And maybe things would’ve been different if death hadn’t intervened. It’s one of the things that drive you crazy, the what-ifs of unexpected loss, even though life is full of them, too.
But he’s gone now, and I still take a shower every morning in a stall filled with his shampoo and favorite soap and the last razor he used sitting in its niche. I pull my clothes from a closet full of his—business suits and pressed shirts and his “good shoes” and his “comfortable shoes” lined up like soldiers across the floor because Tom had a thing about his clothes and how they had to be arranged just so. Our grocery delivery still contains the same amount of low-fat milk, even though the kids and I don’t drink it. Every week, I place the containers in the fridge and vow I’ll call and amend the order, then drain them into the sink a week later, untouched, right before they turn sour.
I’d meant to change all this. I had a plan, even, that involved a few close girlfriends and wine and doing something symbolic like rearranging the furniture or getting rid of the chair that didn’t match the rest of our living room that Tom insisted on keeping because it was a comfortable place for him to fall asleep in after a long, hard day.
That never happened, either.
My friend Sara has said more than once that it’s like I live in a shrine. She’s even taken to calling me “The Widow Grayson” in moments of levity. I get mad at her sometimes for that, though I know it comes from love, but she’s not wrong. I will forevermore be Cecily Grayson, stuck with a last name that still doesn’t feel like my own but that I took for the sake of our children. “So we can be a real family,” Tom said, though I never understood what my last name had to do with whether we were a family or not.
Whether asleep or awake, I’m stuck. I have no idea how to move forward or even where I want to go. Someday soon I’m going to have to do something. I can’t go on living in stasis, trapped under the glass of the public’s glare and unceasing sympathy. But today’s not about moving on, it’s about remembering, so I’ll play my role and smile through the worst of it, and tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll make a plan.
“Why’d you agree to the documentary, then?” Sara asked me the night before, when I was circling the rim of a glass of Chablis, my complaints nothing new, her advice still unheeded.
“I didn’t at first. It took a while for Teo to convince me.”
“Ah,” she said, reaching for the half-empty bottle. “Teo.”
“It’s not like that . . . It was easier to agree than to fight.”
“You always take the path of least resistance.”
If it were anyone else, I might’ve been upset at this bald assessment of my character. But Sara was Sara, and Sara was right. “That’s a pattern I need to break, too.”
“Easier said than done, though, right?”
I agreed with her. If things had been like they were two years ago, Tom and I would sit down at the kitchen table while the kids were asleep and make a list. What are the pros of being involved in Teo’s film? (Remembering, helping others deal with their grief, raising money for the Initiative.) What are the cons? (I miss my privacy, I feel like a fraud, what if Teo finds out?) And then we’d decide, together, what was best.
But it’s too late to do that now. I can’t back out without raising questions, so I’ll have to take it like I have everything else. One day at a time.
My cell phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s my mother, my wake-up insurance.
“Hi, Mom. Thanks for calling.”
“You sound awake.”
I flip onto my back as anxiety gathers. The crack in the ceiling seems larger than the last time I looked. Another thing to take care of tomorrow, tomorrow.
“I am awake.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay. It was bound to happen.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“They’ve only given us three seats together. You might not even be able to get in.”
My mother gives one of her patented humphs. “You let me take care of that.”
“No, truly. I promise. We’ll be all right. I feel horrible saying this, but . . .”
“It might be easier without me?”
“Is that terrible?”
“Perhaps a little. But I understand.”
“Thanks, Mom. Are you okay?”
“I’m thinking about your father.”
“I know.”
My father died six years ago. He was the love of her life, and his death hit her hard. She’d been doing better before Triple Ten, making new friends and joining a walking group, playing bridge. But having her own daughter become a widow set her back, and in some ways, this last year has been harder for her than for me.
“I’ll be thinking of Dad today,” I say. “Thinking of both of you.”
“I love you, Cecily.”
“I love you, too.”
The clock radio turns on as I hang up. It’s playing one of those Justin Bieber songs all my girlfriends love for some reason. I slap the “Off” button and track through the list of what I need to accomplish to get us to the ceremony on time.
I cannot be late today.
I cannot.
• • •
The memorial takes place on the exhibition floor of McCormick Place, which is big enough to hold all of us and our noise, the thousands of people who make up the families, the living monuments to the victims, not to mention the dignitaries—the mayor, the governor, the senators, and the members of Congress dressed in somber suits, glad-handing around
