Page 100 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
My pen hovers over a section asking for “marital status.” The question splits me wide open. I tick the box “widowed,” hand trembling, then press my wrist against the edge of the table until pain distracts me.
Mom took the kids out for ice cream to give me a break. They earned a treat after yesterday’s intense grief therapy session. I watched Isla fold her long sleeves over the fresh scars down her arms, trying not to meet her own gaze in the mirror. Jude covered his ears and cried when a car blared the horn. Lila didn’t say much. She’s not one for sharing her feelings.
Physically, we’re slowly getting stitched back together. Emotionally, nothing’s quite right.
Jude wakes screaming more nights than not. He doesn’t remember much, but his body holds the trauma. Isla speaks only when there’s no way around it. My once-sparkling girl fades behind a blank stare, her fingers trembling every time she tries to grip something. Lila’s become the family clown, trying to keep everyone laughing to make everything better again.
I’m healing, technically. The bruised ribs have faded. My femur’s held together with plates and screws. A thick scar trails the incision. PT’s brutal. Step-ups, glute squeezes, balance drills. I walk with a cane, measuring progress in inches. It’ll be months before I move normally again, but the doctors say it will happen eventually if I keep up the pace.
None of my physical or emotional pain compares to the moment I woke up in the hospital and realized Cooper was gone forever.
Cooper.
I try not to say his name out loud. It sends the kids spiraling which, once I’ve calmed them, makes me lock myself in thebathroom where I grip the counter and try not to scream into a hand towel. Losing my shit feels like a betrayal to whatever calm I’ve scraped together for the day.
He was everything steady. Everything solid. My husband. Their father.
The love I chose after my world fell apart when Padraig and I split.
There’s a dent in the couch cushion where he used to fall asleep watching Mariners games. His mug sits in the drying rack because I can’t bring myself to move it. I folded his t-shirts and packed them in a box. Opened it two hours later and put them back in his drawer. Not before pressing my face into the cotton like his oxygen might live in the threads.
The bedroom door squeaked last night. For half a second, I looked up because I forgot.
Lost him all over again when I realized he’s never coming home.
Every mundane task provides more evidence of who he was to our family. The cable bill auto-pays from his account. His name’s on every document. Every login code. Every emergency contact. His social media accounts live on, only now his feed is filled with sympathy posts from people he knew even if I have no clue who they are.
When his woodsy, warm scent started slowly fading from the closet, I bought a case of his favorite cedar-scented soap so I never forget how he smells.
I press my palms to my eyes.
Try not to cry.Again.
I can’t afford to.
Three phone numbers are listed on the legal pad beside my laptop. The medical insurance adjuster wants updated injury reports. The life insurance company wants proof of everythingfrom birth certificates to our marriage license to his death certificate in triplicate. My lawyer wants to discuss the estate.
Probate forms are half-filled, smeared with coffee and exhaustion. Isla’s surgery triggered a lien I don’t understand, attached to our house which I might not be able to keep. Warnings about interest. Penalties. Deadlines.
I haven’t located the title to Cooper’s car or figured out what to do about the shared bank account. His name is everywhere. On the mortgage, our car loan, the credit cards, the kids’ schools.
Every form demands a different version of proving the same impossible thing: Cooper’s dead.
I’ve checked the box “deceased” more times than I can count.
I have no idea what I’m going to do to support myself and the kids. I haven’t worked since Jude was born.
Without his steady paycheck, we’re cash poor. I can’t reach out to my in-laws, Cooper’s parents have gone radio silent, locked in their own grief. Thank God, I have so much help from my own family.
Joni moved into the guest room the day I was released from the hospital. She hasn’t put a time limit on how long she’ll stay, for which I’m eternally grateful.
Every night she and I cuddle on the couch and watch trashy reality TV to get my mind off things. She won’t let me sleep alone, taking up the space where Cooper used to lie. Too often she holds me when I sob into the early morning hours.
With my leg fucked up, Ziggy is my official Uber driver, slipping into the rhythm of school, doctor and therapy drop-offs and pickups like it’s always been his primary job. He texts me from waiting rooms, updates me on progress, and shields me from questions I’m not ready to answer.
My mom takes care of my kids and house like she’s auditioning for sainthood. From folding laundry and cleaning toilets to cooking dinner the kids will actually eat. Working with Isla onher PT. Easing Lila into her sling without waking her. Rocking Jude through night terrors with a soft patience I can’t summon anymore.
She makes it look easy. I know it’s not.
