"You're dead; you don't get a vote."
My late husband had taken advantage of my
middle-of-the-night bathroom break to jump in the empty half of my bed. It was
just enough time to rouse me from sleep and to get him chatty.
"Since I live in your head, you're taking me with you,
right? Whether I like it or not."
"It's an experiment, sweetheart," I said.
"Two weeks, in an apartment separate from Jilly, to see if I can live
independently in L.A."
"I never liked L.A."
"That's because we didn't drive on our visits; you
hated being stuck in her house while I clung to my grandkids."
"So, are you really going to drive in L.A? I read on
your blog that you might lease a Honda?"
I paused on the dialog bouncing in my brain. Honda. Did that vehicle stir unpleasant
memories for my deceased husband? Was he still rankled because I took away his
car keys when his illness made it unsafe for him to drive?"
If so, he didn't bring it up, but went on to say, "The
hills in Silver Lake, the 110? Are you prepared to deal with those?"
Boy, my hubby of 14 years sure knew my tender spots. Had he
picked up on my own anxiety as I boldly wrote my intent to be a driver in L.A.?
"And, 'adopt a dog'? You sure know how to hurt a guy. I
thought we decided that after Buddy died, we wouldn't get another. Too
expensive, too much potential for heartbreak. Weren't those your words?"
"I was only daydreaming," I said. "My readers
like upbeat. If I had admitted my fears or hesitations, I'd lose the readers
who count on my positivity."
"So, why bring me into this conversation that you're
surely going to write about?" he said. "Talking to your dead husband
isn't a ray of sunshine."
"You're wrong. My readers love it when I bring you back.
It lets them know, that with a little imagination, they can resurrect their
dearly departed."
"Glad I can be of service."
"So, are you mollified, sweetheart?"
"One more thing," he said. "If my numbers are
correct, this would be your fifteenth move since 1960 and your first marriage.
Right?"
I paused to count, and as I did a slideshow glided past my
closed eyes. See the walk-up apartment in Rogers Park, one- and two- bedroom
apartments in Prairie Shores, captain's quarters in Massachusetts, a Glenview bi-level,
a South Commons townhouse, condos in Streeterville and Michigan Ave., a LaSalle St. townhouse, an Old
Town rehab, a West town loft, a Lakeview townhouse, A Geneva country house, a Dakin Street single
family, and now, a River North rental.
Each image carried its own emotional high- and low-points.
There's the bright-eyed newly married couple. Two giggly girls born 18 months
apart. Feeling fish-out-of-water in
suburban and country homes. A surprise divorce. A happy remarriage. Shocking
death. Resilient widowhood.
"Sixteen," I said, correcting his math.
Instead of judging, he said, "Remember I told you I'd
only leave Dakin Street feet first?"
"You kept your word."
"But, here I am, with you in a high-rise, where I never
wanted to be."
"Couldn't stay away? Miss me as much as I miss
you?"
"Of course. And, I saw you during Chicago's last
winter. I was relieved you weren't still in our house dealing with icy
sidewalks, frozen pipes, and a snowbound garage."
"So, along with me being able to see much more of my
family, you can appreciate the advantages of sunny California." I said.
"Golf for you, year-round."
"Sweetheart," he said. "Up here, we not only have
golf year-round, but also twenty-four seven, no green fees, no reservations, and
never a foursome ahead. Why do you think it's called Heaven?"
"Okay, honey," I said. "I apologize for not
consulting you sooner. So what's your verdict about a possible number seventeen?"
There was a pause, then this: "I see that the Tommy
Bahama clothing store has some cool golf shirts. Can you pack me a few?"
"Done," I said. And with that last word, I drifted
off to sleep. The image of my hubber garbed in a colorful, Hawaiian shirt, golf
club aloft, and his Cubs baseball cap shielding his brown eyes from the
California sun was as soothing as a lullaby.