“It has to stay on for 24-hours,” I said, not aloud, just in
my head as I have done for many of our afterlife conversations. “It’s a
memorial candle, it marks your November 2 anniversary.”
“Your people are weird,” Tommy said. “Why celebrate my
death? Why not my birthday? Our marriage?”
“It’s not a celebration,” I said. “More an occasion to
remember our loved ones. Did you hear me recite the memorial prayer; His resting place shall be in the Garden of
Eden? I like that. It helps me cope.”
I went on, “I imagine you in my version of the Garden of
Eden, playing golf with Bill and some other departed duffers. Your voice is
fully repaired, so you’re teasing each other with each shot. Am I close?”
“Pretty good,” Tommy said. “Add in that we never have to reserve
a tee time. We can walk on any course, any time of day or night.”
I loved that image, so I took our conversation a step
further. “Can you believe, sweetheart, it’s been an entire year? Blink of an
eye,” I said.
“Well, you’ve been a busy girl during that year.”
In my mind, his voice was proud not angry. I recognized that
cherished tone because it was one that bound me so closely to this second mate.
I could see him at the 2006 book launch for my memoir; first row, first seat,
beaming at me as I stood on the stage of Women and Children First.
Tommy was my first reader for the book. I’d hand him 10
pages, which he grabbed as eagerly as if I was writing one of the Elmore
Leonard or Ruth Rendell novels he loved.
“Great,” he’d say. Or sometimes, “I don’t like the chapter
title,” or “I don’t understand this Yiddish word.” Those reviews were my cue to
alter or translate.
“Yes, it has been quite a year,” I said, winding back to his
assessment. “You supported all of my activities, right, honey?”
There was a hush from my illusive conversation partner. He’s
likely reminiscing about our house, I thought, the one we lived happily in with
our Golden Retriever, Buddy. The house I sold.
A few beats later, his response: “It was hard to watch you leave
Dakin Street,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “But I understood you had no
choice. Without me to do the maintenance stuff and without Buddy to protect
you, it was too large and too risky to stay alone. Still, I felt a pang.”
I quickly changed the subject that was raw for both of us. “So,
Tommy,” I said. “How are you keep tabs on me? Watching on high from a cloud?”
“I read your blogs,” he said.
I hit pause on our chat as I quickly reviewed a year’s worth
of posts. Were they all favorable? Had I exposed anything he would prefer
hidden? When I started the first blog, “The Rookie Caregiver,” I called him to my
computer and asked if he’d like to read what I had written.
“Pull up a chair,” I said, nervous about his reaction. My
husband was more private than I, even elusive about his past, so I worried how
he would feel about this Internet publicity.
But he avoided a seat and instead stood behind me as I
scrolled through the pages. He patted my shoulder, and raised two thumbs, his
universal sign back then of “Okay by me.”
“You’re fine with all of this past year’s posts?” I said to
my dearly departed. I wanted to be sure I understood him correctly. I knew
there could be several filters between heaven and earth that might mess with
communication.
“Sure,” he said, “I’m quite the superstar up here,”.
“Everyone is jealous they’re not kept alive – well, sort of – like me.”
“Your privacy,” I said, “you don’t have a problem with me
sharing our stories with the world?”
“Sweetheart, don’t get a big head. It’s your world, your friends,
and your fans. You’ve never kept
secrets from them.”
I was relieved to hear this, to get Tommy’s blessing. “Okay,
honey,” I said. “You can rest easy. I promise to blow out the candle before I
go to bed.”
“Good girl,” he said, then, “love you, Wifey.”
“Love you, too, Hubber, I said; misting at the memory of our
pet names for each other.
