Page 7 of The Widower's Girlfriend
I chuckle. “What? I’m not a spy or here undercover.”
She lets her hands fall to her lap. “Just making sure.”
Shaking my head at her silliness, I continue. “I’m here to give a speech at a convention. So there will be certain times that I can’t be seen with you around the hotel.”
She nods sagely. “That’s the part you can’t tell me or you’ll have to kill me.”
This girl...“No! It’s just the subject matter of my speech means I can’t be seen with a woman.”
She’s back to frowning. Her face is more expressive than anyone I know. “I don’t follow. Are you gay?”
Now I’m taken aback. “No, not gay.” I guess I should just tell her before she comes up with some bizarre scenario in her imaginative brain. “I’m a widower, giving a presentation on grieving to other widows and widowers.”
Her face immediately smooths out and understanding dawns. “I’m sorry to hear that, Walker. How did your wife die?”
This is a question I’m asked all the time. It’s something I discuss ad nauseum on my blog and in my book and on my YouTube videos. After awhile, my answer became memorized, devoid of feeling, like each repetition drained a drop more of my grief out of me. But looking into Jemma’s eyes and speaking about my late wife is oddly intimate. Like I’m telling the story for the first time.
“Brain cancer. We dated all through college and got married right after graduation. A year later, her frequent migraines were diagnosed: cancer. She had surgery, did all the treatments, ate healthy, did yoga, did everything right. But she still got worse. She held on for almost three years before slipping away in her sleep one night.”
Jemma places her hand over mine and squeezes, the gesture made to comfort. I squeeze back and then let go, needing to distance myself from her and her natural magnetism.
Her voice cuts through the quiet. “I can only imagine what that’s like. Three years is a long time. She must have fought hard to stay with you.”
There’s no pity on her face. I would know. I’ve come to easily identify that expression having seen it on many people’s faces over the years. Only understanding, which is more disconcerting when I expect her to not get it.
“Yes, three years was a long time. And yet not long enough.”
She gets a soft smile on her face. “I once had a little boy come through my facility. Absolutely determined to beat his lymphoma. You’ve never seen determination like that. Even when it was clear to everyone he wasn’t going to win the fight, he kept telling his parents not to worry. More concerned with his parents’ feelings than his own impending death. I don’t know what you believe in, but there’s no doubt in my mind that little boy is up in heaven still watching over us, telling his parents ‘I got this! Don’t worry, Mom and Dad!’”
There are tears in her eyes as she tells her story. The feeling is infectious, but I’m also confused. “Where do you work?”
“Hoag’s Pediatric Cancer Center in Costa Mesa.”
The taxi lurches forward, finding a break in the traffic. I rear back my head. “Wow.”
She nods, that same smile making her look younger than someone should be to carry that heavy load of grief. “Yeah, wow is right. I’m a physician’s assistant, P.A. for short. I tell people I have hundreds of children.”
She winks at her own joke and I shake my head, impressed with her line of work.
And ashamed of myself.
I’ve badly misjudged her, thinking she was too shallow to hold a conversation with someone like me. This woman’s medical knowledge and capacity to both comfort and heal leaves me feeling like a fraud. I’m just a guy blogging about his loss to make himself feel better. She deals with loss of innocent children every day. She should be giving this presentation, not me.
“We’re finally here, folks!” the cab driver calls over his shoulder, breaking the moment.
Jemma scrambles to get her vest back on and collect her belongings into her huge purse. Only when she opens the door and the gust of cold air hits me do I spring into action. I hand the driver a couple twenty-dollar bills and hop out to meet her around the car at the trunk.
“Want to write my number down and text me when you know your schedule?”
She fishes her cell phone out of her bag again. “Sure, what is it?”
I recite my number and she calls it. My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I know I have her number now too. Pulling both our bags out of the trunk, I don’t know how to say goodbye. Maybe it’s better not to say goodbye at all.
I slam the trunk and the cab drives off.
“Hey! I didn’t pay him yet!” Jemma waves her arms in the air like that’ll get him to see her and come back.
“It’s okay, I took care of it.” I grab my bag. “Come on. Let’s check in before we freeze.”
