Page 62 of What We Broke

I don’t miss his word choice; I know it’s deliberate and I’m grateful.

Before Lola died I was working as an emergency dispatcher. It was, like most of my jobs, one I fell into by accident. I had never envisioned myself in that role or even thought of myself as good in a crisis. But for a while it fit.

It was a taxing job on the best of days, and besides my bereavement leave, there was no slow and steady ease back into the role.

Initially, I wasn’t going to work when Lola was born, and instead of listening to everyone and sticking to the plan and staying home, I got my job back.

I told myself I could keep busy, and despite Jesse’s insistence, we needed the money. Jesse and I argued back and forth, back and forth, finally settling on me working part-time. But in hindsight, even that was too much.

Two weeks wasn’t enough time for me to process our loss. But if I still wanted my job, two weeks of bereavement leave was all I was allowed. We were now coming close to fifteen months and I still wasn’t any closer to processing it.

As my grief settled in, and life without her began to take shape, I couldn’t walk into work or our home without being reminded of our loss. I felt it like a gut punch, every day. Add in the high stress and pressure of the job itself and I was nothing more than walking flesh and bone.

“I don’t know what could suit me right now,” I say honestly. “The days all feel very different. Plus, I’m doing the outpatient rehab and therapy with Jesse. I probably couldn’t commit to anything full-time right now, but I need to start helping Jesse with our finances.”

Gio rests his elbows on the table in front of him and clasps his hands together. His eyes look thoughtful, but something tells me I’m not going to like whatever it is he wants to tell me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t think you should go back to work just yet.” I open my mouth to argue and he puts a hand up between us. “Hear me out first.”

My hands find empty sugar packets on the table and I begin to nervously rip at them, waiting for him to speak.

“You seem different lately,” he observes.

My face scrunches up in confusion. “But what’s that got to do with me getting a job?”

“It’s a good different. Like you’re maybe ready to come out from that fog you’ve been living in for the past year. And I don’t think a job should really rank high on your to-do list, or even at all, right now.”

I’m grateful for the compliment, but even more so I’m grateful to him for noticing. But it feels too early. Too soon. Like I’m standing out in the open air and if the wind blows too hard, I’ll topple and be right back where I started.

I still don’t feel grounded or even remotely equipped to deal with Lola’s death, but being back home, in Jesse’s presence, and in therapy, means something has to give. It was much easier to wallow at Gio’s because, for all intents and purposes, I didn’t owe him anything.

We didn’t have vows, we hadn’t made promises, we weren’t parents, and Gio and I didn’t lose our baby girl.

Jesse deserves more. He deserves more than the shell of a husband I am, and I need to at least try and be more than that.

For him.

For Raine.

For me.

“But being able to contribute to our finances will make me feel useful,” I explain. “I’m not really bringing anything else to the table right now.”

Gio reaches across the table and stills my hands. “You know as well as I do Jesse doesn’t give a shit about the money. He would rather see you making strides any day of the week.”

“I know, but…” My words trail off as my leg begins bouncing anxiously underneath the table. “I don’t like being home alone,” I confess. “When there’s nothing to distract me, Lola not being in that house with us is all I think about.”

Gio’s face softens, his smile sad. “Just tell Jesse that. Don’t try to figure it all out at once and stunt your progress.”

“I want to love being in our house,” I state. “We were so happy when we bought it.”

Gio doesn’t offer false comforts or fill the silence with words. He watches me as I get lost in my own thoughts about all the ways I wish things could be better.

“How’s the drinking?” Gio asks. He averts his gaze after asking, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. Like whatever my answer is isn’t going to be a big deal.

I have yet to admit I have a problem to myself or out loud. I’m finding it really hard to label myself as an alcoholic, because the shame that comes with being exactly like my parents is something I’m not ready to unpack.

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