suicidal by the time I unlocked the front door to the house. Florida summers, even early on in the season, are not the time to be without air conditioning. Especially not in the car. Sure, you’ve got the air coming in from any open windows, but there’s only so much that can do. The heat of the pavement reflected back up into the already boiling air, when combined with the small convection oven created by the interior of a car, pretty much negates the entire theory of “fresh air.”
The air-conditioned interior of the house felt so good I almost cried. I really, really needed to get the car fixed. Before I turned into an overheated, hysterical mess.
I threw my purse onto the chair in the living room, kicked off my sandals, and squished down the hall toward the bathroom. I was desperate to wash my face and get some of the grime off, just so I could feel human again. My shirt was stuck to my back and my jeans felt heavy enough to slide right off my hips.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out into the empty house. It had become almost ritual. Some people kissed the door frame when they walked through the door, I called out greetings to the imaginary man who lived in the house with me. Not that I really thought he was there, mind you. But the overall presence of
guy
was undeniable, even though said guy wasn’t physically there.
Somehow, it made the whole idea of living in someone else’s house a little less strange. I imagined all sorts of scenarios: maybe he was just up at the corner store, or at work, or off doing manly man things with his buddies…wherever he was, and I allowed myself to imagine that he was going to be back soon. And that we were, in fact, quite close, instead of complete strangers. I wasn’t even sure what he looked like, because even after two months of living in his house, I still had yet to run across a photo of Major Neil Epstein.
I pictured someone tall, handsome, rugged. And athletic, judging by all the running medals looped over the corner of the mirror on his bedroom dresser. He was sensitive, caring, educated without ever being aloof, but still a total man’s man.
He was The Perfect Guy.
At least, in my
head
he was.
I had plenty of time to imagine what Neil was like as I lay in his bed at night, as I sat at his dinner table eating my cereal every morning, as I brushed my teeth in his bathroom.
It was how I dealt.
That, and I’d begun to write him letters that I never sent. Not that I could have sent them, even if I wanted to. I had no address for him, not even an e-mail address.
Every night, before I went to sleep, I wrote him a letter in a notebook that I kept by the bed. Call it journaling, Anne Frank style. Her journal was written to an imaginary person she called Kitty, mine was written to a real person named Neil.
It helped me feel more connected to another person, to this man whose home I was living in.
I wrote to Neil about my day, about what I was feeling, about anything going on with the house.
I thought of it as a kind of therapy, because while I was telling Neil about myself, I was also learning things about myself. Things that I hadn’t ever really taken time to think about. Things that I was sometimes surprised to realize. Most importantly, though, I had stopped focusing so much energy on all the things Paul and I would never have the chance to do.
I was becoming my own person again, and I was moving past that place where I’d been the sad woman whose fiancé was dead.
I was more than that.
And I was determined to
be
more than that.
I’d even started running every morning again.
How could I not, with all those medals mocking me whenever I looked in the bedroom mirror? Fortunately for me, Neil’s house was in an area that was conducive to running.
I planned on hitting one of the local races soon, but I wanted to get a little faster before I ventured that far. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself or besmirch my good name in the running community.
The air-conditioned interior of the house felt so good I almost cried. I really, really needed to get the car fixed. Before I turned into an overheated, hysterical mess.
I threw my purse onto the chair in the living room, kicked off my sandals, and squished down the hall toward the bathroom. I was desperate to wash my face and get some of the grime off, just so I could feel human again. My shirt was stuck to my back and my jeans felt heavy enough to slide right off my hips.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out into the empty house. It had become almost ritual. Some people kissed the door frame when they walked through the door, I called out greetings to the imaginary man who lived in the house with me. Not that I really thought he was there, mind you. But the overall presence of
guy
was undeniable, even though said guy wasn’t physically there.
Somehow, it made the whole idea of living in someone else’s house a little less strange. I imagined all sorts of scenarios: maybe he was just up at the corner store, or at work, or off doing manly man things with his buddies…wherever he was, and I allowed myself to imagine that he was going to be back soon. And that we were, in fact, quite close, instead of complete strangers. I wasn’t even sure what he looked like, because even after two months of living in his house, I still had yet to run across a photo of Major Neil Epstein.
I pictured someone tall, handsome, rugged. And athletic, judging by all the running medals looped over the corner of the mirror on his bedroom dresser. He was sensitive, caring, educated without ever being aloof, but still a total man’s man.
He was The Perfect Guy.
At least, in my
head
he was.
I had plenty of time to imagine what Neil was like as I lay in his bed at night, as I sat at his dinner table eating my cereal every morning, as I brushed my teeth in his bathroom.
It was how I dealt.
That, and I’d begun to write him letters that I never sent. Not that I could have sent them, even if I wanted to. I had no address for him, not even an e-mail address.
Every night, before I went to sleep, I wrote him a letter in a notebook that I kept by the bed. Call it journaling, Anne Frank style. Her journal was written to an imaginary person she called Kitty, mine was written to a real person named Neil.
It helped me feel more connected to another person, to this man whose home I was living in.
I wrote to Neil about my day, about what I was feeling, about anything going on with the house.
I thought of it as a kind of therapy, because while I was telling Neil about myself, I was also learning things about myself. Things that I hadn’t ever really taken time to think about. Things that I was sometimes surprised to realize. Most importantly, though, I had stopped focusing so much energy on all the things Paul and I would never have the chance to do.
I was becoming my own person again, and I was moving past that place where I’d been the sad woman whose fiancé was dead.
I was more than that.
And I was determined to
be
more than that.
I’d even started running every morning again.
How could I not, with all those medals mocking me whenever I looked in the bedroom mirror? Fortunately for me, Neil’s house was in an area that was conducive to running.
I planned on hitting one of the local races soon, but I wanted to get a little faster before I ventured that far. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself or besmirch my good name in the running community.
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