Korea (a gift from his mother), a plastic snow globe containing a gold plastic Buddha (from Henry’s desk), shells and stones from trips to Maine, a note he wrote me on my birthday, a poem of three couplets he wrote for our last Valentine’s Day.
For a writer, he was never much of a letter writer. We had rarely been apart for most of our sixteen years together. I had a few e-mails from the year he was out on the West Coast, but even then, he preferred to make phone calls. I regretted that now, wishing I had more pieces of him, more pieces of paper with his words.
Emily called me every day. Since the January afternoon when she had arrived to find Henry on the kitchen floor, she had been attentive in every way. I was grateful for her companionship, though now I had the first worries that I owed her a kind of emotional debt I could never repay, and with those worries the first waves of regret that I hadn’t called Anna that day. There had always been a sense of balance between Anna and me that allowed me to ask for something—be it help or sympathy—without worrying about when I would be able to pay her back. My decision to call Emily had seemed so rational then, the extra minutes had seemed so important, but I hadn’t anticipated the fallout.
On several occasions, as we sat with cups of tea at her house or mine, Emily looked at me mournfully (or was it impatiently?) and asked, “When do I get my friend back?” I never knew what to tell her. The friend she was missing seemed to have vanished.
I often visited Emily and her family, eating meals with them,grateful that Liza was able to feel happy and play. Emily’s home felt warm, energized, and alive, if full of the usual subterranean family conflicts. In contrast, the quiet of my home was oppressive. I had never realized how completely Henry’s personality had filled up the rooms.
When the weekends arrived, Liza and I curled up together on the couch, under blankets, the leftovers of our scrambled egg breakfast on the nearby coffee table. We watched SpongeBob’s manic adventures in the cheerful blue-green tropical glow of Bikini Bottom or Timmy Turner’s adventures with his fairy godparents. That’s what I need, some fairy godparents. It was comforting to be together. Liza’s cheeks smelled of peaches and fresh biscuits.
three
February–May 2003
A few weeks after Henry’s death, I received a note from Maya, a local massage therapist, offering me free bodywork. I had never met her, but I called her and made an appointment. The idea of receiving help from a stranger was oddly comforting. The next afternoon I found myself in her twilight-lit treatment room.
I lay quietly on the massage table, listening to the CD of bird-song and gentle waves while her confident fingers, coated with fragrant oil, burrowed into my bony back. She found a place at the center of my back that felt tender when she pressed, like a button wired into my sadness. I wanted desperately to cry, but I was too embarrassed to reveal all of my wretched life to this stranger. After a long silence, just the birds and waves and the swish of her oiled hands on my skin, she volunteered that it was okay to talk during the sessions. I hardly knew where to begin, but fortunately I didn’t need to start at the beginning. I was the town’s young widow. Almost everyone had heard something of this story.
The next week I went to her again, and I talked. In fact, I couldn’t stop talking and crying. What a relief to let myself go and be cared for by someone who was compassionate but did not seem to pity me. My body felt sturdier when I left her office.
By my third visit, I genuinely liked Maya, a small, wiry woman with open, curious eyes in a freckled face, a laughing voice, and strong hands. We had no other social connection, so the darkened treatment room felt safe. I went back the fourth week and asked to become a paying patient. Now the relationship was balanced.
Maya was the first person I
For a writer, he was never much of a letter writer. We had rarely been apart for most of our sixteen years together. I had a few e-mails from the year he was out on the West Coast, but even then, he preferred to make phone calls. I regretted that now, wishing I had more pieces of him, more pieces of paper with his words.
Emily called me every day. Since the January afternoon when she had arrived to find Henry on the kitchen floor, she had been attentive in every way. I was grateful for her companionship, though now I had the first worries that I owed her a kind of emotional debt I could never repay, and with those worries the first waves of regret that I hadn’t called Anna that day. There had always been a sense of balance between Anna and me that allowed me to ask for something—be it help or sympathy—without worrying about when I would be able to pay her back. My decision to call Emily had seemed so rational then, the extra minutes had seemed so important, but I hadn’t anticipated the fallout.
On several occasions, as we sat with cups of tea at her house or mine, Emily looked at me mournfully (or was it impatiently?) and asked, “When do I get my friend back?” I never knew what to tell her. The friend she was missing seemed to have vanished.
I often visited Emily and her family, eating meals with them,grateful that Liza was able to feel happy and play. Emily’s home felt warm, energized, and alive, if full of the usual subterranean family conflicts. In contrast, the quiet of my home was oppressive. I had never realized how completely Henry’s personality had filled up the rooms.
When the weekends arrived, Liza and I curled up together on the couch, under blankets, the leftovers of our scrambled egg breakfast on the nearby coffee table. We watched SpongeBob’s manic adventures in the cheerful blue-green tropical glow of Bikini Bottom or Timmy Turner’s adventures with his fairy godparents. That’s what I need, some fairy godparents. It was comforting to be together. Liza’s cheeks smelled of peaches and fresh biscuits.
three
February–May 2003
A few weeks after Henry’s death, I received a note from Maya, a local massage therapist, offering me free bodywork. I had never met her, but I called her and made an appointment. The idea of receiving help from a stranger was oddly comforting. The next afternoon I found myself in her twilight-lit treatment room.
I lay quietly on the massage table, listening to the CD of bird-song and gentle waves while her confident fingers, coated with fragrant oil, burrowed into my bony back. She found a place at the center of my back that felt tender when she pressed, like a button wired into my sadness. I wanted desperately to cry, but I was too embarrassed to reveal all of my wretched life to this stranger. After a long silence, just the birds and waves and the swish of her oiled hands on my skin, she volunteered that it was okay to talk during the sessions. I hardly knew where to begin, but fortunately I didn’t need to start at the beginning. I was the town’s young widow. Almost everyone had heard something of this story.
The next week I went to her again, and I talked. In fact, I couldn’t stop talking and crying. What a relief to let myself go and be cared for by someone who was compassionate but did not seem to pity me. My body felt sturdier when I left her office.
By my third visit, I genuinely liked Maya, a small, wiry woman with open, curious eyes in a freckled face, a laughing voice, and strong hands. We had no other social connection, so the darkened treatment room felt safe. I went back the fourth week and asked to become a paying patient. Now the relationship was balanced.
Maya was the first person I
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