ended up not washing it at all, but wearing it around the house to stave off the loneliness.
It surprised her a little that he’d known to bring it to her. It was a plain white shirt, like so many of his others, except that it had a tiny flaw in the weave of the cuff. From that trip on, she’d kept the shirt, laundering it only when she knew he was about to leave again and slipping it in with his other shirts so that he’d wear it just before, infuse it with his scent, and then she’d have it after he’d gone.
“He knew all along,” she whispered, embarrassed that he had realized what she was doing.
He’d never let on that he was aware the shirt appeared in his drawer only periodically before disappearing again. But obviously he’d known that she’d considered it her shirt.
On their own, her hands brought it up to her nose and she breathed in the faint lingering of what had comforted her before. But there was no comfort in it now. There was only a terrible pang for what was lost.
She folded it with the care of a soldier folding a burial flag and set it in the crate.
That left the pajama top. Ash’s pajama top.
From the beginning of their marriage he’d worn the bottoms and she’d worn the tops of every pair he’d owned during their years together.
Technically, she thought, they were as much her pajamas as his. He’d never worn this half.
Yet somehow, the day the divorce was final, she’d decided to put away that portion of the pajamas they’d shared along with the life they’d shared. So when she’d taken off her wedding ring, she’d also removed these pajama tops from her drawer and set them in one of his.
Unfortunately, since then she’d been trying to find something else she liked as well to wear to bed.
Women’s pajamas, T-shirts, nightgowns, nightshirts. She’d even tried sleeping in the nude. But nothing was as comfortable as the silk pajama top she held in her hands at that moment.
“I bought them,” she said. “Think of it as him wearing the bottoms of my pajamas.”
But she wasn’t sure she could.
And yet she also couldn’t seem to make herself put them into the orange crate.
Lord, what was wrong with her? She’d never been so indecisive, so sentimental, so emotional.
And then it occurred to her that maybe more than her appearance could be under the influence of pregnancy hormones.
Of course, that was all it was, she told herself. The roller coaster emotions were caused by the increased hormones in her body. She even remembered reading something about that very thing.
But could they turn her into a different person? For here she was, Shag Heller’s daughter, crying over a pair of pajamas, of all things.
Well, regardless of the cause, she could fight it, she decided. She had to fight it. She wasn’t so weak willed that it could get the best of her.
She snapped the pajamas through the air with one hard flick as if that would rid them of the baggage they came with, spun away from the orange crate and stuffed them into her drawer, slamming it shut so firmly that it set the clock on top of the bureau rocking back and forth.
Twenty minutes to twelve? She couldn’t believe it. And there she was, not even showered yet.
Enough mooning, she told herself, turning toward the bathroom that connected to her room.
She’d throw the clothes out later.
But somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice called her a liar.
And she knew it was right.
Especially when she took a detour and slid the crate into the back of her closet.
* * *
An hour later, Beth finally went downstairs, showered and dressed in a sleeveless, oversize chambray shirt with tails that reached nearly to her jean-clad knees, her hair freshly washed and fluffed. She intended to go straight out the front door and make her first stop Kansas’s country store to see if by some chance her old friend might not have had lunch yet and could be persuaded to join her. But she only made it as far as the bottom step
It surprised her a little that he’d known to bring it to her. It was a plain white shirt, like so many of his others, except that it had a tiny flaw in the weave of the cuff. From that trip on, she’d kept the shirt, laundering it only when she knew he was about to leave again and slipping it in with his other shirts so that he’d wear it just before, infuse it with his scent, and then she’d have it after he’d gone.
“He knew all along,” she whispered, embarrassed that he had realized what she was doing.
He’d never let on that he was aware the shirt appeared in his drawer only periodically before disappearing again. But obviously he’d known that she’d considered it her shirt.
On their own, her hands brought it up to her nose and she breathed in the faint lingering of what had comforted her before. But there was no comfort in it now. There was only a terrible pang for what was lost.
She folded it with the care of a soldier folding a burial flag and set it in the crate.
That left the pajama top. Ash’s pajama top.
From the beginning of their marriage he’d worn the bottoms and she’d worn the tops of every pair he’d owned during their years together.
Technically, she thought, they were as much her pajamas as his. He’d never worn this half.
Yet somehow, the day the divorce was final, she’d decided to put away that portion of the pajamas they’d shared along with the life they’d shared. So when she’d taken off her wedding ring, she’d also removed these pajama tops from her drawer and set them in one of his.
Unfortunately, since then she’d been trying to find something else she liked as well to wear to bed.
Women’s pajamas, T-shirts, nightgowns, nightshirts. She’d even tried sleeping in the nude. But nothing was as comfortable as the silk pajama top she held in her hands at that moment.
“I bought them,” she said. “Think of it as him wearing the bottoms of my pajamas.”
But she wasn’t sure she could.
And yet she also couldn’t seem to make herself put them into the orange crate.
Lord, what was wrong with her? She’d never been so indecisive, so sentimental, so emotional.
And then it occurred to her that maybe more than her appearance could be under the influence of pregnancy hormones.
Of course, that was all it was, she told herself. The roller coaster emotions were caused by the increased hormones in her body. She even remembered reading something about that very thing.
But could they turn her into a different person? For here she was, Shag Heller’s daughter, crying over a pair of pajamas, of all things.
Well, regardless of the cause, she could fight it, she decided. She had to fight it. She wasn’t so weak willed that it could get the best of her.
She snapped the pajamas through the air with one hard flick as if that would rid them of the baggage they came with, spun away from the orange crate and stuffed them into her drawer, slamming it shut so firmly that it set the clock on top of the bureau rocking back and forth.
Twenty minutes to twelve? She couldn’t believe it. And there she was, not even showered yet.
Enough mooning, she told herself, turning toward the bathroom that connected to her room.
She’d throw the clothes out later.
But somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice called her a liar.
And she knew it was right.
Especially when she took a detour and slid the crate into the back of her closet.
* * *
An hour later, Beth finally went downstairs, showered and dressed in a sleeveless, oversize chambray shirt with tails that reached nearly to her jean-clad knees, her hair freshly washed and fluffed. She intended to go straight out the front door and make her first stop Kansas’s country store to see if by some chance her old friend might not have had lunch yet and could be persuaded to join her. But she only made it as far as the bottom step
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