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I can’t breathe. My lungs are seizing. “How can that be? I just talked to her…a few hours ago.”
“I’m sorry Josie,” he says, setting the mail aside. He walks over to where I’m standing. “That’s just how it works out sometimes.”
I collapse into his arms, and I want to cry, I really do. For June. For the guilt I feel. Instead I feel numb. He holds me for several long moments, and then he pulls back and looks into my eyes. “I brought you something from the hospital.”
He leaves me to walk over to his bag. I stare at the towel on the floor. I mean to pick it up, but I can’t make myself. Grant does it. He hates anything out of place. “Here,” he says. My vision is blurry. I shouldn’t have been so short with her.
“Josie,” he says. “I brought this for you.” I think he’s going to hand me something of June’s, but he doesn’t. Instead, he places a well-worn book in my hands. How To Cope With Sudden Loss. I turn it over, and Grant turns to go. I thank him, and then I remove my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of the book in one hand. I make sure my new heels are in the shot, too, because I’ve been meaning to post about them. I caption the shot: Hug your loved ones close. You never know. #nothingrealeverdies
It’s a silly thing to do, but all over town, other members of New Hope are getting the news too. I have to be a leader. I have to stay on top of things. June would understand.
Grant interrupts me by asking where the kids are. I point upstairs, press the button to upload the photo, and that is that.
Three weeks later it feels like déjà vu when Grant comes walking in the door before dark.
I look up from my phone. “You’re home early.”
“We have a dinner,” he tells me, kissing my cheek.
I cock my head. “But I made dinner.” This is random, out of the blue. My husband hates anything out of the blue. In his line of work, the unexpected never signifies anything good.
I await his response, but none comes. His face is relaxed. He smiles. He takes me in his arms. “I can’t wait to show you off.”
I grin. His mood feels contagious. Trouble is, I just fixed the most amazing meal, and I’ve already uploaded the spread in my dining room to Instalook, and I’m not sure how I’ll fit this into my feed. Then a hashtag comes to mind— #husbandhadotherplans then #blesssedlife and instantly I feel better, knowing there’s a solution. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
He pulls away. “Tom is back,” he tells me nonchalantly.
I bite my lip. “Tom?”
His whole demeanor changes. He leans down, and then hands me his things to put away. He could do it himself, but he’s used to having nurses and assistants take care of the minutiae for him. Why should it be any different at home? Habits are hard to break. He always says that.
“Did he bring her?” I tread carefully.
I watch my husband’s expression, blank as he mulls over what I’ve asked. “Of course he brought her.”
I scan the room, looking for a way out. “In that case—I don’t know if I can go…”
He cocks his head, shuffles his feet, and then crosses one ankle over the other. It’s as though he hasn’t heard me. Until he meets my eye. “You can go.”
My stomach flip-flops. It doesn’t help that it’s empty. “It just feels like such a betrayal to June. I just don’t get it—it hasn’t even been that long.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle. I can see that he’s analyzing me carefully. “June is dead.”
“Yes. But I don’t know…” I admit as I dry my hands. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. “I think something is off.” I turn toward him. “It doesn’t seem right that he’d do this, Grant. Also—she said things—she said someone was out to get her.”
He shrugs.
“That doesn’t seem like the June I knew…”
He walks over to where I’m standing and runs his hands down the lengths of my arms. I close my eyes. Bile rises. Grant hates being challenged. Everything in me tenses. He sighs deeply before he leans forward and kisses my forehead. “June was sick, dear. Shame makes people do all sorts of things.”
“Shame?”
He glances up at the ceiling, and then back at me. “Ok, grief.”
I don’t say anything. I miss June. I feel terrible about what happened. But if I feel grief over the loss, it has to do with more than the fact that she’s not around anymore. He steps away. I watch as he retrieves his phone from his pocket. I take note of the time on the clock above the oven as he stares intently at the screen. When just enough time has passed that it doesn’t seem confrontational, I say, “I just don’t see how he could replace her so soon.”
He raises his head slowly. I think I see disappointment in his eyes. “What choice did he have?”
