Beach Day

The pew is unyielding beneath me, and I shift my weight in an attempt to relieve the pressure.  It does nothing.  I lean my back into the wooden backrest and press myself deeper into the wood until it hurts.  It’s enough to bring me back to the day that is unfolding before me, the worst day of my life.  Gentle piano music plays ethereally as other mourners take their seats.  I’ve been sitting far longer than politeness would allow, but I couldn’t touch another living hand knowing the one I wanted to hold was in the casket beside me.  And I dare anyone to begrudge a widow whatever the hell she likes on the day of her husband’s funeral. 

The sanctuary grows silent as the minister steps forward.  I made all the wrong choices.  Henry wouldn’t have asked for a church funeral, but his mother did and I have no spine on a normal day let alone ones leading up to this, so here we are.  Henry was always so agreeable that I’m sure even now he’s nudging me with his shoulder, smiling like he always did when things didn’t go to plan.  Finding a way to make this ok, like I haven’t disappointed him.  I have a sharp pain in my chest at this memory that makes me gasp, and more than two people turn to look at me.  

The minister retrieves a page from beneath the lectern and begins to read in a stoic tone.  “Henry R. Bergman, age 34, passed away unexpectedly on September 17, 2022.  He is survived by his beloved wife Kate and his parents David and Grace Bergman.  Henry loved playing guitar, watching Survivor, and was known for his deep and lasting friendships.  He often spoke of his desire to travel and told anyone he could all the places he planned to take Kate.”  I break out in a full sweat and my stomach tightens.  Who is this stranger reading these words that seem so trite when strung together like this?  Like a whole person can be summed up in a few meager sentences?  

The minister drones on.  “Henry graduated from UW-Madison in 2012 and began his career in marketing…”  I feel my stomach start to rebel.  I drop my head into my hands, but the bending motion sends my gut into action and I leap from my seat.  I run as fast as my black heels will take me, but I only make it to the back of the church before vomiting loudly into a trash can at the back.  Most people kindly keep their gaze forward, but a few can’t help themselves and stare at the spectacle.  The wretched widow, indeed, I think, and almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

I don’t remember the rest of the service.  I’m at the luncheon now, but I don’t remember how I got here.  I do remember sometime after my disgusting scene Grace discreetly reaching into her purse, handing me a pill bottle with her plump, yet aging hand and urging me to take as many as I wanted.  And I did take what I wanted.  I took the whole bottle from her and silently walked away, leaving her unsure and embarrassed.

Allison sits down next to me and stares at me until I meet her gaze.  “You don’t look good,” she says flatly.

“I don’t feel good,” I return in the same dull tone.

“I’m taking you home.  This is unbearable and we all know it, so no one is going to judge you if you bail at this point.  Go home and go to sleep.  I’ll stop by later to make sure you eat something.”  Big sisters never change.  They always look out for you, even if you’re full grown and only a few years apart in age.  I’m grateful for the certainty in her voice, giving me permission to end this insufferable day.  

She lifts me up out of my chair with her tiny pilates-fit arms, and I am pliable and easily shepherded.  The drive home is silent, my head pressed against the cool glass.  A swell of love surges for Allison as we sit in silence the whole ride, knowing how hard it is for my chatty sister to abide this stillness for me.  I find enough energy to get into my house, strip off the layer of black suffocating me, and climb into bed in my underwear.  As my thoughts float in a drug-induced haze somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, I hear Henry playing guitar in the guest room like he always did when I went to bed early.  My eyes prick with tears, my head turning to cement as the grief weighs me down.  It’s “Darn that Dream” that drifts into my mind, Henry plucking mildly on the strings, his head low and his dark, messy hair just out of reach. 

I wake to the smell of something sweet.  Cinnamon rolls?  The sun is streaming through the gauzy drapes that cover the large, white window.  The sheets feel hot and I whip them off and sit up, my t-shirt clinging to my back.  I grab my watch and see it’s 9am, but my watch says it’s June 4th.  That can’t be right since yesterday was a September day that I hope is swallowed into a black hole in the calendar for the rest of eternity.  I turn it off and plug it in, then head to the kitchen to investigate the source of that delicious smell and who is in my house, coaxing me out of bed with food.  I pad down the hallway in bare feet and turn the corner to the kitchen.  

