“Okay.” He held his palms out, then after a second, he made another attempt to take my hand. This time, both of them. When I allowed him to, Washington clasped my fingers and looked me in the eye. “Okay, I feel you, Madison. We’re not there yet. But I need you to listen. You’re letting anger, guilt, and fear win. It’s twisting your mind. What you just said sounds confused. A contradiction.”
“Washington, I’m your ex-wife, not the twelfth juror. Miss me with that. I’m not confused!”
“You said, when you look at me, you see him. I get that. You see him, and you’re happy when you’re with me. Then when you’re alone, some creature tells you to live in some gray box. Not laughing, not smiling, not breathing.” His voice was gentle but firm. “That ain’t living, and that ain’t how we honor Elijah.”
“But—”
“Hell, I’d rather you blamed me for once, for crappy piloting. For not inspecting our plane thoroughly enough.”
“You did.”
“Even after the aircraft management crew at the hangar assessed our plane, I always inspected it. I was showing Elijah all I do to prepare for a flight. Maybe I didn’t do a good enough job checking our plane. But I’d rather you put all the deserved blame on me. I’d rather you loved him and lived again. I’d rather you loved me … and kept him. And if you can’t love me? I’d …”
That last part hurt us both. He intended to say move on and love. Even if he couldn’t get the words past his throat, the words hung in the air. It was too close to a truth neither of us was ready to handle.
And then his eyes flicked across my face as if he was afraid this one year was enough time to undo our love.
“Listen, Madison, I’m right here. Even when pride allowed me to agree to the divorce. Grief doesn’t come with instructions, but I damn sure know it’s best done together. God didn’t create us to be alone. C’mon,bébé.We were always good together. Our best … together.” His words hit something deep in me, something I wanted to believe, but the guilt pressed harder. Crueler.
He might’ve flown that plane, butIpaid for those pilot hours. Maybe I had wanted him and Dad to have something in common when my parents visited once in a blue moon? MaybeI had wanted to impress all my rich friends? How many times had I said,Oh, yeah, Wash flew us to whichever big city was fashionable at the moment for a shopping spree?
MaybeIwas as ambitious as Judge Plantation Politics DuVall.
“I’ll see you at the Jazz Brunch,” I murmured. “Wash, let’s just finish our messy dating scheme.”
He didn’t move. He stood there, jaw set, eyes darker than heartbreak. I walked off before the ache of missing him consumed me.
The sun hit the wetness on my cheeks, and my heart urged me to return. To not allow suffering to win.
Behind me, Washington’s voice carried enough to reach me. “I’ma always be here, Maddy. You don’t gotta see me to know it.”
mad
. . .
Grumpy Cat, who? Three days after I’d ghosted Washington, I’d gotten slotted in with my grief counselor. I slouched into the seat, carrying the weight of the entire last millennium on my shoulders. If that little fur ball thought he looked rough. Wait, was it ashe? Whatever. Grumpy Cat needed to seemyRBF.
“It’s been a while, Madison.” Shonda tugged the wire-rimmed glasses from her face. Her expression reminded me of Momma’s … when we met face-to-face. At least I tried to remember that. Long before my parents left for the vacay life, my oldest memory of Mom was us in the mirror. I’d secretly joked about her Karate Kid wax-on, wax-off process of teaching moisturization before age ten. That woman had me on a Mary Kay regimen by the age of twelve. Shonda asked, “How are you feeling?”
I blinked. “Honestly? Like I live with a small, judgmental demon named Mr. Whiskers.”
Her brow rose. “Mr. Whiskers?”
“Grumpy cat energy. Permanent scowl. That cat’s staring at me like I walked in wearing socks with sandals. And not just any sandals. The kind with the separated big toe.” My shoulderstrembled at the thought of thick socksandtoe postswidening out my feet. I lifted the pillow, smothering my face, instead of addressing the fact that my therapist wanted to discuss Elijah. “Guilt kicks my ass for existing.”
“How do you feel, Madison?” I imagined Shonda drawing a tiny cat on her clipboard. Or maybe she scribbleddelusional. I had better clean up my act, or I’d end up in some mental ward, dressed in a straitjacket. I’d mutter about the cat that I might or might not have seen. Okay, I didn’t see a stupid cat.
“I’m always angry. Mad,” I replied. “Then people call me … names. Not like crazy.”
“Who would call you crazy?”
I suppose I’d added that part for Shonda, so she wouldn’t diagnose me as mentally unstable. But she didn’t jot that down. “Oh, nothing. I feel like I need to be depressed. Then I focus on bills and groceries. Sorting laundry.” I scratched the back of my neck.
“To help deepen your depression?”
I smiled.
This woman offered a bless-your-heart look that made me think she had had the number to The House That Ain’t Right, a.k.a., the psych ward in Mid-City, on speed dial. I wanted to grab my café au lait cup and put some space between us, but Shonda leaned forward and took my hands. I edged forward too, still poised for a fifty-yard dash, in case she called that number.
