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"There can nevernotbe an us," he says in a low voice. "You’re my wife, Goldie."
Tiny huffs. I reach for him at the same time as Rick. Our fingers brush, and a shiver runs up my spine, adding support to his words. I shake my head, trying to negate the truth, but there's a part of me, deep inside, that acknowledges he's right. I’ll always be his wife. I’ll always be…his. I lower my hand to my side. Rick pats Tiny, then turns to me.
"When I was playing in the finals today, I realized I couldn’t let my team down. I couldn’t let you down. You’re the PR manager for this team. A win for us would boost your career. This time, I wasn’t playing only for myself. I was playing for you and for my teammates. And now we’ve won the League, but it means nothing if I don’t have you at my side. Everything loses importance, unless I can call you mine."
My phone stops, then starts buzzing again, but I shove aside the intrusion. "Don’t, Rick. Don’t do this." I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat.
"I have to. I can’t let you go, Goldie. You’re mine. Mine to hold. Mine to own. Mine to love. To cherish and protect with my life. To spend the rest of my life striving to make up for what an asshole I was. To spend every day proving to you how sorry I am. For better or for worse, Goldie, you are mine. Only mine. And I'm yours. Only yours."
My phone stops, then starts again. This time, I pull it out to decline the call when I notice the caller ID. "It’s Grams."
"Grams?" He frowns. "I tried calling her before the game, but she didn’t pick up the phone."
I raise the phone to my ear. "Hello, Grams?" I listen, then feel the blood drain from my face. I sway. The next moment he’s there.
He grips my arm. "What’s wrong?"
71
Five days later
Rick
"I’m sorry for your loss." The old woman squeezes my hand. Her skin is soft, her fingers so thin, I worry I might crack them. I gently place one of my much bigger, broader paws over hers.
"Thank you." I swallow.
They say the pain gets better with every passing day, but it’s only grown bigger and wider, filling up, first my chest, then my belly, spreading to my legs, where it weighs down every step I take. Grams had been watching the game on TV with India when she fell asleep. She never woke up. India said she’d begun cheering when the Ice Kings had won, then turned to share the excitement with Grams and found she had her eyes closed. She called her name and there was no answer. That’s when she realized something was wrong. She touched Grams’ hand which was still warm, but Grams wasn’t breathing. She grabbed Grams phone which was next to her—unlocked, because Grams didn’t believe in passwords—and called, first Dr. Kincaid, then tried me. When I didn’t answer, she called Gio.
Gio’s car drew up as she disconnected the call. We took it to Grams’ place, where Dr. Kincaid gave us the news. Grams didn’t die of heart failure. She simply stopped breathing. It's as if she waited until I’d won the League, and then passed. I couldn’t believe it. Grams, who was so full of life, so happy that we’d gotten married, who’d been making plans to go on her next cruise. She was content, India said. And the happiest she’d ever seen the old woman.
I set out to get revenge for my sister, but I ended up ensuring Grams' last few weeks were joyful. I owe that to Goldie. It's because of her that Grams believed our marriage was real. Perhaps, I should feel some guilt for the charade and for having deceived Grams, but having a conscience isn’t one of my strong points.
No, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret the smile I put on Grams’ face, the contentment when she saw me and Goldie together. No, I don’t feel contrite for what I did. I may have set out to get revenge, but I fulfilled Grams' wishes along the way.
The reason I wanted to make Goldie suffer receded, too. It became less and less important that I thought she was responsible for what happened to Diana. I knew it was irrational to think she was the catalyst for Diana taking that final step. But my ego wouldn't let me admit it. I couldn't face the reality that I was more to blame than she was.
It wasn't until I faced the prospect of losing Goldie, as well, that I was willing to confront my own guilt and my misguided attempts to shift the blame away from myself. And I want to tell her all this. I want to open my heart to her, to share the feelings I have for her. To declare my love for her, but every time I try, the coldness in my chest stops me.