There he is.  There he is like nothing happened at all and like our lives are the way they’ve always been.  His tall frame hovering over the stove as he pours frosting on a round tin of cinnamon rolls.  In his white t-shirt and boxer briefs like every morning.  He doesn’t look up, but instead starts singing “Good Morning” from Singing in the Rain with a little smile.  The blood drains from my face and I bring my hand to my mouth, unable to breathe.  He’s here with me and not in the ground sixteen miles away.  He looks at me and his blue eyes are bright until he sees me.

“Are you okay?  What’s wrong?” he asks urgently.  I’m unable to speak, and instead start sobbing uncontrollably, my whole body shaking.  He takes me into his arms and I feel his warmth and smell Irish Spring soap and hear his heart in his chest and how is he here with me in our home when yesterday he was not?

He guides me to the couch and holds me until my sobs subside.  He is the most patient man I have ever known.  He is bewildered by my tears, yet he waits until he’s sure I’m okay before trying to get me to speak again.  “Bad dream, huh?  You’re all sweaty.  You probably got too hot when you were sleeping; I always have my worst dreams when I’m too hot,” he says calmly and hugs me again.  Is this a dream?  Or was yesterday a dream? 

 I’m so confused, all I think to say is, “What day is it today?”

“Saturday,” Henry replies.

“What day though? Like what is the date?”

Now Henry looks concerned.  “June 4th,” he says warily.  I must give him a look of utter bafflement because he says, “Seriously, what was your dream about?  Did you fall out of bed this morning and hit your head or something?”

I don’t answer and nuzzle my head into his neck, his smooth cheek against mine.  He doesn’t press me for an answer, and I’m grateful because I have none.  I don’t know how I am in his arms, but I’m so relieved, I don’t care.  Henry is here, and he is holding me, and I don’t want time to stop or I don’t want to wake up or whatever this is.  I pull away and look into his eyes, and I kiss him so passionately that he lets out a surprised little moan.  “Well I’m ok with eating cold cinnamon rolls if you are,” he says slyly.  I laugh.  I take his hand and lead him to the bedroom, and we make love so slowly I wonder if my wish came true and time did stop just for us.

We lay in bed, holding each other, watching the light dance across the sheer curtain.  My heart is so full and my head has finally stopped racing.  I ask myself no more questions and simply enjoy this strange gift that has been given to me.  Finally Henry attempts to speak, clears his throat and tries again.  “We should probably get going.  We’re going to be late.”

I can tell from his voice that he was struggling to stay awake.  His voice is always just the slightest bit thicker when he’s tired.  I look up at him and my suspicions are confirmed.  His deep blue eyes take their leisure with each blink and he smiles sleepily, keeping his one crooked tooth a secret.  I’m so enraptured by this face I’ve studied for years that I’ve forgotten he said something.  Finally I ask, “Late for what?”

“The brewery tour.”

I stare at him blankly.

“With James and Lila?” he says, knitting his brows together.  “We are supposed to meet them at noon, remember?  You’re being super weird today.”  He chuckles with the last part and I lay back onto the pillows as he gets out of bed.  

I remember now.  I remember June 4th.  We went on a brewery tour with James and Lila, and we ended up in a big fight about something he said that was meant as a joke, but rubbed me the wrong way.  It was awkward the rest of the tour with them, and when we got home we had it out so badly that we didn’t speak the rest of the night and ate dinner separately.  I ordered takeout for just myself like a passive-aggressive bitch, and he made himself the most sad looking bologna sandwich and sulked in the kitchen while eating it.  I get another chance at this day that made me feel like crap and where we both could have been better to each other.  I feel tears well in my eyes, but I cannot cry again or Henry will really start to lose it with concern.  I am now so afraid of ruining this; like it’s a tiny, fragile bird perched in my hand that will fly away at the most subtle movement.

“I don’t want to go,” I say softly. 

He turns, shirt in hand, suspended in the motion of putting it on his arms before pulling it over his head.  “You don’t?”  His shoulders look so strong frozen in this pose that I can’t help but stare.  He has the perfect body, and I saw it every day for three years without appreciating it every time it stood before me.  “Why not?” he asks, matching my soft tone. 

