Page 154 of The Cost of Forgetting You

I help Truett plan her funeral. Stand beside him while his grandfather glares from the back row. It’s a graveside service, in the hillside cemetery behind their house, where she can rest in the shade of live oaks, kept company by Abel Johnson’s family and the birds that sing constantly overhead. The funeral director speaks nothing of salvation, but instead of living life with no regrets. A lesson Lucy and I learned far too late. As I watch the love of my life be lowered into the ground at far too young an age, regrets are all that I have. All that I am. They weigh so heavy on my mind that I wonder if I’ll ever be free of them. If this is how I’ll feel for the rest of my life.

I stumble home after the last of the attendees have left Lucy’s wake and Truett has passed out on their couch, one of her shirts cradled in his clenched fist. The sight of him like that, so large and yet so incredibly small, haunts me when I close my eyes. Is there when I finally drift off to sleep.

In the days that follow Lucy’s passing, grief deems me palatable enough to swallow whole. The world grows bleak and dark in a way I’ve never seen, cutting me off from my own senses. I do not hurt; I do not hunger. I sit on the couch, watching the light paint and repaint my walls with each new day. Another day without her in it.

It consumes me so thoroughly that I miss the calls from the music school. The texts from my coworkers. My students. At one point Truett calls, and it’s the first time I feel my hand twitch toward the phone. I cannot make my arm lift. The effort is too monumental. Eventually the screen goes dark. And then it dies altogether.

He resorts to showing up at my door, which I’ve neglected to lock, and letting himself into the dark mausoleum that is my home. I’m sure I smell. Can’t remember the last time I showered. But he doesn’t look much better than me. We sit in our numb brokenness and let proximity be enough. Let our shared hurt be the thing that pulls us through.

Months pass, and though I do eventually return to work, my heart is no longer in it. When Lucy left the world, she took music with her. Playing it feels like I’m stealing from the dead. I drop to part-time. Then occasional lessons. My savings dwindle, but I can’t bring myself to care.

My brain is filled with fog. I lose hours of the day to it, or sometimes a day in its entirety. I turn on the stovetop but forget until the smell of gas fills the house. Start the shower but never get in. My wallet goes missing. Turns up in a discarded flowerpot. I find my keys after three days in the bottom of a coffee mug. Truett seems to be getting better, while I fall deeper into the hole. I’d be happy for him if I could feel anything at all.

It happens so gradually that I forget to question it. I blame the misplaced words and forgotten tasks on grief, rather than recognizing them for what they are. I go through the motions. Put one foot in front of the other. Disregard Tru’s questions as him being overly concerned. Disregard my own confusion as a symptom of entering my forties.

It’s not until I’m mowing the lawn on a balmy summer day, and Truett stops me in my tracks that I realize something is wrong. He places a hand over mine, forcing me to meet his gaze, which is filled with genuine concern.

“Henry, the mower isn’t running.”

“Are you crazy? Of course it is.” But when I glance down, the sound of the world comes rushing in, and it’s notably absent of the growl of an engine. “Huh. Must’ve kicked off.” I bend over and yank the chain, but the engine doesn’t even gurgle. “Did you break this thing? What the hell, Truett?”

He’s silent for a long moment. When he swallows, I’m convinced it’s because he’s guilty. But his words land on me like a splash of cool water, pulling me out of the fog.

“It’s been broken for a week, and you’ve mowed with it every day regardless.” He steps closer but drops his hand from mine to rest on his hip. “Is everything okay, Henry? This goes beyond normal grief. Mom’s been gone for months. I’m really concerned about you.”

Panic lances my stomach. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry to work. I feel like I’m suffocating in the open air. Like I’ll die if I don’t get oxygen, but I can’t remember how to for the life of me.

“I think I’m sick,” I finally manage to get out. “Fuck, I think I’m really sick, Tru.”

Concern flashes in his gaze, but his voice is level when he speaks. “It’ll be okay. Do you want me to call your doctor, or do you want me to take you to the hospital? I can do either.”

“I— I don’t know.” I bite at my lip, willing the pain to bring with it an answer, but nothing comes.

“Hospital it is. Come on, then.”

“Right now?” I glance down, suddenly aware of the tall grass tickling my calves. I’m in my underwear, socks, and nothing else. How did I let myself go outside like this? “I have to change.”

“No worries. I’ll help,” Truett says, offering me his hand.

I take it, and he guides me forward. Releases my hand to clasp my shoulder, which stings on contact. Sunburnt. I’m sunburnt. How long have I been outside without a shirt?

“I’m so sorry about all this,” I mumble.

“Don’t be. Let’s get you to the doctor and you’ll be right as rain.”

And I try to believe him, I do. But I know deep down what’s happening. I sense it like a cold coming on. A scratch of the throat that will inevitably metastasize into a full-blown illness.

I think of my mother’s pearl earrings, how they disappeared and she accused Kimberly of stealing them. I picture them in the glove compartment of my car, right where my mother had stowed them and then forgotten.

Those earrings were the beginning of the end. Cold dread sends a shiver down my spine.

Truett hands me a shirt and shorts from the laundry basket on the couch. The room is in disarray. Clothes, both clean and dirty, are strewn about every surface. Dishes fill the sink. When did I let it get this way? Where have I been in my brain?

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. We both know this isn’t right.

“Tru, I?—”

He glances up from helping tie my shoes. Why is he doing that? Surely I could’ve.

---