come home anymore. He has to stay in heaven now.'
'I don't want him there.' Gavin tried to wrench away, but she held him tightly. 'I want him to come home now.'
'I don't want him there either, baby. But he can't come back anymore, no matter how much we want it.'
Luke's lips trembled. 'Is he mad at us?'
'No. No, no, no, baby. No.' She pressed her face to his hair as her stomach pitched and what was left
of her heart throbbed like a wound. 'He's not mad at us. He loves us. He'll always love us.'
'He's dead.' There was fury in Gavin's voice, rage on his face. Then it crumpled, and he was just a little boy, weeping in his mother's arms.
She held them until they slept, then carried them to her bed so none of them would wake alone. As she had countless times before, she slipped off their shoes, tucked blankets around them.
She left a light burning while she walked—it felt like floating—through the house, locking doors, checking windows. When she knew everything was safe, she closed herself into the bathroom. She ran a bath so hot the steam rose off the water and misted the room.
Only when she slipped into the tub, submerged herself in the steaming water, did she allow that knot to snap. With her boys sleeping, and her body shivering in the hot water, she wept and wept and wept.
* * *
She got through it. A few friends suggested she might take a tranquilizer, but she didn't want to block the feelings. Nor did she want to have a muzzy head when she had her children to think of.
She kept-it simple. Kevin would have wanted simple. She chose every detail—the music, the flowers, the photographs—of his memorial service. She selected a silver box for his ashes and planned to scatter them on the lake. He'd proposed to her on the lake, in a rented boat on a summer afternoon.
She wore black for the service, a widow of thirty-one, with two young boys and a mortgage, and a heart so broken she wondered if she would feel pieces of it piercing her soul for the rest of her life.
She kept her children close, and made appointments with a grief counselor for all of them.
Details. She could handle the details. As long as there was something to do, something definite, she could hold on. She could be strong.
Friends came, with their sympathy and covered dishes and teary eyes. She was grateful to them more for the distraction than the condolences. There was no condolence for her.
Her father and his wife flew up from Memphis, and them she leaned on. She let Jolene, her father's wife, fuss over her, and soothe and cuddle the children, while her own mother complained about having to be in the same room as that woman.
When the service was over, after the friends drifted away, after she clung to her father and Jolene before their flight home, she made herself take off the black dress.
She shoved it into a bag to send to a shelter. She never wanted to see it again.
Her mother stayed. Stella had asked her to stay a few days. Surely under such circumstances she was entitled to her mother. Whatever friction was, and always had been, between them was nothing
compared with death.
When she went into the kitchen, her mother was brewing coffee. Stella was so grateful not to have to think of such a minor task, she crossed over and kissed Carla's cheek.
'Thanks. I'm so sick of tea.'
'Every time I turned around that woman was making more damn tea.'
'She was trying to help, and I'm not sure I could've handled coffee until now.'
Carla turned. She was a slim woman with short blond hair. Over the years, she'd battled time with regular trips to the surgeon. Nips, tucks, lifts, injections had wiped away some of the years. And left her looking whittled and hard, Stella thought.
She might pass for forty, but she'd never look happy about it.
'You always take up for her.'
'I'm not taking up for Jolene, Mom.' Wearily, Stella sat. No more details, she realized. No more something that has to be done.
How would she get through the night?
'I don't see why I had to tolerate her.'
'I'm sorry you were uncomfortable. But she was very kind. She and Dad have been married for, what, twenty- five years or so now. You ought to be used to it.'
'I don't like having her in my face, her and that twangy voice. Trailer trash.'
Stella opened her mouth, closed it again. Jolene hadn't come from a trailer park and was certainly not trash. But what good would it do to say so? Or to remind her mother that she'd been the one who'd wanted a divorce, the one to leave the marriage. Just as it wouldn't do any good to point out that Carla had been married twice since.
