Page 95 of Someone to Watch Over Me

“You’ll know him through me.”

We wander farther into the area that Jim and I called home for his last two years and where I lived for almost two years after he died. My parents had turned the extra upstairs bedrooms into a craft room for her and an office for him. I didn’t have the heart to ask them if I could take one of them back, so I stayed put in the basement. It killed me to be there when he was ill, and it killed me all over again after he was gone.

“How did you deal with the stress?”

“I ran. Every day. Miles and miles and miles. My mom would come down every afternoon at three, when Jim was usually napping. She’d turn onGeneral Hospitaland send me on my way, telling me to take my time, that she could handle whatever came up. I’d tell her to call me if she needed me. I had my phone with me and figured I could grab an Uber to get home fast if need be. But she never once called me, even a few times when she probably should have.”

He releases a deep sigh.

“There were times when I thought about not coming back.” I stare at the print we bought on our honeymoon and had framed. We loved the sunsets in Jamaica and wanted to remember them always. I grew to hate that photo and everything it represents. The other trips we’d never get to take. Sex we’d never have again. The boring monotony of looking at the same photo day after day after endless day. I left it behind on purpose when I moved out.

“But you never acted on that impulse.”

“And I never would have, but every single day, I thought about what it would be like to just keep running and never look back.”

“Anyone would’ve felt the same way. You know that, right?”

I shrug. What do I know about how other people feel?

“I don’t know if I could’ve done what you did.”

“None of us think we can until we have no choice.”

“I suppose that’s true. I’d want to be there for you the way you were for him.”

“I hope I never need you like that—and vice versa.”

I turn on the light in the bedroom. “I mostly slept alone in here, always with the door open so I could hear him if he needed me.” I’m not sure why I keep talking, but since he doesn’t seem to mind listening, I continue the story. “Within three months of us moving in, Jim was sleeping in a power recliner that would help him up during the night. By then, it had become difficult to get him in and out of bed. It was too low for him. We bought that bed as newlyweds, along with the matching bedside tables. There were two of them and a dresser. We sold the rest of the set because we didn’t have room for it here. For a while there, it seemed like we lost something new every day. Whether it was our precious cat or a possession we’d treasured or a friend who couldn’t deal with the tragedy of it all or yet another function we all take for granted, such as brushing our own teeth or swallowing or speaking. It was like this endless doom spiral that seemed to have no end and no bottom to how low it could go.”

Only when he brushes his fingertips over my face do I realize I’m crying.

I offer a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come down here after all.”

“Why don’t you get whatever it is you need so we can go back upstairs?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” In the bedroom closet, I retrieve the running shoes and gym bag that contains leggings, sports bras, the thermal shirts, hat and gloves I need to run this time of year. Anything associated with Jim’s illness was too painful to go near after his death, including my favorite form of exercise. I’ve been wanting to get back to it lately, but everything I needed was here, left behind in my haste to vacate the scene of our disaster. “That’s everything.”

He takes the bag to carry it for me, not because I need him to, but because he’s always finding ways to lighten my load.

We make our way upstairs, and I put my things by the door, so I’ll remember to take them with me. Widow brain is not to be trusted, even with the most obvious things.

When I turn, he’s right there to wrap me in a warm embrace that I badly need. The visit downstairs has left me feeling unmoored and rattled. The sight of that space was enough to trigger a trauma tsunami.

I luxuriate in his tenderness for a few minutes before I finally break the silence. “I’m sorry to put you through that.”

“You didn’t put me through anything I can’t handle. Everything you share about your life with Jim makes me see more ofyou. Your strength and courage are an inspiration.”

“He was the hero of our story.”

“Who wouldhesay was the hero?”

I can’t help but grin. “You think you’re so clever.”

“Nah, I’m just pretty certain he’d say you were the heroic one.”

“He would, but I’d fight him on that. What he went through… No one should have to endure that. We’re kinder to our sick animals than we are to human beings. Why can we send a dying dog mercifully to his or her rest, but Jim, who knew what was coming and had all his faculties, couldn’t opt for a peaceful, painless death? It’s obscene.”

“Did he consider that?”

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