I stare at the two officers flanking me on the couch that has never been as comfortable as I wanted it to be, then eye the laundry basket filled with mismatched bath towels that I’d been folding earlier that morning. I wish it were five minutes earlier. Because five minutes ago, I was just a fourth grade teacher taking care of the dirty clothes that had piled up this week while I was cleaning out my classroom and getting ready for summer hiatus. Five minutes ago, I was laughing with my sister and making plans to meet her for lunch. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t a widow.
I wonder what the officers will do when they leave my house. Will they think about me again? Or will I be quickly forgotten as they stop at Starbucks for iced caramel macchiatos on the way back to the station?
The male officer speaks for the first time since arriving, his baritone voice sounding out of context. “Is there anything we can do? Anyone we can call? I mean other than—” He doesn’t finish his sentence; instead he motions toward my cell phone.
“My sister—she’ll be here any minute,” I say.
“Okay, good,” he says, and scoots forward on the couch. “Do you have any questions?”
I stare into his eyes. They are kind—pale blue with errant flecks of brown dancing around the pupils. The truth is that there are so many things to do. And there is an overwhelming number of calls to make. I imagine breaking the news to all the people who loved James. I’ll dial their numbers, then lean my head against the cold granite in the kitchen as they cry, in the same desperate, unbelieving way I haven’t, but eventually will. Oh, how I will.
And of course, there are so many questions. But I only have the strength to ask the cop with the kind eyes the most important one.
“What the hell was my husband doing in Maui?”
CHAPTER THREE
JACKS—AFTER
It’s ridiculous how your life doesn’t need your permission to turn upside down. You think you have it under control. That you’re good at handling the colossal disappointments: the ticket for the illegal U-turn, the late fee on your credit card that sends your APR through the roof, the dry cleaner’s fuckup. Okay, maybe you weren’t so good at dealing with that last one and would probably take back that terrible Yelp review you wrote. They’d refused to admit to ripping your favorite black pants that made your legs appear longer and leaner. You’d never find another pair that slimmed you that way again. It was a tragedy.
But then your husband dies, and you think how you’d beg for the apocalypse of the torn pants. Because now it’s your life that has ripped apart at the seams you thought were so tightly sewn.
I’ve been binge watching Shark Tank because I can’t sleep. And it reminds me of James—he’d always wanted to invent the next great thing. When the smug college freshman turns down Mr. Wonderful’s fifty-thousand-dollar offer for his pointless collapsible hangers, I want to tell the kid that life is short. To take the damn deal. That he’ll never miss the 5 percent of equity he’s hanging on to like a life raft. James would have said yes, wrapped Mr. Wonderful in a tight bear hug, and thrown the hangers into the air in celebration while all the sharks erupted in laughter. James charmed people in the same way he took a deep breath: easily and without much thought.
Every day since James’s memorial two weeks ago—still a blur of dark suits and tearstained faces—has started the same way. I haul myself out of bed a little after 10:30 a.m., the haze of the sleeping pill I took the night before still lingering. I pour a cup of dark coffee, add three lumps of sugar, turn on my laptop, and wait for the numbers on the digital clock to hit eleven—eight in Maui. I picture Officer Keoloha staring at his phone as it rings. I know from my Google Images search that he has a round face, thick brown hair speckled with gray, and a wide inviting smile. I can imagine his jolly expression shifting when my 949 area code illuminates on his caller ID and he debates sending me to voice mail. To his credit, he never does.
The first time I talked to him was the day after I found out James had died. After the female cop had pressed her card into my shaking hand with Officer Keoloha’s name and number written on the back. After she and her partner had waited with me until Beth arrived. After Beth had thrown her arms around my shoulders and stroked my hair as if I were a little girl. After she had spent the night and held me in our guest bed as I fell in and out of sleep, the harsh reality of the news I’d been given hitting me all over again each time I woke.
Officer Keoloha listened as I told him my story. How I was shocked to find out James had been in Maui, because he was supposed to be in Kansas. I rambled about how we’d been married eight years, about how he’d never lied to me before—that I knew of. I was aware I sounded like a desperate widow not wanting to accept that her husband had secrets, but I couldn’t stop talking. And it didn’t help that he didn’t try to fill the lulls. I think he knew I needed someone to understand that this wasn’t supposed to be my life.
When I asked how he could be sure it had been my husband in the car, he gently walked me through much of what the officers who’d come to my house had already told me: How James’s brown leather wallet with his driver’s license and credit cards had been found not far from the wreckage; that they’d interviewed Heidi from the rental car company, who’d confirmed James had rented the Jeep and that the signature on the agreement matched the one on his ID. They’d also verified that James’s name was on the manifest of a United Airlines flight from LAX to Maui. That he’d used the same Citibank Visa (which I had no idea existed) that had been in his wallet to pay for four nights and several sightseeing excursions at the Westin Resort and Spa in Ka‘anapali.
His voice became tender when he reminded me about the next part, that because of the fire, the only way to be 100 percent sure it was James’s body that had been in that car was for our dentist to confirm James’s dental records. I couldn’t bring myself to think about what that meant. So I held on to the sliver of hope that provided—that there was a possibility it had all been a huge misunderstanding, and James was in Kansas closing the software deal he had told me was so important.
But then our dentist, Dr. Matias, delivered bad news all over again.
So, it was confirmed. My husband was dead. But why had he died in Maui?
Every time I think of James tearing out of our house the morning he left, my insides ache. He was wearing a starched white button-down and gray trousers that rose up a bit too much when he sat. His light-brown hair was longer than usual, hitting the collar of his shirt, his five-o’clock shadow already in full force, dotting his deep-olive skin. Ironically, I had the thought that he looked more like a surfer going to the beach than a salesman on his way to a conference. He blew past me with a tight grip on his carry-on, muttering obscenities in Spanish, his worn black leather laptop bag slipping off his shoulder as his sturdy body barreled toward the driver parked out front. I could see a man with a short white beard watching us and could only imagine what he’d been thinking—how many of these types of scenes he’d witnessed in his amateur driving career. And the worst part? We’d had this fight before, so many times. And I knew we would again. Or at least I thought so.
Was that why he’d gone to Hawaii? Because I couldn’t give him what he wanted? Because I’d let him believe that I could?
That, I was not ready to explore.
I’ve walked through our (my?) house day after day since I found out he died, looking for an answer I’m realizing I’ll never find: why.
I’ve tried to find out why James wasn’t in Kansas like he was supposed to be. But the answer eludes me, the same way his truth seemed to. So right now, I have decided to focus on something I can control, something manageable, mundane.
I’m trying to get the kitchen spout to stop leaking.