I lowered my head, breathing deep. I wanted to dive in headfirst, burrow into sweatshirts, sweaters, and flannel shirts, immersing myself in the last vestiges of his particular perfume. For a moment, I considered hanging them up in the too-cramped closet, next to my things. But I stopped myself, imagining what Jamie would have said on the subject, something like, “Don’t be so sentimental. There’s a lot of good wear in those clothes. I don’t need them anymore, but somebody else does. If Z was still living with Sunny, think how happy he’d be to get that warm sweater, or that shirt. They’re practically new.”
Jamie always had more than his share of practical, Midwestern good sense. I made another drive-through donation, but not before sorting through the box and picking out a few items to include in my quilt.
In the morning, I called Monica to tell her I wouldn’t be at our support group.
“Are you depressed? Should I bring more cannoli?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m just busy. I’m painting.”
“Painting what?”
“My bedroom wall. And some shelves. Maybe a chair. I haven’t decided for sure, but I’m kind of on a roll. I don’t want to lose my momentum.”
“Do you want help? I can come over and give you a hand. I bet Nan would too. We could have support group at your place this week.”
“How about next week? I should have everything finished by then.”
“Sounds good. I’ll tell Nan. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“Not right now. I’m okay,” I said.
And I was.
I still missed Jamie. In the days that followed, I experienced moments of sadness and even tears. In time, I came to realize I always would. That was okay and so was I. Just okay. But it was a start.
Monica would have approved. So, I realized, would Jamie.
Chapter 23
Grace
It’s hard for me to explain, but turning the condo into a real home did more to help me handle Jamie’s loss than months of therapy could have.
Sorting through the trash and treasure of our life together and combining it with new treasures gave me a sense of moving forward while honoring the past. Seeing our old things in this new setting brought so many good memories to the surface, reminding me that, in spite of everything, Jamie and I had had a wonderful, even enviable life together.
It also helped me to fulfill one of his final wishes.
When Jamie decided to give up the idea of medical school and become a paramedic instead, he said he wanted to use the money we’d been saving for his someday tuition as a down payment. Though I had long dreamed of having a home of our own, I wasn’t so sure. It bothered me to think that Jamie might be giving up on his dream just so I could have a house.
“I’m not,” he’d assured me. “My dream was always working in the medical field and helping people. I’m getting to do that, only a lot faster. I don’t want to wait anymore, Grace. The other part of my dream is giving you a home and family and all the things you’ve wanted. I want you to have an amazing life, but the house is just a down payment on that. I love you more than anything, Grace, and I meant what I said. As soon as I finish school, it’s your turn.”
“Turn for what?” I’d laughed. “I already have you. What more could I possibly want?”
“More,” he’d said.
Until I opened that first can of paint, I’d forgotten about that conversation. The trauma of Jamie’s accident, followed by the months of constant tension that came from worrying about his care, had crowded so many good memories into the far corners of my mind—including the fact that, on the drive out from Minnesota, he’d talked about wanting to use that exact color on the walls of our new bedroom. Turquoise was Jamie’s favorite. He had three shirts in that color, one of which I had cut up to use as cornerstone patches in his quilt.
For the next week, I worked from first light until last.
Painting was cheap and made a big difference. I painted the living room walls a beautiful pearl gray, and the bedroom and bath the lovely light turquoise Jamie had talked about and that I had unwittingly chosen when I went to the paint store. It made a nice contrast against the white molding and cabinets. When the furniture arrived, things really started to take shape.
To start with, for the first time in two years, my mattress was off the floor! And when I made up the bed with a white eyelet bed skirt I’d found for sixty percent off on the discount table at Target and the turquoise and coral quilt my mother-in-law gave me for my thirtieth birthday, it looked pretty and so inviting. Maisie, however, wasn’t as thrilled with the changes as I was. After I finished making the bed, she stood next to it and gave me a look that said, “You’re joking, right? Where’s the escalator?” I went back to the thrift shop, bought a wooden step stool for three dollars, and spray-painted it white. The minute I set it down, Maisie hopped up on the bed, curled up into a ball on my pillow, and went to sleep. Problem solved.
The bathroom didn’t need much besides paint. However, I did splurge on a new set of coral-colored towels and completed the look with a little bouquet of silk daisies in a tiny galvanized tin bucket. The whole thing looked fresh and pretty and feminine—too feminine for Jamie’s taste, but I don’t think he would have minded.
The kitchen didn’t need much either. Giving the cabinets a good scrub cheered things up a
