“I do love a good spaghetti. I’d like that very much.”
“Jack.” She suddenly wanted Maeve to know everything about him. “That’s my husband’s name. He was such a good father. A great husband and provider.”
“I’m sure you miss him very much.”
“I do. So much. People say it gets easier with time, but if that’s true, I haven’t gotten there yet. The first year was a blur. The second year was worse. Now…it’s…”
“You’re so young. I’m sorry that happened to you. To your family.”
They sat quietly for a moment.
“The pain.” Maeve shook her head. “Losing a spouse is losing half of yourself. Your better half in some cases even. The pain of that loss is inevitable. It’s going to happen to every couple at some point. One of you is going to lose the other.”
Amanda sniffled.
“Grief changes shape but doesn’t really ever go away, leaving a scar behind that affects everything we do. But, Amanda, the suffering is optional. Don’t let your grief turn into suffering. It’s a whisper-thin line there.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Aren’t they the same thing? Kind of action reaction?”
“Not exactly.” Maeve’s words were so gentle that Amanda wished she would pull her into a hug. “Amanda, I would never compare what we’ve been through. You have children. You’re so young, and you have a wonderful, full life still to live ahead of you. I lost my husband a long time ago, but I was nowhere near as young as you.”
Amanda raised her eyes to meet Maeve’s gaze.
“I was so sad. Then mad. Mad at him. Then mad at God.” Maeve’s eyes glistened. “That kind of anger makes you react irrationally. It’s a release. A way to cope. Not that any of it makes sense at the time.”
“It doesn’t make it right, though.” Amanda felt the understanding in Maeve’s words. “I was so unkind to Jack’s dearest friend—well, our dearest friend before Jack passed. I took out my anger on him. I blamed him for Jack not coming home. They’d enlisted together, had a spoken oath that they’d protect each other. But he didn’t, and I hated him so much that day. For letting Jack down, then not being there for me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. It’s the grief making you do things you’d never do. People understand.” Maeve’s words eased the pain, a little.
“No. I called him on the phone one night, shouting at him, making him promise he’d never contact me or the kids again. I threatened him. I made a momma bear look like a puppy that night.”
“We protect what we love. When that’s disturbed, everything topples.” Maeve sat quiet for a moment, then seemed to shift her focus on something off in the distance. “It’s survival, Amanda. I sat around in a blind stupor, wishing I’d die so I could be with my husband, Jarvis. But that didn’t happen. It took me a long time to live again. Friends tried to convince me to move forward, but honestly, just waking up each day and remembering to breathe in and out was almost more than I could bear. The more they told me to move on, the more I wanted to hold on to the past. Surviving is hard work.”
“Yes.” Amanda swallowed a sob. “Exactly. Jack was my everything. I loved him with every bit of my heart.”
“We don’t have to understand any of it, Amanda. We only have to keep living.” Maeve offered her an easy grin. “Don’t you hate it when people say stuff like that? Makes no sense. Death never does.”
Amanda traced her finger through the sand. “For a while it almost killed me when those sweet children would look at me. They have his eyes. I felt guilty every time I turned away from his eyes in them. I know that sounds awful.”
“It sounds honest.”
Why did I tell you all that? I must sound like a horrible mother. “I hope they never felt that.”
“I’m sure they didn’t.”
“Now I treasure the chance to see him in their eyes, but it’s still hard.”
“Here’s the thing I learned: There is a difference between grief and suffering. You see, suffering is solitary, but you share your grief with good people. It’s the way you release the pain and adjust to the loss.”
“But that’s just a big downer. We lived on base. Jack was a Marine. He was supposed to be gone six months, but he didn’t come back. It got so every time I saw one of the other wives coming over, I felt like an anchor. I was weighing down their happiness and stealing their joy. I’m sure I was a constant reminder of the loss they potentially could face too. Who wants to be around that?”
“But see, that’s not how most people view it. Good people want to be of service. Listening and being there for others. Even those ubiquitous casseroles are their way of helping. If we don’t let them do that, they feel powerless. Then nobody wins.”
Amanda groaned. “The casseroles. Oh my gosh.”
“I know, I know. You can only go through so many casseroles. I fed the birds with them. I mean, who thinks one person can eat a nine-by-thirteen casserole in a week? Let alone a half dozen of them!”
“Yes. It’s an obscene amount of food that arrives, and the last thing you want to do is eat.”
Maeve nodded. “They want to help. They want to do their part, and sometimes those casseroles are all people can think of to do.”
“I guess I can see that, but it’s so hard to be constantly reminded.”
“You moving here to pretend Jack hadn’t been the best part of your past—that’s suffering. Suffering is solitary. It’s a barrier to processing your loss. You’ve lost something, Amanda.” Maeve pulled her fists to her heart. “I’ve experienced how deep and heavy that can feel.”
A tear slipped down Amanda’s cheek. “I have to be strong. For the kids.”
“Yes, you do. No question about that.” Maeve looked out over the water. “I can’t imagine how