Losing Grams hit me with the kind of gut punch that pushed all feelings out of my body. I feel like I’m looking down at the events unfolding around me. I must have said and done the right thing, though, for there was only sympathy on Dr. Kincaid’s face. Goldie tried to talk to me, but I shut down and refused to answer.
I saw the hurt on her face, felt a twinge in my belly, but was unable to act on it. With the win at the League, there was no need to share the house with the team anymore. I didn’t attend the presentation ceremony, and Finn, as the alternate captain, received the cup along with the rest of the team. When he and the team found out what had happened, they wanted to come over, but I dissuaded them. I also asked Edward, Knight and my other friends to give me space, and so far, everyone has acceded to my wishes.
But today's the day of the funeral, and there's no stopping them. Edward insisted on driving Goldie and me to the cemetery where Grams’ friends are in attendance. She was popular with the community, with the result that her living room is overflowing with all those who came by to offer condolences. People like this old woman, who wipes a tear from her face as she tells me she was Grams’ bridge partner. Then, there's the man who runs the corner shop, who shares how Grams put his kids through school. The delivery guy, who dropped off her groceries from Waitrose and whose citizenship application Grams sponsored. And her book club friends, those who attended the senior citizens’ weekly ballroom dancing classes with her over the last decade, her golfing gang… Yeah, Grams led a long and happy, and fulfilling life.
She made the most of every moment. She was gutted when my parents passed and fell apart when Diana died but managed to pull herself together and comfort me. She was insistent Diana’s suicide wasn't my fault, even though I refused to believe her. She warned me I needed to move on, then pushed me into getting married. I owe having met my wife to her. My wife, who I haven’t been able to look straight in the face since she moved into the guest bedroom of the apartment I’ve been renting since before I became the captain of the team. She put off going to L.A. by a week, then took charge of all the arrangements related to the funeral.
I, on the other hand, have taken to running day and night and working out. It's the only thing that helps me get through the days. The nights are the worst. My insomnia is back in force. If I get a few hours of shut-eye, I'm lucky. Every time I close my eyes, my family’s faces crowded in on me. Did I fail them all? I spent so much of my life pursuing my own goals, then running away from my demons, I missed the opportunity to be with those I loved.
You’d think I’d learn from the mistakes of my past, but here I am, still turning away from sharing the depth of my feelings with the woman who means so much to me. I tried to show her how sorry I am for what I did, but I know that's not enough. I needed to find a way to make things up to her, but it feels like I'm caught in a limbo where my thoughts don’t quite make sense, even to me.
We’ve spent the days in a strange silence which she’s tried to interrupt, but I haven’t reciprocated. To her credit, she hasn’t given up. She also started wearing her wedding ring, probably because it made things easier when she was dealing with the arrangements. Every time she introduces herself as Rick Mitchell’s wife, a jolt of sensation pierces the fog that seems to envelop me. It's the only time something close to hope ripples under my skin. The only time I sense cracks in the wall that seems to be closing in on me. It's akin to green shoots breaking through the hard winter ground, or the growing pains of a teenager who grew so quickly, his bones stretched and hurt and the rest of him scrambled to keep up.
I'm finding my way through the darkness, and she's the glimmer of light beckoning me. Only I don’t acknowledge her. I see her, but I don’t tell her how much it means to me that she's there. It's like I'm trapped behind glass of my own making, and no matter how much I scream, she can't hear me. She doesn't even know I'm there.
I wake up in the middle of the night and go into her room to watch her sleep, her hand flung out, the dark shadows under her eyes telling me this is as difficult for her, but I don’t let on that I see it. I don’t once open my mouth and tell my wife how much I appreciate what she's doing, how I couldn’t have done this without her, how I need her to make sense of this world, how when I look into the future, I see her. How…
I love her so much, it feels difficult to put into words the ferocity of my feelings. How… I know I should share my thoughts with her, but I can’t. So, I settle for doing what's needed to ensure I give Grams a good sendoff, which includes inviting all her friends to the house for a gathering after the funeral.