“I just want to be with you.  Just us.  All day,” I say, burrowing deeper into the pillows behind me and pulling the sheets closer to my chin.  

I feel childish, but I’m relieved when he climbs into bed with me.  He sinks deep down and pulls the sheets to his chin too, nudging me with his shoulder and smiling.  “That sounds wonderful.”  He grabs his phone and sends a quick text, then playfully tosses it into the laundry hamper and nuzzles into my neck.  I don’t even ask what he told them because I don’t care in the slightest.  I get a whole day with Henry, and I am not going to waste any of it.

We stay in bed far too long, and when we finally get up to shower, we go together.  It’s not until we’re clean and dressed and standing in the kitchen over cold cinnamon rolls that Henry starts to make a list of things we could do today.

“We could do the budget,” he says in a mock-serious tone.  I adjust pretend glasses on my nose and he smiles.

“We could make joint dentist appointments,” I retort.

“We could clean out the fridge and taste test the moldy stuff,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“We could go donate bone marrow,” I laugh.

“We could write our wills and and final wishes,” he says in mock drama, raising the back of his hand to his forehead.  I swallow and I feel my face flush.  He turns at the silence.  “Sorry, did you actually want to do that or something?”

I clear my throat.  “No, it was funny.  I’m just in a weird mood today.”  My voice is scratchy and feels out of my control.  “How about we take the bike out and go to the beach?”

“That sounds perfect,” he says easily.  He wipes his hands on a nearby kitchen towel and heads to the bedroom to pack up.  I drop my head into my hands and gently rub my scalp with my fingertips.  He is always so endlessly chipper, it annoyed me.  For a while I wondered if he was being condescending when he always said how “perfect” or “awesome” or “wonderful” everything was, but now I realize that it really was all those things and I was just a grump all the time.  Tears well in my eyes.  Things were perfect; at least as perfect as life can be with two imperfect people, and I didn’t see it.

The bike roars to life, and I wrap myself around him, feeling the rattle of the bike beneath me.  We’re in shorts and t-shirts and our towels are in a bag on my back.  I can feel his muscles through his shirt as I wrap my arms around him, and I bury my face into his solidness.  We’re not wearing helmets and the wind whips my hair all around me despite my long blonde ponytail.  It is stupid that we’re not wearing helmets.  Why did I even suggest the motorcycle?  It just came out before I could pull it back.  It was so natural for us to get on the bike and go to the beach, I couldn’t help myself.  But now, feeling his muscles ripple against my cheek as he grips and turns, it feels like a death wish.  Maybe it is.  Why else would I choose the exact activity that killed Henry when given another chance to see him?  Maybe I want him to be with me this time, so that stupid truck can take both of us and there is no chance I could be without him again after this day is over.  I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact, but remember that June 4th wasn’t the day my world crashed down, so this day can’t end that way.  I keep my eyes shut anyway until finally the engine sputters and purrs and quiets.  

Henry helps me off the bike and we walk hand in hand to the beach.  We spend the afternoon digging our toes in the sand, eating ice cream from the little hut on the edge of the parking lot, talking about bigger beaches that we are going to see together someday, with clearer waters and less people and more fruity drinks.  I plan deliriously, and we laugh and laugh.  We wade into the water for a little while, but it’s still so cold that we don’t do much more than dip, shriek, and splash each other.  When the ice cream finally wears off and our stomachs start to truly growl, we find a taco truck and shovel down food in silence while sitting on the curb.  When the sun finally starts to set, we walk hand-in-hand back to the bike and head home.  We curl up on the couch and watch an old episode of Survivor, and I can’t stop touching him the entire time.  

The day is over, and I start to feel panicked.  Did I use this gift well?  Henry gets up and starts to get ready for bed, and I reluctantly do the same.  We lay next to each other in the almost dark, light streaming in through the thin curtain from the street lights outside.  He’s on his back, but I pull him onto his side so we’re face to face, noses close.  I drink in the sight of him; those blue eyes, that mess of dark hair, that smooth jaw.  My husband.  

“I love you,” I whisper.  I feel surprisingly calm.  Safe.  Happy.

“I love you too,” he whispers back, and closes his eyes peacefully.  I keep my eyes only on him until they burn and I can’t stay awake a minute longer.  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and gently drift to sleep.